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Title: Venus Equilateral

Author: George O. Smith

Author of introduction, etc.: Jr. John W. Campbell

Illustrator: Sol Levin

Release date: May 6, 2022 [eBook #68008]
                Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United States: The Prime Press

Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VENUS EQUILATERAL ***

                           Venus Equilateral

                          By George O. Smith

                          _Illustrations by_
                               SOL LEVIN

                _Introduction by_ JOHN W. CAMPBELL, JR.

                            THE PRIME PRESS
                             Philadelphia

                                 1949

      [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any
  evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

                   Copyright 1942, 1943, 1944, 1945
                        by Street and Smith for
                      Astounding Science Fiction

                           Copyright 1947 by
                            THE PRIME PRESS

                         First printing, 1947
                            Reprinted, 1949

                            THE PRIME PRESS
                     Box 2019--Philadelphia 3, Pa.

                   MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES




                             _Dedication_:


_To James Clerk Maxwell, whose Electromagnetic
Equations founded the art of electronics and
thus made Venus Equilateral possible...._

_And to my son, George O. Smith (Jg),
who may some day work there._




                               CONTENTS




                          INTRODUCTION _by John W. Campbell, Jr._

                          QRM--INTERPLANETARY

                          CALLING THE EMPRESS

                          RECOIL

                          OFF THE BEAM

                          THE LONG WAY

                          BEAM PIRATE

                          FIRING LINE

                          SPECIAL DELIVERY

                          PANDORA'S MILLIONS

                          MAD HOLIDAY




                             INTRODUCTION


Sometimes it's a little hard to get people to realize that not only has
the world changed in the past, but that it is changing now, and will
change in the future. In fact, it takes something on the order of an
atomic bomb to blast them out of their congenital complacency.

And it took the literally shocking violence of the atomic bomb to make
the general public understand the fact that science-fiction is _not_
"pseudo-science" (that's what you find in Sunday Supplements--fiction,
pretending to be science) but an entirely different breed of
thing--fiction stories based on science, and attempting to extrapolate
the curves of past development into future years. On August 6, 1945,
people suddenly discovered that that fool fantasy stuff about atomic
bombs hadn't been quite so fantastic as they had--well, to be brutally
frank, _hoped_.

Their immediate reactions were that a good guess or two, a chance,
coincidental correspondence between fiction-fantasy and fact, didn't
mean much. Still, relatively few people have learned to understand how
science-fiction originates--why it does successfully predict.

The answer is, actually, that science-fiction's prophecy is to a large
extent phony. It isn't prophecy at all, not in the true sense. It's
more like the astronomer's prophecy that there will be an eclipse of
the sun visible for so many seconds, on such and such a day, at a
specified point. The astronomer's prediction is based on information he
has that is not generally recognized--though anyone who wants to get it
can go dig it out of the text books.

The science-fiction author predicts in the same general way. With the
knowledge of what has been accomplished in the laboratories, and a
general understanding of what people have wanted in the past, want
today, and will probably want in the future, it's not hard to guess how
those laboratory facts will be applied.

By 1915 it was generally known among scientists that there was
an enormous store of energy locked in every pound of matter. Men
have, sadly, wanted more deadly killing instruments for all human
history--and will pay much more for a means of killing an enemy than
they will to save a friend's life. From these facts it's a simple
prediction that atomic energy will some day be released--and probably
first in the form of a bomb.

Science-fiction made such predictions. When the laboratories found
U-235 was probably capable of a chain reaction, the science-fictioneer
began saying U-235 bombs instead of the more generalized "atomic" bomb.

The essentials for good prophetic fiction--and hence good
science-fiction--are fairly easily stated.

It takes a technically inclined mind.

That mind must be intimately acquainted with one or more
technologies--and by that I mean both the branch of theoretical science
and that branch's engineering applications as of today.

Imagination is a third requirement; if imagination is put first,
fantasy, not science-fiction, results.

An understanding of how political and social set-ups react to
technological changes must be added, for the best types of
science-fiction.

George O. Smith's "Venus Equilateral" series represents an excellent
progressive development of a single line of extrapolation.

George O. Smith is a radio engineer; at the time the Venus Equilateral
series started, he was working on radar equipment and Army
communications radio units. It was only natural that he should pick the
field of communications engineering as his line for development--he
was intimately acquainted with the problems and possibilities of that
field, and with the past history of the art.

"QRM Interplanetary," the first of the stories, appeared in Astounding
Science-Fiction to start the series; typically, it serves merely to
introduce the concept of the equilateral relay station as a necessary
link in interplanetary communications. But the story has been so
constructed that the working out of its plot gives a good concept of
the general nature of the station, and of its functioning. Still,
the story is essentially simply a suggestion that interplanetary
communications will require the construction of a station in space to
relay messages.

The immediately following stories of the series introduce successive
problems of the purely technical art; only gradually are the associated
social and political reactions of the rest of that civilization of
the future brought in. From the start, the author's problem has been
simplified by picking a small, almost wholly isolated segment of the
culture, so that only the technology itself need be discussed.

As the series develops, however, more and more the social and political
effects of the developments are brought into the picture, until, in the
end, practically nothing but the social-political effects remain. The
final story of the series to appear in Astounding Science-Fiction was
devoted entirely to the cultural, rather than technical, problems of
the matter transmitter.

In essence, Venus Equilateral represents the basic pattern of
science-fiction--which is, equally, the basic pattern of technology.
First starting from the isolated instance, the effects spread outward
through the culture. Scientific methodology involves the proposition
that a well-constructed theory will not only explain every known
phenomenon, but will also predict new and still undiscovered phenomena.
Science-fiction tries to do much the same--and write up, in story form,
what the results look like when applied not only to machines, but to
human society as well.

The science-fiction writer can be extremely accurate in the guesses
he makes of future progress--and yet there are factors that may make a
complete failure of his prediction.

George O. Smith is a radio engineer; radio is his field of technology.
As such, his predictions tend to be based on the extrapolation of a
single line of activity. But it may be that all his predictions may
come to nothing due to a development in an entirely separate field of
technical progress. It might be, for instance, that Dr. Rhine's work on
extra-sensory perception developed into a science, that equipment was
developed capable of recording, receiving, amplifying and broadcasting
whatever strange energy form is involved--and that telepathy completely
displaced radio engineering. The atomic pile is the only form of
nuclear energy machine we have available; because war-time engineering
was operating under forced draft, and war-time basic science was in
abeyance, we have no basic science from which to predict more advanced
forms of energy-harnessing devices. But it is quite conceivable that,
long before we reach Mars and Venus to establish colonies, we will
achieve the ultimate in energy-harnesses for atomic energy--a small,
sealed box with two projecting terminals from which unlimited electric
power can be drawn directly.

Also, any extrapolation whatsoever is, necessarily, based on the
implied, but unstated proposition, "If things go on as they have
been...." The proposition is, right now, open to serious question. For
one thing, whenever science becomes engineering, it meets legislation
made by men. Now the laws of Nature are predictable, understandable,
and absolute. They don't depend on the viewpoint of the individual,
or the social theory popular at the time, or the Majority Leader's
severe chronic indigestion. The patent law very definitely does. At the
moment, as a matter of fact, an extrapolation of the trend of patent
law suggests that half the Venus Equilateral series will be rendered
plotless; there won't be any patents.

The science-fiction writer is, therefore, faced with a simply stated
problem: Taking off from the solid ground of known laboratory science,
sighting along the back-track of past experience, he launches into the
future.

But he may come down in a never-will-be future, because somebody
harnessed telepathy, and threw civilization off on an entirely
unexpected track. Or because the Supreme Court, currently invalidating
24 out of every 25 patents brought before it, has eliminated the
institution of patents. Or because a new social theory has decided that
no scientific advance should be permitted for a period of 250 years
while a great program of meditation and navel-inspection instead of
Naval inspection is pushed forward.

Nevertheless, science-fiction can be not only fun, but an extremely
valuable experience. If a friend steps out of a dimly lighted doorway
it may provoke a "Yipe!" of momentary fear, or a casual "Hi," dependent
entirely on whether or not you expected to meet him there.

The science-fiction reader is a lot less apt to jump in senseless fear
and alarm when a new process comes from some unexpected doorway--he'll
have been expecting it, and recognize a friend or an enemy--which can
be very helpful to survival.

                                                  JOHN W. CAMPBELL, JR.




                          QRM--INTERPLANETARY


    _QRM--International code signal meaning "Interference" of
    controllable nature, such as man-made static, cross modulation from
    another channel adjoining or willful obliteration of signals by an
    interfering source._

    _Interference not of natural sources such as electrical storms,
    common static, et cetera. (Designated by International code as
    QRN.)_

                     --_Handbook, Interplanetary Amateur Radio League._

Korvus, the Magnificent, Nilamo of Yoralen, picked up the telephone
in his palace and said: "I want to talk to Wilneda. He is at the
International Hotel in Detroit, Michigan."

"I'm sorry, sir," came the voice of the operator. "Talking is not
possible, due to the fifteen-minute transmission lag between here and
Terra. However, teletype messages are welcome."

Her voice originated fifteen hundred miles north of Yoralen, but it
sounded as though she might be in the next room. Korvus thought for a
moment and then said: "Take this message: 'Wilneda: Add to order for
mining machinery one type 56-XXD flier to replace washed-out model. And
remember, alcohol and energy will not mix!' Sign that Korvus."

"Yes, Mr. Korvus."

"Not _mister_!" yelled the monarch. "I am Korvus the Magnificent! I am
Nilamo of Yoralen!"

"Yes, your magnificence," said the operator humbly. It was more than
possible that she was stifling a laugh, which knowledge made the little
man of Venus squirm in wrath. But there was nothing he could do about
it, so he wisely said nothing.

To give Korvus credit, he was not a pompous little man. He was
large--for a Venusian--which made him small according to the standards
set up by Terrestrians. He, as Nilamo of Yoralen, had extended the
once-small kingdom outward to include most of the Palanortis Country
which extended from 23.0 degrees North Latitude to 61.7 degrees, and
almost across the whole, single continent that was the dry land of
Venus.

So Korvus' message to Terra zoomed across the fifteen hundred rocky
miles of Palanortis to Northern Landing. It passed high across the
thousand-foot-high trees and over the mountain ranges. It swept over
open patches of water, and across intervening cities and towns. It went
with the speed of light and in a tight beam from Yoralen to Northern
Landing, straight as a die and with person-to-person clarity. The
operator in the city that lay across the North Pole of Venus clicked on
a teletype, reading back the message as it was written.

Korvus told her: "That is correct."

"The message will be in the hands of your representative Wilneda within
the hour."

The punched tape from Operator No. 7's machine slid along the line
until it entered a coupling machine.

The coupling machine worked furiously. It accepted the tapes from
seventy operators as fast as they could write them. It selected the
messages as they entered the machine, placing a mechanical preference
upon whichever message happened to be ahead of the others on the moving
tapes. The master tape moved continuously at eleven thousand words
per minute, taking teletype messages from everywhere in the Northern
Hemisphere of Venus to Terra and Mars. It was a busy machine; even at
eleven thousand words per minute it often got hours behind.

The synchronous-keyed signal from the coupling machine left the
operating room and went to the transmission room. It was amplified and
sent out of the city to a small, squat building at the outskirts of
Northern Landing.

It was hurled at the sky out of a reflector antenna by a thousand
kilowatt transmitter. The wave seared against the Venusian Heaviside
Layer. It fought and it struggled. And, as is the case with strife,
it lost heavily in the encounter. The beam was resisted fiercely.
Infiltrations of ionization tore at the radio beam, stripping and
trying to beat it down.

But man triumphed over nature. The megawatt of energy that came in
a tight beam from the building at Northern Landing emerged from
the Heaviside Layer as a weak, piffling signal. It wavered and it
crackled. It wanted desperately to lie down and sleep. Its directional
qualities were impaired, and it wabbled badly. It arrived at the relay
station tired and worn.

One million watts of ultra-high frequency energy at the start, it was
measurable in microvolts when it reached a space station, only five
hundred miles above the city of Northern Landing.

The signal, as weak and as wabbly as it was, was taken in by eager
receptors. It was amplified. It was dehashed, de-staticked and
deloused. And once again, one hundred decibels stronger and infinitely
cleaner, the signal was hurled out on a tight beam from a gigantic
parabolic reflector.

Across sixty-seven million miles of space went the signal. Across
the orbit of Venus it went in a vast chord. It arrived at the Venus
Equilateral Station with less trouble than the original transmission
through the Heaviside Layer. The signal was amplified and demodulated.
It went into a decoupler machine where the messages were sorted
mechanically and sent, each to the proper channel, into other coupler
machines. Beams from Venus Equilateral were directed at Mars and at
Terra.

The Terra beam ended at Luna. Here it again was placed in the
two-component beam and from Luna it punched down at Terra's Layer. It
emerged into the atmosphere of Terra, as weak and as tired as it had
been when it had come out of the Venusian Heaviside Layer. It entered a
station in the Bahamas, was stripped of the interference, and put upon
the land beams. It entered decoupling machines that sorted the messages
as to destination. These various beams spread out across the face of
Terra; the one carrying Korvus' message finally coming into a station
at Ten Mile Road and Woodward. From this station at the outskirts of
Detroit, it went upon land wires downtown to the International Hotel.

The teletype machine in the office of the hotel began to click rapidly.
The message to Wilneda was arriving.

And fifty-five minutes after the operator told Korvus that less than an
hour would ensue, Wilneda was saying, humorously, "So, Korvus was drunk
again last night--"

       *       *       *       *       *

Completion of Korvus' message to Wilneda completes also one phase of
the tale at hand. It is not important. There were a hundred and fifty
other messages that might have been accompanied in the same manner,
each as interesting to the person who likes the explanation of the
interplanetary communication service. But this is not a technical
journal. A more complete explanation of the various phases that a
message goes through in leaving a city on Venus to go to Terra may be
found in the Communications Technical Review, Volume XXVII, number 8,
pages 411 to 716. Readers more interested in the technical aspects are
referred to the article.

But it so happens that Korvus' message was picked out of a hundred-odd
messages because of one thing only. At the time that Korvus' message
was in transit through the decoupler machines at The Venus Equilateral
Relay Station, something of a material nature was entering the air lock
of the station.

It was an unexpected visit.

Don Channing looked up at the indicator panel in his office and frowned
in puzzlement. He punched a buzzer and spoke into the communicator on
his desk.

"Find out who that is, will you, Arden?"

"He isn't expected," came back the voice of Arden Westland.

"I know that. But I've been expecting someone ever since John Peters
retired last week. You know why."

"You hope to get his job," said the girl in an amused voice. "I hope
you do. So that someone else will sit around all day trying to make
you retire so that he can have your job!"

"Now look, Arden, I've never tried to make Peters retire."

"No, but when the word came that he was thinking of it, you began to
think about taking over. Don't worry, I don't blame you." There was
quite a protracted silence, and then her voice returned, "The visitor
is a gentleman by the name of Francis Burbank. He came out in a flitter
with a chauffeur and all."

"Big shot, hey?"

"Take it easy. He's coming up the office now."

"I gather that he desires audience with me?" asked Don.

"I think that he's here to lay down the law! You'll have to get out of
Peters' office, if his appearance is any guide."

There was some more silence. The communicator was turned off at the
other end, which made Channing fume. He would have preferred to hear
the interchange of words between his secretary and the newcomer. Then,
instead of having the man announced, the door opened and the stranger
entered. He came to the point immediately.

"You're Don Channing? Acting Director of Venus Equilateral?"

"I am."

"Then I have some news for you, Dr. Channing. I have been appointed
Director by the Interplanetary Communications Commission. You are to
resume your position as Electronics Engineer."

"Oh?" said Channing. "I sort of believed that I would be offered that
position."

"There was a discussion of that procedure. However, the Commission
decided that a man of more commercial training would better fill the
position. The Communications Division has been operating at too small
a profit. They felt that a man of commercial experience could cut
expenses and so on to good effect. You understand their reasoning, of
course," said Burbank.

"Not exactly."

"Well, it is like this. They know that a scientist is not usually the
man to consider the cost of experimentation. They build thousand-ton
cyclotrons to convert a penny's worth of lead into one and one-tenth
cents' worth of lead and gold. And they use three hundred dollars'
worth of power and a million-dollar machine to do it with.

"They feel that a man with training like that will not know the real
meaning of the phrase, 'cutting expenses.' A new broom sweeps clean,
Dr. Channing. There must be many places where a man of commercial
experience can cut expenses. I, as Director, shall do so."

"I wish you luck," said Channing.

"Then there is no hard feeling?"

"I can't say that. It is probably not your fault. I cannot feel against
you, but I do feel sort of let down at the decision of the Commission.
I have had experience in this job."

"The Commission may appoint you to follow me. If your work shows a
grasp of commercial operations, I shall so recommend."

"Thanks," said Channing dryly. "May I buy you a drink?"

"I never drink. And I do not believe in it. If it were mine to say, I'd
prohibit liquor from the premises. Venus Equilateral would be better
off without it."

Don Channing snapped the communicator. "Miss Westland, will you come
in?"

She entered, puzzlement on her face.

"This is Mr. Burbank. His position places him in control of this
office. You will, in the future, report to him directly. The report
on the operations, engineering projects, and so on that I was to send
in to the Commission this morning will, therefore, be placed in Mr.
Burbank's hands as soon as possible."

"Yes, Dr. Channing." Her eyes held a twinkle, but there was concern and
sympathy in them, too. "Shall I get them immediately?"

"They are ready?"

"I was about to put them on the tape when you called."

"Then give them to Mr. Burbank." Channing turned to Burbank. "Miss
Westland will hand you the reports I mentioned. They are complete and
precise. A perusal of them will put you in grasp of the situation here
at Venus Equilateral better than will an all-afternoon conference. I'll
have Miss Westland haul my junk out of here. You may consider this as
your office, it having been used by Dr. Peters. And, in the meantime,
I've got to check up on some experiments on the ninth level." Channing
paused. "You'll excuse me?"

"Yes, if Miss Westland knows where to find you."

"She will. I'll inform her of my whereabouts."

"I may want to consult you after I read the reports."

"That will be all right. The autocall can find me anywhere on Venus
Equilateral, if I'm not at the place Miss Westland calls."

       *       *       *       *       *

Don Channing stopped at Arden's desk. "I'm booted," he told her.

"Leaving Venus Equilateral?" she asked with concern.

"No, blond and beautiful, I'm just shunted back to my own office."

"Can't I go with you?" pleaded the girl.

"Nope. You are to stay here and be a nice, good-looking Mata Hari. This
bird seems to think that he can run Venus Equilateral like a bus or a
factory. I know the type, and the first thing he'll do is to run the
place into a snarl. Keep me informed of anything complicated, will you?"

"Sure. And where are you going now?"

"I'm going down and get Walt Franks. We're going to inspect the
transparency of a new type of glass."

"I didn't know that optical investigations come under your
jurisdiction."

"This investigation will consist of a visit to the ninth level."

"Can't you take me along?"

"Not today," he grinned. "Your new boss does not believe in the
evils of looking through the bottom of a glass. We must behave with
decor. We must forget fun. We are now operating under a man who will
commercialize electronics to a fine art."

"Don't get stewed. He may want to know where the electrons are kept."

"I'm not going to drink that much. Walt and I need a discussion," he
said. "And in the meantime, haul my spinach out of the office, will
you, and take it back to the electronics office? I'll be needing it
back there."

"O.K., Don," she said. "I'll see you later."

Channing left to go to the ninth level. He stopped long enough to
collect Walt Franks.

Over a tall glass of beer, Channing told Franks of Burbank's visit. And
why.

Only one thing stuck in Franks' mind. "Did you say that he might close
Joe's?" asked Franks.

"He said that if it were in his power to do so, he would."

"Heaven forbid. Where will we go to be alone?"

"Alone?" snorted Channing. The barroom was half filled with people,
being the only drinking establishment for sixty-odd million miles.

"Well, you know what I mean."

"I could smuggle in a few cases of beer," suggested Don.

"Couldn't we smuggle him out?"

"That would be desirable. But I think he is here to stay. Darn it
all, why do they have to appoint some confounded political pal to a
job like this? I'm telling you, Walt, he must weigh two hundred if he
weighs a pound. He holds his stomach on his lap when he sits down."

Walt looked up and down Channing's slender figure. "Well, he won't be
holding Westland on his lap if it is filled with stomach."

"I never hold Westland on my lap--"

"No?"

"--during working hours!" finished Channing. He grinned at Franks and
ordered another beer. "And how is the Office of Beam Control going to
make out under the new regime?"

"I'll answer that after I see how the new regime treats the Office of
Beam Control," answered Franks. "I doubt that he can do much to bugger
things up in my office. There aren't many cheaper ways to direct a
beam, you know."

"Yeah. You're safe."

"But what I can't understand is why they didn't continue you in that
job. You've been handling the business ever since last December when
Peters got sick. You've been doing all right."

"Doing all right just means that I've been carrying over Peters'
methods and ideas. What the Commission wants, apparently, is something
new. Ergo the new broom."

"Personally, I like that one about the old shoes being more
comfortable," said Franks. "If you say the right word, Don, I'll slip
him a dose of high voltage. That should fix him."

"I think that the better way would be to work for the bird. Then when
he goes, I'll have his recommendation."

"Phooey," snorted Franks, "They'll just appoint another political
pal. They've tried it before and they'll try it again. I wonder what
precinct he carries."

The telephone rang in the bar, and the bartender, after answering,
motioned to Walt Franks. "You're wanted in your office," said the
bartender. "And besides," he told Channing, "if I'm going to get lunch
for three thousand people, you'd better trot along, too. It's nearly
eleven o'clock, you know, and the first batch of two hundred will be
coming in."

Joe was quite inaccurate as to the figures. The complement of Venus
Equilateral was just shy of twenty-seven hundred. They worked in three
eight-hour shifts, about nine hundred to a shift. They had their
breakfast, lunch, and dinner hours staggered so that at no time was
there more than about two hundred people in the big lunchroom. The
bar, it may be mentioned, was in a smaller room at one end of the much
larger cafeteria.

The Venus Equilateral Relay Station was a modern miracle of engineering
if you liked to believe the books. Actually, Venus Equilateral was an
asteroid that had been shoved into its orbit about the Sun, forming a
practical demonstration of the equilateral triangle solution of the
Three Moving Bodies. It was a long cylinder, about three miles in
length by about a mile in diameter.

In 1946, the United States Army Signal Corps succeeded in sending
forth and receiving in return a radar signal from the moon. This was
an academic triumph; at that time such a feat had no practical value.
Its value came later when the skies were opened up for travel; when men
crossed the void of space to colonize the nearer planets Mars and Venus.

They found then that communication back and forth depended upon the
initial experiment in 1946.

But there were barriers, even in deep space. The penetration of the
Heaviside Layer was no great problem. That had been done. They found
that Sol, our sun, was often directly in the path of the communications
beam because the planets all make their way around Sol at different
rates of speed.

All too frequently Mars is on the opposite side of the sun from Terra,
or Sol might lie between Venus and Mars. Astronomically, this situation
where two planets lie on opposite sides of the sun is called Major
Opposition, which is an appropriate name even though those who named it
were not thinking in terms of communications.

To circumvent this natural barrier to communications, mankind made use
of one of the classic solutions of the problem of the Three Moving
Bodies, in which it is stated that three celestial objects at the
corners of an equilateral triangle will so remain, rotating about their
common center of gravity. The equilateral position between the sun and
any planet is called the "Trojan" position because it has been known
for some time that a group of asteroids precede and follow Jupiter
around in his orbit. The "Trojan" comes from the fact that these
asteroids bear the well known names of the heroes of the famous Trojan
War.

To communicate around the sun, then, it is only necessary to establish
a relay station in the Trojan position of the desired planet. This will
be either ahead or behind the planet in its orbit; and the planet, the
sun, and the station will form an equilateral triangle.

So was born the Venus Equilateral Relay Station.

There was little of the original asteroid. At the present time, the
original rock had been discarded to make room for the ever-growing
personnel and material that were needed to operate the relay station.
What had been an asteroid with machinery was now a huge pile of
machinery with people. The insides, formerly of spongy rock, were now
neatly cubed off into offices, rooms, hallways, and so on, divided
by sheets of steel. The outer surface, once rugged and forbidding,
was now all shiny steel. The small asteroid, a tiny thing, was gone,
the station having overflowed the asteroid soon after men found that
uninterrupted communication was possible between the worlds.

Now the man-made asteroid carried twenty-seven hundred people. There
were stores, offices, places of recreation, churches, marriages,
deaths, and everything but taxes. Judging by its population, it was a
small town.

Venus Equilateral rotated about its axis. On the inner surface of the
shell were the homes of the people--not cottages, but apartmental
cubicles, one, two, three, six rooms. Centrifugal force made a little
more than one Earth G of artificial gravity. Above this outer shell of
apartments, the offices began. Offices, recreation centers, and so on.
Up in the central portion where the gravity was nil or near-nil, the
automatic machinery was placed. The servo-gyroscopes and their beam
finders, the storerooms, the air plant, the hydroponic farms, and all
other things that needed little or no gravity for well-being.

This was the Venus Equilateral Relay Station, sixty degrees ahead of
the planet Venus, on Venus' orbit. Often closer to Terra than Venus,
the relay station offered a perfect place to relay messages through
whenever Mars or Terra were on the other side of the sun. It was seldom
idle, for it was seldom that Mars and Venus were in such a position
that direct communication between all the three planets was possible.

This was the center of Interplanetary Communications. This was the main
office. It was the heart of the Solar System's communication line, and
as such, it was well manned. Orders for everything emanated from Venus
Equilateral. It was a delicate proposition, Venus Equilateral was, and
hence the present-on-all-occasions official capacities and office staff.

This was the organization that Don Channing hoped to direct. A closed
corporation with one purpose in mind: Interplanetary Communication!

Channing wondered if the summons for Walt Franks was an official one.
Returning to the electronics office, Don punched the communicator and
asked: "Is Walt in there?"

Arden's voice came back: "No, but Burbank is in Franks' office. Wanna
listen?"

"Eavesdropper! Using the communicator?"

"Sure."

"Better shut it off," warned Don. "Burbank isn't foolish, you know,
and there are pilot lights and warning flags on those things to tell
if someone has the key open. I wouldn't want to see you fired for
listening-in."

"All right, but it was getting interesting."

"If I'm betting on the right horse," said Channing, "this will be
interesting for all before it is finished."

       *       *       *       *       *

Seven days went by in monotonous procession. Seven days in a world of
constant climate. One week, marked only by the changing of work shifts
and the clocks that marked off the eight-hour periods. Seven days
unmarred by rain or cold or heat. Seven days of uninterrupted sunshine
that flickered in and out of the sealed viewports with eye-searing
brilliance, coming and going as the station rotated.

But in the front offices, things were not serene. Not that monotony
ever set in seriously in the engineering department, but that sacred
sanctum of all-things-that-didn't-behave-as-they-should found that even
their usual turmoil was worse. There was nothing that a person could
set his fingers on directly. It was more of a quiet, undercover nature.
On Monday Burbank sent around a communiqué removing the option of free
messages for the personnel. On Tuesday he remanded the years-long
custom of permitting the supply ships to carry, free, packages from
friends at home. On Wednesday, Francis Burbank decided that there
should be a curfew on the one and only beer emporium. "Curfew" was a
revision made after he found that complete curtailing of all alcoholic
beverages might easily lead to a more moral problem; there being
little enough to do with one's spare time. On Thursday, he set up a
stiff-necked staff of censors for the moving picture house. On Friday,
he put a tax on cigarettes and candy. On Saturday, he installed time
clocks in all the laboratories and professional offices, where previous
to his coming, men had come for work a half hour late and worked an
hour overtime at night.

On Sunday--

Don Channing stormed into the Director's office with a scowl on his
face.

"Look," he said, "for years we have felt that any man, woman, or
child that was willing to come out here was worth all the freedom and
consideration that we could give them. What about this damned tax on
cigarettes? And candy? And who told you to stop our folks from telling
their folks that they are still in good health? And why stop them from
sending packages of candy, cake, mementoes, clothing, soap, mosquito
dope, liquor, or anything else? And did you ever think that a curfew
is something that can be applied only when time is one and the same
for all? On Venus Equilateral, Mr. Burbank, six o'clock in the evening
is two hours after dinner for one group, two hours after going to work
for the second group, and mid-sleep for the third. Then this matter of
cutting all love scenes, drinking, female vampires, banditry, bedroom
items, murders, and sweater girls out of the movies? We are a selected
group and well prepared to take care of our morality. Any man or woman
going offside would be heaved out quick. Why, after years of personal
freedom, do we find ourselves under the authority of a veritable
dictatorship?"

Francis Burbank was not touched. "I'll trouble you to keep to your own
laboratory," he told Channing. "Perhaps your own laxity in matters of
this sort is the reason why the Commission preferred someone better
prepared. You speak of many things. There will be more to come. I'll
answer some of your questions. Why should we permit our profits to be
eaten up by people sending messages, cost-free, to their acquaintances
all over the minor planets? Why should valuable space for valuable
supplies be taken up with personal favors between friends? And if the
personnel wants to smoke and drink, let them pay for the privilege! It
will help to pay for the high price of shipping the useless items out
from the nearest planet--as well as saving of precious storage space!"

"But you're breeding ill will among the employees," objected Channing.

"Any that prefer to do so may leave!" snapped Burbank.

"You may find it difficult to hire people to spend their lives in a
place that offers no sight of a sky or a breath of fresh air. The
people here may go home to their own planets to find that smell of
fresh, spring air is more desirable than a climate that never varies
from the personal optimum. I wonder, occasionally, if it might not be
possible to instigate some sort of cold snap or a rainy season just for
the purpose of bringing to the members of Venus Equilateral some of
the surprises that are to be found in Chicago or New York. Hell, even
Canalopsis has an occasional rainstorm!"

"Return to your laboratory," said Burbank coldly. "And let me run the
station. Why should we spend useful money to pamper people? I don't
care if Canalopsis does have an occasional storm, we are not on Mars,
we are in Venus Equilateral. You tend to your end of the business and
I'll do as I deem fitting for the station!"

Channing mentally threw up his hands and literally stalked out of the
office. Here was a close-knit organization being shot full of holes
by a screwball. He stamped down to the ninth level and beat upon the
closed door of Joe's. The door remained closed.

Channing beat with his knuckles until they bled. Finally a door popped
open down the hallway fifty yards and a man looked out. His head popped
in again, and within thirty seconds the door to Joe's opened and
admitted Channing.

Joe slapped the door shut behind Channing quickly.

"Whatinhell are you operating, Joe--a speakeasy?"

"The next time you want in," Joe informed him, "knock on 902 twice,
914 once, and then here four times. We'll let you in. And now, don't
say anything too loud." Joe put a finger to his lips and winked
broadly. "Even the walls listen," he said in a stage whisper.

He led Channing into the room and put on the light. There was a flurry
of people who tried to hide their glasses under the table. "Never
mind," called Joe. "It's only Dr. Channing."

The room relaxed.

"I want something stiff," Channing told Joe. "I've just gone three
rounds with His Nibs and came out cold."

Some people within earshot asked about it. Channing explained what had
transpired. The people seemed satisfied that Channing had done his best
for them. The room relaxed into routine.

The signal knock came on the door and was opened to admit Walt Franks
and Arden Westland. Franks looked as though he had been given a stiff
workout in a cement mixer.

"Scotch," said Arden. "And a glass of brew for the lady."

"What happened to him?"

"He's been trying to keep to Burbank's latest suggestions."

"You've been working too hard," Channing chided him gently. "This is
the wrong time to mention it, I suppose, but did that beam slippage
have anything to do with your condition--or was it vice versa?"

"You know that I haven't anything to do with the beam controls
personally," said Franks. He straightened up and faced Channing
defiantly.

"Don't get mad. What was it?"

"Mastermind, up there, called me in to see if there were some manner
or means of tightening the beam. I told him, sure, we could hold the
beam to practically nothing. He asked me why we didn't hold the beam
to a parallel and save the dispersed power. He claimed that we could
reduce power by two to one if more of it came into the station instead
of being smeared all over the firmament. I, foolishly, agreed with him.
He's right. You could. But only if everything is immobilized. I've been
trying to work out some means of controlling the beam magnetically so
that it would compensate for the normal variations due to magnetic
influences. So far I've failed."

"It can't be done. I know, because I worked on the problem for three
years with some of the best brains in the system. To date, it is
impossible."

A click attracted their attention. It was the pneumatic tube. A
cylinder dropped out of the tube, and Joe opened it and handed the
enclosed paper to Franks.

He read:

    "WALT:

    I'M SENDING THIS TO YOU AT JOE'S BECAUSE I KNOW THAT IS WHERE YOU
    ARE AND I THINK YOU SHOULD GET THIS REAL QUICK.

    JEANNE S."

Walt smiled wearily and said: "A good secretary is a thing of beauty. A
thing of beauty is admired and is a joy forever. Jeanne is both. She is
a jewel."

"Yeah, we know. What does the letter say?"

"It is another communiqué from our doting boss. He is removing from my
control the odd three hundred men I've got working on Beam Control. He
is to assume the responsibility for them himself. I'm practically out
of a job."

"Make that two Scotches," Channing told Joe.

"Make it three," chimed in Arden. "I've got to work for him, too!"

"Is that so bad?" asked Channing. "All you've got to do is to listen
carefully and do as you're told. We have to answer to the bird, too."

"Yeah," said Arden, "but you fellows don't have to listen to a dopey
guy ask foolish questions all day. It's driving me silly."

"What I'd like to know," murmured Franks, "is what is the idea of
pulling me off the job? Nuts, I've been on the Beam Control for years.
I've got the finest crew of men anywhere. They can actually foresee a
shift and compensate for it, I think. I picked 'em myself and I've been
proud of my outfit. Now," he said brokenly, "I've got no outfit. In
fact, I have darned little crew left at all. Only my dozen lab members.
I'll have to go back to swinging a meter myself before this is over."

It was quite a comedown. From the master of over three hundred highly
paid, highly prized, intelligent technicians, Walt Franks was now the
superintendent of one dozen laboratory technicians. It was a definite
cut in his status.

Channing finished his drink and, seeing that Franks' attention was
elsewhere, he told Arden: "Thanks for taking care of him, but don't use
all your sympathy on him. I feel that I'm going to need your shoulder
to cry on before long."

"Any time you want a soft shoulder," said Arden generously, "let me
know. I'll come a-running."

Channing went out. He roamed nervously all the rest of the day. He
visited the bar several times, but the general air of the place
depressed him. From a place of recreation, laughter and pleasantry,
Joe's place had changed to a room for reminiscences and remorse, a
place to drown one's troubles--or poison them--or to preserve them in
alcohol.

He went to see the local moving picture, a piece advertised as being
one of the best mystery thrillers since Hitchcock. He found that all
of the interesting parts were cut out and that the only thing that
remained was a rather disjointed portrayal of a detective finding
meaningless clues and ultimately the criminal. There was a suggestion
at the end that the detective and the criminal had fought it out, but
whether it was with pistols, field pieces, knives, cream puffs or words
was left to the imagination. It was also to be assumed that he and the
heroine, who went into a partial blackout every time she sat down,
finally got acquainted enough to hold hands after the picture.

Channing stormed out of the theatre after seeing the above and finding
that the only cartoon had been barred because it showed an innocuous
cow without benefit of shorts.

He troubled Joe for a bottle of the best and took to his apartment
in disappointment. By eight o'clock in the evening, Don Channing was
asleep with all of his clothing on. The bed rolled and refused to stay
on an even keel, but Channing found a necktie and tied himself securely
in the bed and died off in a beautiful, boiled cloud.

       *       *       *       *       *

He awoke to the tune of a beautiful hangover. He gulped seven glasses
of water and staggered to the shower. Fifteen minutes of iced needles
and some coffee brought him part way back to his own, cheerful self. He
headed down the hall toward the elevator.

He found a note in his office directing him to appear at a conference
in Burbank's office. Groaning in anguish, Don went to the Director's
office expecting the worst.

It was bad. In fact, it was enough to drive everyone in the conference
to drink. Burbank asked opinions on everything, and then tore the
opinions apart with little regard to their validity. He expressed his
own opinion many times, which was a disgusted sense of the personnel's
inability to do anything of real value.

"Certainly," he stormed, "I know you are operating. But have there been
any new developments coming out of your laboratory, Mr. Channing?"

Someone was about to tell Burbank that Channing had a doctor's degree,
but Don shook his head.

"We've been working on a lot of small items," said Channing. "I cannot
say whether there has been any one big thing that we could point to. As
we make developments, we put them into service. Added together, they
make quite an honest effort."

"What, for instance?" stormed Burbank.

"The last one was the coupler machine improvement that permitted better
than ten thousand words per minute."

"Up to that time the best wordage was something like eight thousand
words," said Burbank. "I think that you have been resting too long
on your laurels. Unless you can bring me something big enough to
advertise, I shall have to take measures."

"Now you, Mr. Warren," continued Burbank. "You are the man who is
supposed to be superintendent of maintenance. May I ask why the outer
hull is not painted?"

"Because it would be a waste of paint," said Warren. "Figure out the
acreage of a surface of a cylinder three miles long and a mile in
diameter. It is almost eleven square miles! Eleven square miles to
paint from scaffolding hung from the outside itself."

"Use bos'n's chairs," snapped Burbank.

"A bos'n's chair would be worthless," Warren informed Burbank. "You
must remember that to anyone trying to operate on the outer hull, the
outer hull is a ceiling and directly overhead.

"Another thing," said Warren, "you paint that hull and you'll run this
station by yourself. Why d'ya think we have it shiny?"

"If we paint the hull," persisted Burbank, "it will be more presentable
than that nondescript steel color."

"That steel color is as shiny as we could make it," growled Warren. "We
want to get rid of as much radiated heat as we can. You slap a coat of
any kind of paint on that hull and you'll have plenty of heat in here."

"Ah, that sounds interesting. We'll save heating costs--"

"Don't be an idiot," snapped Warren. "Heating costs, my grandmother's
eye. Look, Burbank, did you ever hear of the Uranium Pile? Part of our
income comes from refining uranium and plutonium and the preparation
of radioisotopes. And--Good Lord, I'm not going to try to explain
fission-reacting materials to you; get that first old copy of the Smyth
Report and get caught up to date.

"The fact remains," continued Warren, cooling somewhat after displaying
Burbank's ignorance, "that we have more power than we know what to do
with. We're operating on a safe margin by radiating just a little more
than we generate. We make up the rest by the old methods of artificial
heating.

"But there have been a lot of times when it became necessary to
dissipate a lot of energy for divers reasons and then we've had to shut
off the heating. What would happen if we couldn't cool off the damned
coffee can? We'd roast to death the first time we got a new employee
with a body temperature a degree above normal."

"You're being openly rebellious," Burbank warned him.

"So I am. And if you persist in your attempt to make this place
presentable, you'll find me and my gang outright mutinous! Good day,
sir!"

He stormed out of the office and slammed the door.

"Take a note, Miss Westland, 'Interplanetary Communications Commission,
Terra. Gentlemen: Michael Warren, superintendent of maintenance at
Venus Equilateral, has proven to be unreceptive to certain suggestions
as to the appearance and/or operation of Venus Equilateral. It is my
request that he be replaced immediately. Signed, Francis Burbank,
Director.'" He paused to see what effect that message had upon the
faces of the men around the table. "Send that by special delivery!"

Johnny Billings opened his mouth to say something, but shut it with
a snap. Westland looked up at Burbank, but she said nothing. Arden
gave Channing a sly smile, and Channing smiled back. There were grins
about the table, too, for everyone recognized the boner. Burbank had
just sent a letter from the interworld communications relay station by
special delivery _mail_. It would not get to Terra for better than two
weeks; a use of the station's facilities would have the message in the
hands of the Commission within the hour.

"That will be all, gentlemen." Burbank smiled smugly. "Our next
conference will be next Monday morning!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"Mr. Channing," chortled the pleasant voice of Arden Westland, "now
that the trifling influence of the boss versus secretary taboo is off,
will you have the pleasure of buying me a drink?"

"Can you repeat that word for word and explain it?" grinned Don.

"A man isn't supposed to make eyes at his secretary. A gal ain't
supposed to seduce her boss. Now that you are no longer Acting
Director, and I no longer your stenog, how about some sociability?"

"I never thought that I'd be propositioned by a typewriter jockey,"
said Channing, "but I'll do it. What time is it? Do we do it openly, or
must we sneak over to the apartment and snaffle a snort on the sly?"

"We snaffle. That is, if you trust me in your apartment."

"I'm scared to death," Channing informed her. "But if I should fail to
defend my honor, we must remember that it is no dishonor to try and
fail."

"That sounds like a nice alibi," said Arden with a smile. "Or a
come-on. I don't know which. Or, Mr. Channing, am I being told that my
advances might not be welcome?"

"We shall see," Channing said. "We'll have to make a careful study
of the matter. I cannot make any statements without first making a
thorough examination under all sorts of conditions. Here we are. You
will precede me through the door, please."

"Why?" asked Arden.

"So that you cannot back out at the last possible moment. Once I get
you inside, I'll think about keeping you there!"

"As long as you have some illegal fluid, I'll stay." She tried to leer
at Don but failed because she had had all too little experience in
leering. "Bring it on!"

"Here's to the good old days," toasted Don as the drinks were raised.

"Nope. Here's to the future," proposed Arden. "Those good old days--all
they were was old. If you were back in them, you'd still have to have
the pleasure of meeting Burbank."

"_Grrrr_," growled Channing. "That name is never mentioned in this
household."

"You haven't a pix of the old bird turned to the wall, have you?" asked
Arden.

"I tossed it out."

"We'll drink to that." They drained glasses. "And we'll have another."

"I need another," said Channing. "Can you imagine that buzzard asking
me to invent something big in seven days?"

"Sure. By the same reasoning that he uses to send a letter from Venus
Equilateral instead of just slipping it in on the Terra beam. Faulty."

"Phony."

The door opened abruptly and Walt Franks entered. "D'ja hear the
latest?" he asked breathlessly.

"No," said Channing. He was reaching for another glass automatically.
He poured, and Walt watched the amber fluid creep up the glass, led by
a sheet of white foam.

"Then look!" Walt handed Channing an official envelope. It was a
regular notice to the effect that there had been eleven failures of
service through Venus Equilateral.

"Eleven! What makes?"

"Mastermind."

"What's he done?"

"Remember the removal of my jurisdiction over the beam control
operators? Well, in the last ten days, Burbank has installed some new
features to cut expenses. I think that he hopes to lay off a couple of
hundred men."

"What's he doing, do you know?"

"He's shortening the dispersion. He intends to cut the power by
slamming more of the widespread beam into the receptor. The tighter
beam makes aiming more difficult, you know, because at seventy million
miles, every time little Joey on Mars swings his toy horseshoe magnet
on the end of his string, the beam wabbles. And at seventy million
miles, how much wabbling does it take to send a narrow beam clear off
the target?"

"The normal dispersion of the beam from Venus is over a thousand miles
wide. It gyrates and wabbles through most of that arc. That is why we
picked that particular dispersion. If we could have pointed the thing
like an arrow, we'd have kept the dispersion down."

"Right. And he's tightened the beam to less than a hundred miles'
dispersion. Now, every time a sunspot gets hit amidships with a lady
sunspot, the beam goes off on a tangent. We've lost the beam eleven
times in a week. That's more times than I've lost it in three years!"

"O.K.," said Channing. "So what? Mastermind is responsible. We'll sit
tight and wait for developments. In any display of abilities, we can
spike Mr. Burbank. Have another drink?"

"Got any more? If you're out, I've got a couple of cases cached
underneath the bed in my apartment."

"I've plenty," said Channing. "And I'll need plenty. I have exactly
twenty-two hours left in which to produce something comparable to the
telephone, the electric light, the airplane, or the expanding universe!
Phooey. Pour me another, Arden."

A knock at the door; a feminine voice interrupted simultaneously. "May
I come in?"

It was Walt's secretary. She looked worried. In one hand she waved
another letter.

"Another communiqué?" asked Channing.

"Worse. Notice that for the last three hours, there have been less than
twelve percent of messages relayed!"

"Five minutes' operation out of an hour," said Channing. "Where's that
from?"

"Came out on the Terra beam. It's marked number seventeen, so I guess
that sixteen other tries have been made."

"What has Mastermind tried this time?" stormed Channing. He tore out
of the room and headed for the Director's office on a dead run. On the
way, he hit his shoulder on the door, caromed off the opposite wall,
righted himself, and was gone in a flurry of flying feet. Three heads
popped out of doors to see who was making the noise.

Channing skidded into Burbank's office on his heels. "What gives?" he
snapped. "D'ya realize that we've lost the beam? What have you been
doing?"

"It is a minor difficulty," said Burbank calmly. "We will iron it out
presently."

"Presently! Our charter doesn't permit interruptions of service of that
magnitude. I ask again: What are you doing?"

"You, as electronics engineer, have no right to question me. I repeat,
we shall iron out the difficulty presently."

Channing snorted and tore out of Burbank's office. He headed for the
Office of Beam Control, turned the corner on one foot, and slammed the
door in roughly.

"Chuck!" he yelled. "Chuck Thomas! Where are you?"

No answer. Channing left the beam office and headed for the master
control panels, out near the air lock end of Venus Equilateral. He
found Thomas stewing over a complicated piece of apparatus.

"Chuck, for the Love of Michael, what in the devil is going on?"

"Thought you knew," answered Thomas. "Burbank had the crew install
photoelectric mosaic banks on the beam controls. He intends to use the
photomosaics to keep Venus, Terra, and Mars on the beam."

"Great Snivelling Scott! They tried that in the last century and tossed
it out three days later. Where's the crew now?"

"Packing for home. They've been laid off!"

"Get 'em back! Put 'em to work. Turn off those darned photomosaics and
use the manual again. We've lost every beam we ever had."

A sarcastic voice came in at this point. "For what reason do you
interfere with my improvements?" sneered the voice. "Could it be that
you are accepting graft from the employees to keep them on the job by
preventing the installation of superior equipment?"

Channing turned on his toe and let Burbank have one. It was a neat job,
coming up at the right time and connecting sweetly. Burbank went over
on his head.

"Get going," Channing snapped at Thomas.

Charles Thomas grinned. It was not Channing's one-ninety that decided
him to comply. He left.

Channing shook Burbank's shoulder. He slapped the man's face. Eyes
opened, accusing eyes rendered mute by a very sore jaw, tongue, and
throat.

"Now listen," snapped Channing. "Listen to every word! Mosaic directors
are useless. Know why? It is because of the lag. At planetary
distances, light takes an appreciable time to reach. Your beam wabbles.
Your planet swerves out of line because of intervening factors; varying
magnetic fields, even the bending of light due to gravitational fields
will shake the beam microscopically. But, Burbank, a microscopic
discrepancy is all that is needed to bust things wide open. You've
got to have experienced men to operate the beam controls. Men who can
think. Men who can, from experience, reason that this fluctuation will
not last, but will swing back in a few seconds, or that this type of
swerving will increase in magnitude for a half-hour, maintain the
status, and then return, pass through zero and find the same level on
the minus side.

"Since light and centimeter waves are not exactly alike in performance,
a field that will swerve one may not affect the other as much. Ergo
your photomosaic is useless. The photoelectric mosaic is a brilliant
gadget for keeping a plane in a spotlight or for aiming a sixteen-inch
gun, but it is worthless for anything over a couple of million miles.

"So I've called the men back to their stations. And don't try anything
foolish again without consulting the men who are paid to think!"

Channing got up and left. As he strode down the stairs to the apartment
level, he met many of the men who had been laid off. None of them said
a word, but all of them wore bright, knowing smiles.

By Monday morning, however, Burbank was himself again. The rebuff given
him by Don Channing had worn off and he was sparkling with ideas. He
speared Franks with the glitter in his eye and said: "If our beams are
always on the center, why is it necessary to use multiplex diversity?"

Franks smiled. "You're mistaken," he told Burbank. "They're not always
on the button. They vary. Therefore, we use diversity transmission
so that if one beam fails momentarily, one of the other beams will
bring the signal in. It is analogous to tying five or six ropes onto a
hoisted stone. If one breaks, you have the others."

"You have them running all the time, then?"

"Certainly. At several minutes of time-lag in transmission, to try
and establish a beam failure of a few seconds' duration is utter
foolishness."

"And you disperse the beam to a thousand miles wide to keep the beam
centered at any variation?" Burbank shot at Channing.

"Not for any variation. Make that any _normal_ gyration and I'll buy
it."

"Then why don't we disperse the beam to two or three thousand miles and
do away with diversity transmission?" asked Burbank triumphantly.

"Ever heard of fading?" asked Channing with a grin. "Your signal comes
and goes. Not gyration, it just gets weaker. It fails for want of
something to eat, I guess, and takes off after a wandering cosmic ray.
At any rate, there are many times per minute that one beam will be
right on the nose and yet so weak that our strippers cannot clean it
enough to make it usable. Then the diversity system comes in handy. Our
coupling detectors automatically select the proper signal channel. It
takes the one that is the strongest and subdues the rest within itself."

"Complicated?"

"It was done in the heyday of radio--1935 or so. Your two channels
come in to a common detector. Automatic volume control voltage
comes from the single detector and is applied to all channels. This
voltage is proper for the strongest channel, but is too high for the
ones receiving the weaker signal; blocking them by rendering them
insensitive. When the strong channel fades and the weak channel rises,
the detector follows down until the two signal channels are equal and
then it rises with the stronger channel."

"I see," said Burbank, "Has anything been done about fading?"

"It is like the weather, according to Mark Twain," smiled Channing.
"'Everybody talks about it, but nobody does anything about it.' About
all we've learned is that we can cuss it out and it doesn't cuss back."

"I think it should be tried," said Burbank.

"If you'll pardon me, it has been tried. The first installation at
Venus Equilateral was made that way. It didn't work, though we used
more power than all of our diversity transmitters together. Sorry."

"Have you anything to report?" Burbank asked Channing.

"Nothing. I've been more than busy investigating the trouble we've had
in keeping the beams centered."

Burbank said nothing. He was stopped. He hoped that the secret of his
failure was not generally known, but he knew at the same time that when
three hundred men are aware of something interesting, some of them will
see to it that all the others involved will surely know. He looked
at the faces of the men around the table and saw suppressed mirth in
every one of them. Burbank writhed in inward anger. He was a good poker
player. He didn't show it at all.

He then went on to other problems. He ironed some out, others he
shelved for the time being. Burbank was a good business man. But like
so many other businessmen, Burbank had the firm conviction that if he
had the time to spare and at the same time was free of the worries and
paper work of his position, he could step into the laboratory and show
the engineers how to make things hum. He was infuriated every time he
saw one of the engineering staff sitting with hands behind head, lost
in a gazy, unreal land of deep thought. Though he knew better, he was
often tempted to raise hell because the man was obviously loafing.

But give him credit. He could handle business angles to perfection.
In spite of his tangle over the beam control, he had rebounded
excellently and had ironed out all of the complaints that had poured
in. Ironed it out to the satisfaction of the injured party as well as
the Interplanetary Communications Commission, who were interested in
anything that cost money.

He dismissed the conference and went to thinking. And he assumed the
same pose that infuriated him in other men under him; hands behind
head, feet upon desk.

       *       *       *       *       *

The moving picture theater was dark. The hero reached longing arms
to the heroine, and there was a sort of magnetic attraction. They
approached one another. But the spark misfired. It was blacked out with
a nice slice of utter blackness that came from the screen and spread
its lightlessness all over the theater. In the ensuing darkness, there
were several osculations that were more personal and more satisfying
than the censored clinch. The lights flashed on and several male heads
moved back hastily. Female lips smiled happily. Some of them parted in
speech.

One of them said: "Why, Mr. Channing!"

"Shut up, Arden," snapped the man. "People will think that I've been
kissing you."

"If someone else was taking advantage of the situation," she said, "you
got gypped. I thought I was kissing you and I cooked with gas!"

"Did you ever try that before?" asked Channing interestedly.

"Why?" she asked.

"I liked it. I merely wondered, if you'd worked it on other men, what
there was about you that kept you single."

"They all died after the first application," she said. "They couldn't
take it."

"Let me outta here! I get the implication. I am the first bird that
hasn't died, hey?" He yawned luxuriously.

"Company or the hour?" asked Arden.

"Can't be either," he said. "Come on, let's break a bottle of beer
open. I'm dry!"

"I've got a slight headache," she told him, "From what, I can't
imagine."

"I haven't a headache, but I'm sort of logy."

"What have you been doing?" asked Arden. "Haven't seen you for a couple
of days."

"Nothing worth mentioning. Had an idea a couple of days ago and went to
work on it."

"Haven't been working overtime or missing breakfast?"

"Nope."

"Then I don't see why you should be ill. I can explain my headache away
by attributing it to eyestrain. Since Billyboy came here, and censored
the movies to the bone, the darned things flicker like anything. But
eyestrain doesn't create an autointoxication. So, my fine fellow, what
have you been drinking?"

"Nothing that I haven't been drinking since I first took to my second
bottlehood some years ago."

"You wouldn't be suffering from a hangover from that hangover you had a
couple of weeks ago?"

"Nope. I swore off. Never again will I try to drink a whole quart of
Two Moons in one evening. It got me."

"It had you for a couple of days," laughed Arden. "All to itself."

Don Channing said nothing. He recalled, all too vividly, the rolling
of the tummy that ensued after that session with the only fighter that
hadn't yet been beaten: Old John Barleycorn.

"How are you coming on with Burbank?" asked Arden. "I haven't heard
a rave for--well, ever since Monday morning's conference. Three days
without a nasty dig at Our Boss. That's a record."

"Give the devil his due. He's been more than busy placating irate
citizens. That last debacle with the beam control gave him a real
Moscow winter. His reforms came to a stop whilst he entrenched. But
he's been doing an excellent job of squirming out from under. Of
course, it has been helped by the fact that even though the service
was rotten for a few hours, the customers couldn't rush out to some
other agency to get communications with the other planets."

"Sort of: 'Take us, as lousy as we are?'"

"That's it."

       *       *       *       *       *

Channing opened the door to his apartment and Arden went in. Channing
followed, and then stopped cold.

"Great Jeepers!" he said in an awed tone. "If I didn't know--"

"Why, Don! What's so startling?"

"Have you noticed?" he asked. "It smells like the inside of a chicken
coop in here!"

Arden sniffed. "It does sort of remind me of something that died and
couldn't get out of its skin." Arden smiled. "I'll hold my breath. Any
sacrifice for a drink."

"That isn't the point. This is purified air. It should be as sweet as a
baby's breath."

"Some baby," whistled Arden. "What's baby been drinking?"

"It wasn't cow-juice. What I've been trying to put over is that the air
doesn't seem to have been changed in here for nine weeks."

Channing went to the ventilator and lit a match. The flame bent over,
flickered, and went out.

"Air intake is O.K.," he said. "Maybe it is I. Bring on that bottle,
Channing; don't keep the lady waiting."

He yawned again, deeply and jaw-stretchingly. Arden yawned, too, and
the thought of both of them stretching their jaws to the breaking-off
point made both of them laugh foolishly.

"Arden, I'm going to break one bottle of beer with you, after which I'm
going to take you home, kiss you good night, and toss you into your
own apartment. Then I'm coming back here and I'm going to hit the hay!"

Arden took a long, deep breath. "I'll buy that," she said. "And
tonight, it wouldn't take much persuasion to induce me to snooze right
here in this chair!"

"Oh, fine," cheered Don. "That would fix me up swell with the
neighbors. I'm not going to get shotgunned into anything like that!"

"Don't be silly," said Arden.

"From the look in your eye," said Channing, "I'd say that you were just
about to do that very thing. I was merely trying to dissolve any ideas
that you might have."

"Don't bother," she said pettishly. "I haven't any ideas. I'm as free
as you are, and I intend to stay that way!"

Channing stood up. "The next thing we know, we'll be fighting," he
observed. "Stand up, Arden. Shake."

Arden stood up, shook herself, and then looked at Channing with a
strange light in her eyes. "I feel sort of dizzy," she admitted. "And
everything irritates me."

She passed a hand over her eyes wearily. Then, with a visible effort,
she straightened. She seemed to throw off her momentary ill feeling
instantly. She smiled at Channing and was her normal self in less than
a minute.

"What is it?" she asked. "Do you feel funny, too?"

"I do!" he said. "I don't want that beer. I want to snooze."

"When Channing would prefer snoozing to boozing he is sick," she said.
"Come on, fellow, take me home."

Slowly they walked down the long hallway. They said nothing. Arm in arm
they went, and when they reached Arden's door, their good-night kiss
lacked enthusiasm. "See you in the morning," said Don.

Arden looked at him. "That was a little flat. We'll try it
again--tomorrow or next week."

Don Channing's sleep was broken by dreams. He was warm. His dreams
depicted him in a humid, airless chamber, and he was forced to breathe
that same stale air again and again. He awoke in a hot sweat, weak and
feeling--lousy!

He dressed carelessly. He shaved hit-or-miss. His morning coffee tasted
flat and sour. He left the apartment in a bad mood, and bumped into
Arden at the corner of the hall.

"Hello," she said. "I feel rotten. But you have improved. Or is that
passionate breathing just a lack of fresh air?"

"Hell! That's it!" he said. He snapped up his wrist watch, which
was equipped with a stop-watch hand. He looked about, and finding a
man sitting on a bench, apparently taking it easy while waiting for
someone, Channing clicked the sweep hand into gear. He started to count
the man's respiration.

"What gives?" asked Arden, "What's 'It'? Why are you so excited? Did I
say something?"

"You did," said Channing after fifteen seconds. "That bird's
respiration is better than fifty! This whole place is filled to the
gills with carbon dioxide. Come on, Arden, let's get going!"

Channing led the girl by several yards by the time that they were
within sight of the elevator. He waited for her, and then sent the car
upward at a full throttle. Minutes passed, and they could feel that
stomach-rising sensation that comes when gravity is lessened. Arden
clasped her hands over her middle and hugged. She squirmed and giggled.

"You've been up to the axis before," said Channing. "Take long, deep
breaths."

The car came to a stop with a slowing effect. A normal braking stop
would have catapulted them against the ceiling. "Come on," he grinned
at her, "here's where we make time!"

Channing looked up at the little flight of stairs that led to the
innermost level. He winked at Arden and jumped. He passed up through
the opening easily. "Jump," he commanded. "Don't use the stairs."

Arden jumped. She sailed upward, and as she passed through the opening,
Channing caught her by one arm and stopped her flight. "At that speed
you'd go right on across," he said.

She looked up, and there about two hundred feet overhead she could see
the opposite wall.

Channing snapped on the lights. They were in a room two hundred feet
in diameter and three hundred feet long. "We're at the center of the
station," Channing informed her. "Beyond that bulkhead is the air lock.
On the other side of the other bulkhead, we have the air plant, the
storage spaces, and several rooms of machinery."

"Come on," he said. He took her by the hand and with a kick he
propelled himself along on a long, curving course to the opposite side
of the inner cylinder. He gained the opposite bulkhead as well.

"Now, that's what I call traveling," said Arden. "But my tummy goes
_whoosh_, _whoosh_ every time we cross the center."

Channing operated a heavy door. They went in through rooms full of
machinery and into rooms stacked to the center with boxes; stacked from
the wall to the center and then packed with springs. Near the axis of
the cylinder, things weighed so little that packing was necessary to
keep them from floating around.

"I feel giddy," said Arden.

"High in oxygen," said he. "The CO_{2}, drops to the bottom, being
heavier. Then, too, the air is thinner up here because centrifugal
force swings the whole out to the rim. Out there we are so used to
'down' that here, a half mile above--or to the center, rather--we have
trouble in saying, technically, what we mean. Watch!"

He left Arden standing and walked rapidly around the inside of the
cylinder. Soon he was standing on the steel plates directly over her
head. She looked up, and shook her head.

"I know why," she called, "but it still makes me dizzy. Come down from
up there or I'll be sick."

Channing made a neat dive from his position above her head. He did it
merely by jumping upward from his place toward her place, apparently
hanging head down from the ceiling. He turned a neat flip-flop in the
air and landed easily beside her. Immediately, for both of them, things
became right-side-up again.

Channing opened the door to the room marked: "Air Plant." He stepped
in, snapped on the lights, and gasped in amazement.

"Hell!" he groaned. The place was empty. Completely empty. Absolutely,
and irrevocably vacant. Oh, there was some dirt on the floor and some
trash in the corners, and a trail of scratches on the floor to show
that the life giving air plant had been removed, hunk by hunk, out
through another door at the far end of the room.

"Whoa, Tillie!" screamed Don. "We've been stabbed! Arden, get on the
type and have ... no, wait a minute until we find out a few more things
about this!"

       *       *       *       *       *

They made record time back to the office level. They found Burbank in
his office, leaning back, and talking to someone on the phone.

Channing tried to interrupt, but Burbank removed his nose from the
telephone long enough to snarl, "Can't you see I'm busy? Have you no
manners or respect?"

Channing, fuming inside, swore inwardly. He sat down with a show of
being calm and folded his hands over his abdomen like the famed statue
of Buddha. Arden looked at him, and for all the trouble they were in,
she couldn't help giggling. Channing, tall, lanky, and strong, looked
as little as possible like the popular, pudgy figure of the Sitting
Buddha.

A minute passed.

Burbank hung up the phone.

"Where does Venus Equilateral get its air from?" snapped Burbank.

"That's what I want--"

"Answer me, please. I'm worried."

"So am I. Something--"

"Tell me first, from what source does Venus Equilateral get its fresh
air?"

"From the air plant. And that is--"

"There _must_ be more than one," said Burbank thoughtfully.

"There's only one."

"There must be more than one. We couldn't live if there weren't," said
the Director.

"Wishing won't make it so. There is only one."

"I tell you, there must be another. Why, I went into the one up at
the axis day before yesterday and found that instead of a bunch of
machinery, running smoothly, purifying air, and sending it out to the
various parts of the station, all there was was a veritable jungle of
weeds. Those weeds, Mr. Channing, looked as though they must have been
put in there years ago. Now, where did the air-purifying machinery go?"

Channing listened to the latter half of Burbank's speech with his chin
at half-mast. He looked as though a feather would knock him clear
across the office.

"I had some workmen clear the weeds out. I intend to replace the air
machinery as soon as I can get some new material sent from Terra."

Channing managed to blink. It was an effort. "You had workmen toss the
weeds out--" he repeated dully. "The weeds--"

There was silence for a minute, Burbank studied the man in the chair
as though Channing were a piece of statuary. Channing was just as
motionless. "Channing, man, what ails you--" began Burbank. The sound
of Burbank's voice aroused Channing from his shocked condition.

Channing leaped to his feet. He landed on his heels, spun, and snapped
at Arden: "Get on the type. Have 'em slap as many oxy-drums on the
fastest ship as they've got! Get 'em here at full throttle. Tell 'em
to load up the pilot and crew with gravanol and not to spare the
horsepower! Scram!"

Arden gasped. She fled from the office.

"Burbank, what did you think an air plant was?" snapped Channing.

"Why, isn't it some sort of purifying machinery?" asked the wondering
Director.

"What better purifying machine is there than a plot of grass?" shouted
Channing. "Weeds, grass, flowers, trees, alfalfa, wheat, or anything
that grows and uses chlorophyll. We breathe oxygen, exhale CO_{2}.
Plants inhale CO_{2}, and exude oxygen. An air plant means just that.
It is a specialized type of Martian sawgrass that is more efficient
than anything else in the system for inhaling dead air and revitalizing
it. And you've tossed the weeds out!" Channing snorted in anger. "We've
spent years getting that plant so that it will grow just right. It got
so good that the CO_{2} detectors weren't even needed. The balance was
so adjusted that they haven't even been turned on for three or four
years. They were just another source of unnecessary expense. Why, save
for a monthly inspection, that room isn't even opened, so efficient is
the Martian sawgrass. We, Burbank, are losing oxygen!"

The Director grew white. "I didn't know," he said.

"Well, you know now. Get on your horse and do something. At least,
Burbank, stay out of my way while I do something."

"You have a free hand," said Burbank. His voice sounded beaten.

Channing left the office of the Director and headed for the chem
lab. "How much potassium chlorate, nitrate, sulphate, and other
oxygen-bearing compounds have you?" he asked. "That includes mercuric
oxide, spare water, or anything else that will give us oxygen if broken
down."

There was a ten-minute wait until the members of the chem lab took a
hurried inventory.

"Good," said Channing. "Start breaking it down. Collect all the oxygen
you can in containers. This is the business! It has priority! Anything,
no matter how valuable, must be scrapped if it can facilitate the
gathering of oxygen. God knows, there isn't by half enough--not even a
tenth. But try, anyway."

       *       *       *       *       *

Channing headed out of the chemistry laboratory and into the
electronics lab. "Jimmie," he shouted, "get a couple of stone jars
and get an electrolysis outfit running. Fling the hydrogen out of a
convenient outlet into space and collect the oxygen. Water, I mean. Use
tap water, right out of the faucet."

"Yeah, but--"

"Jimmie, if we don't breathe, what chance have we to go on drinking?
I'll tell you when to stop."

"O.K., Doc," said Jimmie.

"And look. As soon as you get that running, set up a CO_{2} indicator
and let me know the percentage at the end of each hour! Get me?"

"I take it that something has happened to the air plant?"

"It isn't functioning," said Channing shortly. He left the puzzled
Jimmie and headed for the beam-control room. Jimmie continued to
wonder about the air plant. How in the devil could an air plant cease
functioning unless it were--_dead_! Jimmie stopped wondering and began
to operate on his electrolysis set-up furiously.

Channing found the men in the beam-control room worried and ill at
ease. The fine co-ordination that made them expert in their line was
ebbing. The nervous work demanded perfect motor control, excellent
perception, and a fine power of reasoning. The perceptible lack of
oxygen at this high level was taking its toll already.

"Look, fellows, we're in a mess. Until further notice, take five-minute
shifts. We've got about thirty hours to go. If the going gets tough,
drop it to three-minute shifts. But, fellows, keep those beams centered
until you drop!"

"We'll keep 'em going if we have to call our wives up here to run 'em
for us," said one man. "What's up?"

"Air plant's sour. Losing oxy. Got a shipload coming out from Terra, be
here in thirty hours. But upon you fellows will rest the responsibility
of keeping us in touch with the rest of the system. If you fail, we
could call for help until hell freezes us all in--and no one would hear
us!"

"We'll keep 'em rolling," said a little fellow who had to sit on a tall
stool to get even with the controls.

       *       *       *       *       *

Channing looked out of the big, faceted plexiglass dome that covered
the entire end of the Venus Equilateral Station. "Here messages go
in and out," he mused. "The other end brings us things that take our
breath away."

Channing was referring to the big air lock at the other end of the
station, three miles away, right through the center.

At the center of the dome, there was a sighting 'scope. It kept
Polaris on a marked circle, keeping the station exactly even with
the Terrestrial North. About the periphery of the dome, looking out
across space, the beam-control operators were sitting, each with a
hundred-foot parabolic reflector below his position, outside the dome,
and under the rim of the transparent howl. These reflectors shot the
interworld signals across space in tight beams, and the men, half the
time anticipating the vagaries of space-warp, kept them centered on the
proper, shining speck in that field of stars.

Above his head the stars twinkled. Puny man, setting his will against
the monstrous void. Puny man, dependent upon atmosphere. "'Nature
abhors a vacuum,' said Torricelli," groaned Channing. "Nuts! If nature
abhorred a vacuum, why did she make so much of it?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Arden Westland entered the apartment without knocking. "I'd give my
right arm up to here for a cigarette," she said, marking above the
elbow with the other hand.

"Na-hah," said Channing. "Can't burn oxygen."

"I know. I'm tired, I'm cold, and I'm ill. Anything you can do for a
lady?"

"Not as much as I'd like to do," said Channing. "I can't help much.
We've got most of the place stopped off with the air-tight doors. We've
been electrolyzing water, baking KClO_{3} and everything else we can
get oxy out of. I've a crew of men trying to absorb the CO_{2} content
and we are losing. Of course, I've known all along that we couldn't
support the station on the meager supplies we have on hand. But we'll
win in the end. Our microcosmic world is getting a shot in the arm in a
few hours that will re-set the balance."

"I don't see why we didn't prepare for this emergency," said Arden.

"This station is well balanced. There are enough people here and enough
space to make a little world of our own. We can establish a balance
that is pretty darned close to perfect. The imperfections are taken
care of by influxes of supplies from the system. Until Burbank upset
the balance, we could go on forever, utilizing natural purification of
air and water. We grow a few vegetables and have some meat critters
to give milk and steak. The energy to operate Venus Equilateral is
supplied from the uranium pile. Atomic power, if you please. Why
should we burden ourselves with a lot of cubic feet of supplies that
would take up room necessary to maintain our balance? We are not in
bad shape. We'll live, though we'll all be a bunch of tired, irritable
people who yawn in one another's faces."

"And after it is over?"

"We'll establish the balance. Then we'll settle down again. We can take
up where we left off," said Don.

"Not quite. Venus Equilateral has been seared by fire. We'll be tougher
and less tolerant of outsiders. If we were a closed corporation before,
we'll be tighter than a vacuum-packed coffee can afterwards. And the
first bird that cracks us will get hissed at."

Three superliners hove into sight at the end of thirty-one hours.
They circled the station, signaling by helio. They approached the air
lock end of the station and made contact. The air lock was opened and
space-suited figures swarmed over the South End Landing Stage. A stream
of big oxygen tanks was brought into the air lock, admitted, and taken
to the last bulwark of huddled people on the fourth level.

From one of the ships there came a horde of men carrying huge square
trays of dirt and green, growing sawgrass.

For six hours, Venus Equilateral was the scene of wild, furious
activity. The dead air was blown out of bad areas, and the hissing
of oxygen tanks was heard in every room. Gradually the people left
the fourth level and returned to their rightful places. The station
rang with laughter once more, and business, stopped short for want of
breath, took a deep lungful of fresh air and went back to work.

The superliners left. But not without taking a souvenir. Francis
Burbank went with them. His removal notice was on the first ship, and
Don Channing's appointment as Director of Venus Equilateral was on the
second.

Happily he entered the Director's office once more. He carried with him
all the things that he had removed just a few short weeks before. This
time he was coming to stay.

Arden entered the office behind him. "Home again?" she asked.

"Yop," he grinned at her. "Open file B, will you, and break out a
container of my favorite beverage?"

"Sure thing," she said.

There came a shout of glee. "Break out four glasses," she was told from
behind. It was Walt Franks and Joe.

It was Arden that proposed the toast. "Here's to a closed corporation,"
she said. They drank on that.

She went over beside Don and took his arm. "You see?" she said, looking
up into his eyes. "We aren't the same. Things have changed since
Burbank came, and went. Haven't they?"

"They have," laughed Channing. "And now that you are my secretary, it
is no longer proper for you to shine up to me like that. People will
talk."

"What's he raving about?" asked Joe.

Channing answered, "It is considered highly improper for a secretary to
make passes at her boss. Think of what people will say; think of his
wife and kids."

"You have neither."

"People?" asked Channing innocently.

"No--you ape--the other."

"Maybe so," nodded Don, "but it is still in bad taste for a secretary--"

"No man can use that tone of voice on me!" stormed Arden with a glint
in her eye. "I resign! You can't call me a secretary!"

"But Arden--darling--"

Arden relaxed into the crook of Channing's arm. She winked at Walt and
Joe. "Me--," she said, "I've been promoted!"




                             _Interlude:_


_Maintaining Communications through the worst of interference was a
type of problem in which dire necessity demanded a solution. Often
there are other problems of less demanding nature. These are sometimes
called "projects" because they may be desirable but are not born of
dire necessity._

_Barring interference, the problem of keeping communication with
another planet across a hundred million miles of interplanetary space
is partially solved by the fact that you can see your target! Keeping
the cross-hairs in a telescope properly centered is a technical job
more arduous than difficult._

_But seeing a spacecraft is another problem. Consider the relative
sizes of spacecraft and planet. Where Terra is eight thousand miles in
diameter, the largest of spacecraft is eight hundred feet long. Reduced
to a common denominator and a simple ratio, it reads that the earth is
50,000 times as large as the largest spacecraft. Now go outside and
take a look at Venus. At normal distances, it is a mote in the sky. Yet
Venus is only slightly smaller than the earth. Reduce Venus by fifty
thousand times, and no astronomer would ever suspect its existence._

_Then take the invisible mote and place it in a volume of
1,000,000,000,000,000,000 cubic miles and he who found the needle in a
haystack is a piker by comparison._

_It could have been lives at stake that drove the job out of the
"project" class and into the "necessity" stage. The fact that it was
ebb and flow of a mundane thing like money may lower the quality of
glamor._

_But there it was--a problem that cried out for a solution; a man who
was willing to pay for the attempt; and a group of technicians more
than happy to tackle the job._




                          CALLING THE EMPRESS


The chart in the terminal building at Canalopsis Spaceport, Mars,
was a huge thing that was the focus of all eyes. It occupied a
thirty-by-thirty space in the center of one wall, and it had a
far-flung iron railing about it to keep the people from crowding it
too close, thus shutting off the view. It was a popular display, for
it helped to drive home the fact that space travel was different from
anything else. People were aware that their lives had been built upon
going from one fixed place to another place, equally immobile. But on
interplanet travel, one left a moving planet for another planet, moving
at a different velocity. You found that the shortest distance was not a
straight line but a space curve involving higher mathematics.

The courses being traveled at the time were marked, and those that
would be traversed in the very near future were drawn upon the chart,
too; all appropriately labeled. At a glance, one could see that in
fifty minutes and seventeen seconds the _Empress of Kolain_ would take
off from Mars, which was the red disk on the right, and she would
travel along the curve so marked to Venus, which was almost one hundred
and sixty degrees clockwise around the Sun. People were glad of the
chance to go on this trip because the Venus Equilateral Relay Station
would come within a telescope's sight on the way.

_The Empress of Kolain_ would slide into Venus on the day side; and a
few hours later she would lift again to head for Terra, a few degrees
ahead of Venus and about thirty million miles away.

Precisely on the zero-zero, the _Empress of Kolain_ lifted upward on
four tenuous pillars of dull-red glow and drove a hole in the sky.
The glow was almost lost in the bright sunshine, and soon it died.
The _Empress of Kolain_ became a little world in itself, and would so
remain until it dropped onto the ground at Venus, almost two hundred
million miles away.

Driving upward, the _Empress of Kolain_ could not have been out of the
thin Martian atmosphere when a warning bell rang in the telephone and
telespace office at the terminal. The bell caught official ears, and
all work was stopped as the personnel of the communications office
ran to the machine to see what was so important that the "immediate
attention" signal was rung.

Impatiently the operator waited for the tape to come clicking from the
machine. It came, letter by letter, click by click, at fifty words per
minute. The operator tore the strip from the machine and read aloud:
"Hold _Empress of Kolain_. Reroute to Terra direct. Will be quarantined
at Venus. Whole planet in epidemic of Venusian Fever."

"Snap answer," growled the clerk. "Tell 'em: 'Too little and too late.
_Empress of Kolain_ left thirty seconds before warning bell. What do we
do now?'"

The operator's fingers clicked madly over the keyboard. Across space
went the signal, across the void to the Relay Station. It ran through
the Station's mechanism and went darting to Terra. It clicked out as
sent in the offices of Interplanet Transport. A vice president read the
message and swore roundly. He swore in three Terran languages, in the
language of the Venusians, and even managed to visualize a few choice
remarks from the Martian Pictographs that were engraved on the Temples
of Canalopsis.

"Miss Deane," he yelled at the top of his voice. "Take a message! Shoot
a line to Channing on Venus Equilateral. Tell him: '_Empress of Kolain_
on way to Venus. Must be contacted and rerouted to Terra direct.
Million dollars' worth of Martian Line Moss aboard; will perish under
quarantine. Spare no expense.' Sign that 'Keg Johnson, Interplanet.'"

"Yes, Mr. Johnson," said the secretary. "Right away."

More minutes of light-fast communication. Out of Terra to Luna, across
space to Venus Equilateral. The machines clicked and tape cleared away
from the slot. It was pasted neatly on a sheet of official paper,
stamped _rush_, and put in a pneumatic tube.

       *       *       *       *       *

As Don Channing began to read the message, Williams on Mars was chewing
worriedly on his fourth fingernail, and Vice President Keg Johnson was
working on his second. But Williams had a head start and therefore
would finish first. Both men knew that nothing more could be done. If
Channing couldn't do it, nobody could.

Channing finished the 'gram and swore. It was a good-natured
swear-word, far from downright vilification, though it did consign
certain items to the nether regions. He punched a button with some
relish, and a rather good-looking woman entered. She smiled at him with
more intimacy than a secretary should, and sat down.

"Arden, call Walt, will you?"

Arden Westland smiled. "You might have done that yourself," she told
him. She reached for the call button with her left hand, and the
diamond on her finger glinted like a pilot light.

"I know it," he answered, "but that wouldn't give me the chance to see
you."

"Baloney," said Arden. "You just wait until next October. I'll be in
your hair all the time then."

"By then I may be tired of you," said Channing with a smile. "But until
then, take it or leave it." His face grew serious, and he tossed the
message across the table to her. "What do you think of that?"

Arden read, and then remarked: "That's a huge order, Don. Think you can
do it?"

"It'll cost plenty. I don't know whether we can contact a ship in
space. It hasn't been done to date, you know, except for short
distances."

The door opened without a knock and Walt Franks walked in. "Billing and
cooing?" he asked. "Why do you two need an audience?"

"We don't," answered Don. "This was business."

"For want of evidence, I'll believe that. What's the dope?"

"Walt, what are the chances of hooking up with the _Empress of Kolain_,
which is en route from Mars to Venus?"

"About equal to a snowball--you know where," said Franks looking slyly
at Arden.

"Take off your coat, Walt. We've got a job."

"You mean--Hey! Remind me to quit Saturday."

"This is dead in earnest, Walt." Don told the engineer all he knew.

"Boy, this is a job I wouldn't want my life to depend on. In the first
place, we can't beam a transmitter at them if we can't see 'em. And in
the second place, if we did, they couldn't receive us."

"We can get a good idea of where they are and how they're going," said
Channing. "That is common knowledge."

"Astronomy is an exact science," chanted Franks. "But by the time we
figure out just where the _Empress of Kolain_ is with respect to us at
any given instant we'll all be old men with gray beards. She's crossing
toward us on a skew curve--and we'll have to beam it past Sol. It won't
be easy, Don. And then if we do find them, what do we do about it?"

"Let's find them first and then work out a means of contacting them
afterwards."

"Don," interrupted Arden, "what's so difficult?"

Franks fell backward into a chair. Don turned to the girl and asked:
"Are you kidding?"

"No. I'm just ignorant. What is so hard about it? We shoot beams across
a couple of hundred million miles of space like nothing and maintain
communications at any cost. What should be so hard about contacting a
ship?"

"In the first place, we can see a planet, and they can see us, so they
can hold their beams. A spaceship might be able to see us, but they
couldn't hold a beam on us because of the side sway. We couldn't see
them until they are right upon us and so we could not hope to hold a
beam on them. Spaceships _might_ broadcast, but you have no idea what
the square law of radiated power will do to a broadcast signal when
millions upon millions of miles are counted in. A half million watts
on any planet will not quite cover the planet as a service area on
broadcast frequencies. But there's a lot of difference between covering
a few stinking miles of planet and a volume the size of the Inner Solar
System. So they don't try it. A spaceship may as well be on Rigel as
far as contacting her in space goes.

"We might beam a wide-dispersion affair at them," continued Channing.
"But it would be pretty thin by the time it got there. And, having no
equipment, they couldn't hear us."

"May we amend that?" asked Franks. "They are equipped with radio. But
the things are used only in landing operations where the distance is
measured in miles, not Astronomical Units."

"O.K.," smiled Channing. "It's turned off during flight and we may
consider the equipment as being non-existent."

"And, according to the chart, we've got to contact them before the
turnabout," offered Arden. "They must have time to deflect their course
to Terra."

"You think of the nicest complications," said Channing. "I was just
about to hope that we could flash them, or grab at 'em with a skeeter.
But we can't wait until they pass us."

"That will be the last hope," admitted Franks. "But say! Did any
bright soul think of shooting a fast ship after them from Canalopsis?"

"Sure. The answer is the same as Simple Simon's answer to the Pieman:
'Alas, they haven't any!'"

"No use asking why," growled Franks. "O.K., Don, we'll after 'em. I'll
have the crew set up a couple of mass detectors at either end of the
station. We'll triangulate, and calculate, and hope to hit the right
correction factor. We'll find them and keep them in line. You figure
out a means of contacting them, huh?"

"I'll set up the detectors and _you_ find the means," suggested Don.

"No go. You're the director of communications."

Don sighed a false sigh. "Arden, hand me my electronics text," he said.

"And shall I wipe your fevered brow?" cooed Arden.

"Leave him alone," directed Franks. "You distract him."

"It seems to me that you two are taking this rather lightly," said
Arden.

"What do you want us to do? Get down on the floor and chew the rug?
You know us better than that. If we can find the answer to contacting
a spaceship in flight, we'll add another flower to our flag. But we
can't do it by clawing through the first edition of Henney's 'Handbook
of Radio Engineering.' It will be done by the seat of our pants, if at
all; a pair of side-cutters, and a spool of wire, a hunk of string and
a lump of solder, a--"

"A rag, a bone, and a hank of hair?" asked Franks.

"Leave Kipling out of this. He didn't have to cover the entire Solar
System. Let's get cooking."

Don and Walt left the office just a trifle on the fast side. Arden
looked after them, out through the open door, shaking her head until
she remembered something that she could do. She smiled and went to
her typewriter, and pounded out a message back to Keg Johnson at
Interplanet. It read:

    "CHANNING AND FRANKS AT WORK ON CONTACTING THE EMPRESS OF KOLAIN.
    WILL DO OUR BEST.

    VENUS EQUILATERAL."

       *       *       *       *       *

Unknowing of the storm, the _Empress of Kolain_ sped silently through
the void, accelerating constantly at one G. Hour after hour she was
adding to her velocity, building it up to a speed that would make the
trip in days, and not weeks. Her drivers flared dull red no more,
for there was no atmosphere for the ionic stream to excite. Her few
portholes sparkled with light, but they were nothing in comparison to
the starry curtain of the background.

Her hull was of a neutral color, and though the sun glanced from her
metal flanks, a reflection from a convex side is not productive of a
beam of light. It spreads according to the degree of convexity and is
lost.

What constitutes an apparent absence? The answer to that question is
the example of a ship in space flight. The _Empress of Kolain_ did
not radiate anything detectable in the electromagnetic scale from
ultralong waves to ultra-high frequencies; nothing at all that could be
detected at any distance beyond a few thousand miles. The sweep of her
meteor-spotting equipment would pass a spot in micro-micro-seconds at a
hundred miles; at the distance from Venus Equilateral the sweep of the
beam would be so fleeting that the best equipment ever known or made
would have no time to react, thus missing the signal.

Theorists claim a thing unexistent if it cannot be detected. The
_Empress of Kolain_ was invisible. It was undetectable to radio
waves. It was in space, so no physical wave could be transmitted to
be depicted as sound. Its mass was inconsiderable. Its size as cosmic
sizes go was comparatively sub-microscopic, and therefore it would
occult few, if any, stars. Therefore, to all intents and purposes, the
_Empress of Kolain_ was non-existent, and would remain in that state
of material-non-being until it came to life again upon its landing at
Venus.

Yet the _Empress of Kolain_ existed in the minds of the men who were
to find her. Like the shot unseen, fired from a distant cannon, the
_Empress of Kolain_ was coming at them with ever-mounting velocity, its
unseen course a theoretical curve.

And the ship, like the projectile, would land if the men who knew of
her failed in their purpose.

       *       *       *       *       *

Don Channing and Walt Franks found their man in the combined dining
room and bar--the only one in sixty million miles. They surrounded him,
ordered a sandwich and beer, and began to tell him their troubles.

Charles Thomas listened for about three minutes. "Boy," he grinned,
"being up in that shiny, plush-lined office has sure done plenty to
your think-tank, Don."

Channing stopped talking. "Proceed," he said. "In what way has my
perspective been warped?"

"You talk like Burbank," said Thomas, mentioning a sore spot of some
months past. "You think a mass detector would work at this distance?
Nuts, fellow. It might, if there were nothing else in the place to
interfere. But you want to shoot out near Mars. Mars is on the other
side of the Sun--and Evening Star to anyone on Terra. You want us to
shoot a slap-happy beam like a mass detector out past Sol; and then a
hundred and forty million miles beyond in the faint hope that you can
triangulate upon a little mite of matter; a stinking six hundred-odd
feet of aluminum hull mostly filled with air and some machinery and
so on. Brother, what do you think all the rest of the planets will do
to your piddling little beam? Retract, or perhaps abrogate the law of
universal gravitation?"

"Crushed," said Franks with a sorry attempt at a smile.

"_Phew!_" agreed Channing. "Maybe I should know more about mass
detectors."

"Forget it," said Thomas. "The only thing that mass detectors are any
good for is to conjure up beautiful bubble dreams, which anyone who
knows about 'em can break with the cold point of icy logic."

"What would you do?" asked Channing.

"Darned if I know. We might flash 'em with a big mirror--if we had a
big mirror and they weren't heading into the Sun."

"Let's see," said Franks, making tabulations on the tablecloth.
"They're a couple of hundred million miles away. In order that your
mirror present a recognizable disk, it should be about twice the
diameter of Venus as seen from Terra. That's eight thousand miles
in--at the least visibility--say, eighty million or a thousand-to-one
ratio. The _Empress of Kolain_ is heading at us from some two hundred
million miles, so at a thousand-to-one ratio our mirror would have to
be twenty thousand miles across. Some mirror!"

Don tipped Walt's beer over the edge of the table, and while the other
man was busy mopping up and muttering unprintables, Don said to Thomas:
"This is serious and it isn't. Nobody's going to lose their skin if we
don't, but a problem has been put to us and we're going to crack it if
we have to skin our teeth to do it."

"You can't calculate their position?"

"Sure. Within a couple of hundred thousand miles we can. That isn't
close enough."

"No, it isn't," agreed Chuck.

Silence fell for a moment. It was broken by Arden, who came in waving
a telegram. She sat down and appropriated Channing's glass, which
had not been touched. Don opened the sheet and read: "Have received
confirmation of your effort. I repeat, spare no expense!" It was
signed: "Keg Johnson, Interplanet."

"Does that letter offer mean anything to you?" asked Arden.

"Sure," agreed Don. "But at the same time we're stumped. Should we be
doing anything?"

"Anything, I should think, would be better than what you're doing at
present. Or does that dinner-and-beer come under 'expenses'?"

Arden stood up, tossed Channing's napkin at him, and started toward
the door. Channing watched her go, his hand making motions on the
tablecloth. His eyes fell to the table and he took Franks' pencil and
drew a long curve from a spot of gravy on one side of the table to a
touch of coffee stain on the other. The curve went through a bit of
grape jelly near the first stain.

"Here goes the tablecloth strategist," said Franks. "What now, little
man?"

"That spot of gravy," explained Don, "is Mars. The jelly is the
_Empress of Kolain_. Coffee stain is Venus, and up here by this
cigarette burn is Venus Equilateral. Get me?"

"Yop, that's clear enough."

"Now it would be the job for seventeen astronomers for nine weeks to
predict the movements of this jelly spot with respect to the usual
astral standards. But, fellows, we know the acceleration of the
_Empress of Kolain_, and we know her position with respect to Mars at
the instant of take-off. We can correct for Mars' advance along her--or
his--orbit. We can figure the position of the _Empress of Kolain_ from
her angular distance from Mars! That's the only thing we need know. We
don't give a ten-dollar damn about her true position."

Channing began to write equations on the tablecloth. "You see, they
aren't moving so fast in respect to us. The course is foreshortened as
they are coming almost in line with Venus Equilateral, curving outward
and away from the Sun. Her course, as we see it from the station here,
will be a long radius-upward curve, slightly on the parabolic side.
Like all long-range cruises the _Empress of Kolain_ will hoist herself
slightly above the plane of the ecliptic to avoid the swarm of meteors
that follow about the Sun in the same plane as the planets, lifting the
highest at the point of greatest velocity.

"I get it," said Franks. "We get the best beam controller we have to
keep the planet on the cross hairs. We apply a spiral cam to advance
the beam along the orbit. Right?"

"Right." Don sketched a conical section on the tablecloth and added
dimensions. He checked his dimensions against the long string of
equations, and nodded. "We'll drive this cockeyed-looking cam with an
isochronic clock, and then squirt a beam out there. Thank the Lord for
the way our beam transmitters work."

"You mean the effect of reflected waves?" asked Chuck.

"Sure," grinned Don. "There's plenty of radar operating at our
transmitting frequencies or near by. So far, no one has ever tried
to radar anything as small as a spacecraft at that distance, though
getting a radar signal from a planet is duck soup. Yet," he reflected
cheerfully, "there are a couple of things we have handy out here, and
one of them is a plethora of power output. We can soup up one of our
beam transmitters and use it with a tightened beam to get a radar fix
off of the _Empress of Kolain_."

"And then?" asked Franks.

"Then we will have left the small end, which I'll give to you, Walt, so
that you can have part of the credit."

Walt shook his head. "The easy part," he said uncheerfully. "By which
you mean the manner in which we contact them and make them listen to
us?"

"That's her," said Don with a cheerful smile.

"Fine," said Thomas. "Now what do we do?"

"Clear up this mess so we can make the cam. This drawing will do, just
grab the tablecloth."

Joe, the operator of Venus Equilateral's one and only establishment
for the benefit of the stomach, came up as the three men began to move
their glasses and dishes over to an empty table. "What makes with
the tablecloth?" he asked. "Want a piece of carbon paper and another
tablecloth?"

"No," said Don nonchalantly. "This single copy will do."

"We lose lots of tablecloths that way," said Joe. "It's tough, running
a restaurant on Venus Equilateral. I tried using paper ones once, but
that didn't work. I had 'em printed but when the solar system was on
'em, you fellows drew schematic diagrams for a new coupler circuit. I
put all kinds of radio circuits on them, and the gang drew plans for
antenna arrays. I gave up and put pads of paper on each table, and the
boys used them to make folded paper airplanes and they shot them all
over the place. Why don't you guys grow up?"

"Cheer up, Joe. But if this tablecloth won't run through the blueprint
machine, we'll squawk!"

Joe looked downcast, and Franks hurried to explain: "It isn't that bad,
Joe. We won't try it. We just want to have these figures so we won't
have to run through the math again. We'll return the cloth."

"Yeah," said Joe at their retreating figures. "And for the rest of its
usefulness it will be full of curves, drawings, and a complete set of
astrogating equations." He shrugged his shoulders and went for a new
tablecloth.

Don, Walt and Chuck took their improvised drawing to the machine shop,
where they put it in the hands of the master mechanic.

"This thing has a top requirement," Don told him. "Make it as quick as
you can."

Master Mechanic Warren took the cloth and said: "You forgot the note.
You know, 'Work to dimensions shown, do not scale this drawing.' Lord,
Don, this silly looking cam will take a man about six hours to do.
It'll have to be right on the button all over, no tolerance. I'll have
to cut it to the 'T' and then lap it smooth with polishing compound.
Then what'll you test it on?"

"Sodium light interferometer. Can you do it in four hours?"

"If nothing goes wrong. Brass all right?"

"Anything you say. It'll only be used once. Anything of sufficient
hardness for a single usage will do."

"I'll use brass then. Or free-cutting steel may be better. If you make
it soft you have the chance of cutting too much off with your lapping
compound. We'll take care of it, Don. The rest of this stuff isn't too
hard. Your framework and so on can be whittled out and pasted together
from standard girders, right?"

"Sure. Plaster them together any way you can. And we don't want them
painted. As long as she works, phooey to the looks."

"Fine," said Warren. "I'll have the whole business installed in the
Beam Control Room in nine hours. Complete and ready to work."

"That nine hours is a minimum?"

"Absolutely. After we cut and polish that screwball cam, we'll have to
check it, and then you'll have to check it. Then the silly thing will
have to be installed and its concentricity must be checked to the last
wave length of cadmium light. That'll take us a couple of hours, I
bet. The rest of the works will be ready, checked, and waiting for the
ding-busted cam."

"Yeah," agreed Franks. "Then we'll have to get up there with our works
and put the electricals on the mechanicals. My guess, Don, is a good,
healthy twelve hours before we can begin to squirt our signal."

       *       *       *       *       *

Twelve hours is not much in the life of a man; it is less in the life
of a planet. The Terran Standard of Gravity is so small that it is
expressed in feet per second. But when the two are coupled together as
a measure of travel, and the standard Terran G is applied for twelve
hours steady, it builds up to almost three hundred miles per second,
and by the end of that twelve hours, six million miles have fled into
the past.

Now take a look at Mars. It is a small, red mote in the sky, its
diameter some four thousand miles. Sol is eight hundred thousand
miles in diameter. Six million miles from Mars, then, can be crudely
expressed by visualizing a point eight times the diameter of the Sun
away from Mars, and you have the distance that the _Empress of Kolain_
had come from Mars.

But the ship was heading in at an angle, and the six million miles did
not subtend the above arc. From Venus Equilateral, the position of the
_Empress of Kolain_ was more like two diameters of the Sun away from
Mars, slightly to the north, and on the side away from Sol.

It may sound like a problem for the distant future, this pointing
a radio beam at a planet, but it is no different from Galileo's
attempts to see Jupiter through his Optik Glass. Of course, it has had
refinements that have enabled man to make several hundred hours of
exposure of a star on a photographic plate. So if men can maintain a
telescope on a star, night after night, to build up a faint image, they
can also maintain a beamed transmission wave on a planet.

All you need is a place to stand; a firm, immobile platform. The
three-mile-long, one-mile-diameter mass of Venus Equilateral offered
such a platform. It rotated smoothly, and upon its "business" end a
hardened and highly polished set of rails maintained projectors that
were pointed at the planets. These were parabolic reflectors that
focussed ultra-high-frequency waves into tight beams which were hurled
at Mars, Terra, and Venus for communication.

And because the beams were acted upon by all of the trivia in the Solar
System, highly trained technicians stood their tricks at the beam
controls. In fifty million miles, even the bending of electromagnetic
waves by the Sun's mass had to be considered. Sunspots made known
their presence. And the vagaries of land transmission were present in
a hundred ways due to the distance and the necessity of concentrating
every milliwatt of available power on the target.

This problem of the _Empress of Kolain_ was different. Spaceships were
invisible, therefore the beam-control man must sight on Mars and the
mechanical cam would keep the ship in sight of the beam.

The hours went past in a peculiar mixture of speed and slowness. On one
hand the minutes sped by swiftly and fleetingly, each tick of the clock
adding to the lost moments, never to be regained. Time, being precious,
seemed to slip through their fingers like sifting sand.

On the other hand, the time that must be spent in preparation of the
equipment went slow. Always it was in the future, that time when their
experiment must either prove a success or a failure. Always there was
another hour of preparatory work before the parabolic reflector was
mounted; and then another hour before it swung freely and perfectly
in its new mounting. Then the minutes were spent in anticipation of
the instant that the power stage of transmitter was tested and the
megawatts of ultra-high-frequency energy poured into the single rod
that acted as a radiator.

It was a singularly disappointing sight. The rod glowed not, and the
reflector was the same as it was before the rod drew power. But the
meters read and the generators moaned, and the pyrometers in the
insulators mounted as the small quantity of energy lost was converted
into heat. So the rod drew power, and the parabolic reflector beamed
that power into a tight beam and hurled it out on a die-true line.

Invisible power that could be used in communications.

Then the cam was installed. The time went by even slower then, because
the cam must be lapped and polished to absolute perfection, not only of
its own surface but to absolute concentricity to the shaft on which it
turned.

But eventually the job was finished, and the men stood back, their eyes
expectantly upon Don Channing and Walt Franks.

Don spoke to the man chosen to control the beam. "You can start any
time now. Keep her knifed clean, if you can."

The man grinned at Channing. "If the devils that roam the void are with
us we'll have no trouble. We should all pray for a phrase used by some
characters in a magazine I read once: 'Clear ether!' We could use some
right now."

He applied his eyes to the telescope. He fiddled with the verniers
for a brief time, made a major adjustment on a larger handwheel, and
then said, without removing his eye from the 'scope, "That's it, Dr.
Channing."

Don answered: "O.K., Jim, but you can use the screen now. We aren't
going to make you squint through that pipe for the next few hours
straight."

"That's all right. I'll use the screen as soon as you can prove we're
right. Ready?"

"Ready," said Channing.

Franks closed a tiny switch. Below, in the transmitter room, relays
clicked and heavy-duty contacts closed with blue fire. Meters began
to climb upward across their scales, and the generators moaned in a
descending whine. A shielded monitor began to glow, indicating that
full power was vomiting from the mouth of the reflector.

And out from the projector there went, like a spear-head, a wave-front
of circularly polarized microwaves. Die-true they sped, crossing the
void like a line of sight to an invisible spot above Mars and to the
left. Out past the Sun, where they bent inward just enough to make
Jim's job tough. Out across the open sky they sped at the velocity of
light, and taking sixteen minutes to get there.

A half-hour passed. "Now," said Channing. "Are we?"

Ten minutes went by. The receiver was silent save for a constant
crackle of cosmic static.

Fifteen minutes passed.

"Nuts," said Channing. "Could it be that we aren't quite hitting them?"

"Could be," admitted Franks. "Jim, waggle that beam a bit, and slowly.
When we hit 'em, we'll know it because we'll hear 'em a half-hour
later. Take it easy and slowly. We've used up thirteen of our fifty-odd
hours. We can use another thirty or so just in being sure."

Jim began to make the beam roam around the invisible spot in the sky.
He swept the beam in microscopic scans, up and down, and advancing the
beam by one-half of its apparent width at the receiver for each sweep.

Two more hours went by. The receiver was still silent of reflected
signals.

It was a terrific strain, this necessary wait of approximately a
half-hour between each minor adjustment and the subsequent knowledge of
failure. Jim gave up the 'scope because of eyestrain, and though Don
and Walt had confidence that the beam-control man was competent to use
the cross-ruled screen to keep Mars on the beam, Jim was none too sure
of himself, and so he kept checking the screen against the 'scope.

At the end of the next hour of abject failure, Walt Franks began
to scribble on a pad of paper. Don came over to peer over Franks'
shoulder, and because he couldn't read Walt's mind, he was forced to
ask what the engineer was calculating.

"I've been thinking," said Franks.

"Beginner's luck?" asked Don with a wry smile.

"I hope not. Look, Don, we're moving on the orbit of Venus, at Venus'
orbital velocity. Oh, all right, say it scientifical: We are circling
Sol at twenty-one point seven five miles per second. The reflected wave
starts back right through the beam, remember?"

"I get it," shouted Channing in glee. "Thirty-two minutes' transmission
time at twenty-one point seven five miles per second gives us--ah--"

Walt looked up from his slide rule. "Fifty-two thousand, two hundred
and twenty-four miles," he said.

"Just what I was about to say," grinned Don.

"But why do you always get there second with your genius?" complained
Walt with a pseudo-hurt whine. "So how to establish it?"

"Can't use space radar for range," grunted Channing. "That would louse
up the receiver. We've got everything shut off tight, you know. How
about some visual loran?"

"Yipe!" exploded Walt. "How?"

"I'd suggest an optical range finder excepting that the base-line of
three miles--the length of Venus Equilateral--isn't long enough to
triangulate for that fifty-two thousand--"

"Two hundred and twenty-four miles," finished Walt with a grin.
"Proceed, genius, with caution."

"So we mount a couple of mirrors at either end of the station, and key
a beam of light from the center, heading each way. When the pulses
arrive at the space flitter at the same time, he's in position.
We'll establish original range by radar, of course, but once the
proper interval or range is established, the pilot can maintain his
own position by watching the pulsed-arrival of the twin-flickers of
light. Just like loran, excepting that we'll use light, and we can
key it so it will run alternately, top and bottom. To maintain the
proper angle, all the pilot will have to do is to keep the light
alternating--fluently. Any overlapping will show him that he's drifted."

"Fine!" glowed Walt. "Now, how the devil long will it take?"

"Ask the boys, Walt," suggested Don.

Walt made a canvass of the machine shop gang, and came back, saying:
"Couple of hours, God willing."

The mounting of the mirrors at either end of the station took little
time. It was the amount of detailed work that took time; the devising
of the interrupting mechanism; and the truing-up of the mirrors that
took the time.

Then it became evident that there was more. There were several hundred
doorways centered on the axis of Venus Equilateral that must be opened,
the space cleared of packing cases, supplies, and in a few cases
machinery had to be partially dismantled to clear the way. A good
portion of Venus Equilateral's personnel of three thousand were taken
off their jobs, haled out of bed for the emergency, or made to work
through their play period, depending upon which shift they worked.

The machinery could be replaced, the central storage places could
be refilled, and the many doors closed again. But the central room
containing the air plant was no small matter. Channing took a sad
look at the lush growth of Martian saw grass and sighed. It was
growing nicely now, they had nurtured it into lusty growth from mere
sprouts in trays and it was as valuable--precisely--as the lives of
the three thousand-odd that lived, loved, and pursued happiness on
Venus Equilateral. It was a youthful plant, a replacement brought in a
tearing hurry from Mars to replace the former plant that was heaved out
by the well-meaning Burbank.

Channing closed his eyes and shuddered in mock horror. "Chop out the
center," he said.

The "center" meant the topmost fronds of the long blades; their roots
were embedded in the trays that filled the cylindrical floor. Some
of the blades would die--Martian saw grass is tender in spite of the
wicked spines that line the edge--but this was an emergency with a
capital E.

Cleaning the centermost channel out of the station was no small job.
The men who put up Venus Equilateral had no idea that someone would
be using the station for a sighting tube some day. The many additions
to the station through the years made the layout as regular and as
well-planned as the Mammoth Cave in Kentucky.

So for hour upon hour, men swarmed in the central, weightless channel
and wielded acetylene torches, cutting steel. Not in all cases, but
there were many. In three miles of storage rooms, a lot of doors and
bulkheads can be thrown up without crowding the size of the individual
rooms.

Channing spoke into the microphone at the north end of Venus
Equilateral, and said: "Walt? We've got a sight. Can you see?"

"Yop," said Walt. "And say, what happens to me after that bum guess?"

"That was quite a stretch, Walt. That 'hour, God willing,' worked
itself into four hours, God help us."

"O.K., so I was optimistic. I thought that those doors were all on the
center line."

"They are supposed to be, but they aren't huge and a little
misalignment can do a lot of light-stopping. Can we juggle mirrors now?"

"Sure as shooting. Freddie in the flitter?"

"Yup. He thinks he's at the right distance now. But he's got a
light outfit, and this radar can be calibrated to the foot. Is the
mirror-dingbat running?"

"We're cooking with glass right now."

"Brother," groaned Channing, "if I had one of those death rays that
the boys were crowing about back in the days before space-hopping
became anything but a bit of fiction, I'd scorch your ears--or burn
'em off--or blow holes in you--or disintegrate you--depending on
what stories you read. I haven't heard such a lousy pun in seventeen
years--Hey, Freddie, you're a little close. Run out a couple of miles,
huh?--and, Walt, I've heard some doozies."

There was a click in the phones and a cheerful voice chimed in with:
"Good morning, fellows. What's with the Great Quest?"

Channing answered, "Hi, Babe, been snoozing?"

"Sure, as any sensible person would. Have you been up all the time?"

"Yeah. We're still up against the main trouble with telephones--the
big trouble, same as back in 1887--our friends have no telephone!
You'd be surprised how elusive a spaceship can be in the deep. Sort
of a non-existent, microscopic speck, floating in absolutely nothing.
We have a good idea of where they should be, and possibly why and
what--but we're really playing with blindfolds, handcuffs, ear plugs,
mufflers, nose clamps, and tongue-ties. I am reminded--Hey, Freddie,
about three more hundred yards--of the two blind men."

"Never mind the blind men," came back the pilot. "How'm I doing?"

"Fine. Slide out another hundred yards and hold her there."

"Who--me? Listen, Dr. Channing, you're the bird on the tape line. You
have no idea just how insignificant you look from fifty-odd thousand
miles away. Put a red-hot on the 'finders and have 'im tell me where
the ship sits."

"O.K., Freddie, you're on the beam and I'll put a guy on here to give
you the dope. Right?"

"Right!"

"Right," echoed Arden breaking in on the phone. "And I'm going to bring
you a slug of coffee and a roll. Or did you remember to eat recently?"

"We didn't," chimed in Walt.

"You get your own girl," snorted Channing. "And besides, you are needed
up here. We've got work to do."

Once again the signal lashed out. The invisible waves drove out and
began their swift rush across the void. Time, as it always did during
the waiting periods, hung like a Sword of Damocles. The half-hour
finally ticked away, and Freddie called in: "No dice. She's as silent
as the grave."

Minutes added together into an hour. The concentric wave left the
reflector and just dropped out of sight.

"Too bad you can't widen her out," suggested Don.

"I'd like to tighten it down," objected Walt. "I think we're losing
power and we can't increase the power--but we could tighten the beam."

"Too bad you can't wave it back and forth like a fireman squirting
water on a lawn," said Arden.

"Firemen don't water lawns--" began Walt Franks, but he was interrupted
by a wild yell from Channing.

"Something hurt?" asked Arden.

"No. Walt, we can wave the beam."

"Until we find 'em? We've been trying that. No worky."

Freddie called in excitedly: "Something went by just now and I don't
think it was Christmas!"

"We might have hit 'em a dozen times in the last ten minutes and we'll
never know it," said Channing. "But the spaceliners can be caught.
Let's shoot at them like popping ducks. Shotgun effect. Look, Walt, we
can electronically dance the beam at a high rate of speed, spraying
the neighborhood. Freddie can hear us return because we have to hit
them all the time and the waver coming on the way back will pass
through his position again and again. We'll set up director elements
in the reflector, distorting the electrical surface of the parabolic
reflector. That'll divert the beam. By making the phases swing right,
we can scan the vicinity of the _Empress of Kolain_ like a flying spot
television camera."

Walt turned to one of the technicians and explained. The man nodded. He
left for Franks' laboratory and Walt turned back to his friends.

"Here shoots another couple of hours. I, for one, am going to grab
forty winks."

Jim, the beam-control man, sat down and lighted a cigarette. Freddie
let his flitter coast free. And the generators that fed the powerful
transmitter came whining to a stop. But there was no sleep for Don and
Walt. They kept awake to supervise the work, and to help in hooking
up the phase-splitting circuit that would throw out-of-phase radio
frequency into the director-elements to swing the beam.

Then once again the circuits were set up. Freddie found the position
again and began to hold it. The beam hurled out again, and as the
phase-shift passed from element to element, the beam swept through an
infinitesimal arc that covered thousands of miles of space by the time
the beam reached the position occupied by the _Empress of Kolain_.

Like a painter, the beam painted in a swipe a few hundred miles wide
and swept back and forth, each sweep progressing ahead of the stripe
before by less than its width. It reached the end of its arbitrary wall
and swept back to the beginning again, covering space as before. Here
was no slow, irregular swing of mechanical reflector, this was the
electronically controlled wavering of a stable antenna.

And this time the half hour passed slowly but not uneventfully. Right
on the tick of the instant, Freddie called back: "Got 'em!"

It was a weakling beam that came back in staccato surges. A fading,
wavering, spotty signal that threatened to lie down on the job and
sleep. It came and it went, often gone for seconds and never strong
for so much as a minute. It vied, and almost lost completely, with the
constant crackle of cosmic static. It fought with the energies of the
Sun's corona and was more than once the underdog. Had this returning
beam carried intelligence of any sort it would have been wasted. About
all that could be carried on a beam as sorry as this was the knowledge
that there was a transmitter--and that it was transmitting.

But its raucous note synchronized with the paint-brush wiping of the
transmitter. There was no doubt.

       *       *       *       *       *

Don Channing put an arm around Arden's waist and grinned at Walt
Franks. "Go to work, genius. I've got the _Empress of Kolain_ on
the pipe. You're the bright-eyed lad that is going to wake them up!
We've shot almost twenty hours of our allotted fifty. Make with the
megacycles, Walter. Arden and I will take in a steak, a moom pitcher,
and maybe a bit of woo. Like?" he asked the girl.

"I like," she answered.

Walt Franks smiled and stretched lazily. He made no move to the
transmitter. "Don't go away," he cautioned them. "Better call up Joe
and order beer and sandwiches for the boys in the back room. On you!"

"Make with the signals first," said Channing. "And lay off the potables
until we finish this silly job."

"You've got it. Is there a common, garden variety, transmitting key in
the place?"

"Probably. We'll have to ask. Why?"

"Ask me."

Don removed his arm from Arden's waist. He picked up a spanner and
advanced on Franks.

"No!" objected Arden. "Poison him--I can't stand the sight of blood.
Or better, bamboo splinters under the fingernails. He knows something
simple, the big bum!"

"Beer and sandwiches?" asked Walt.

"Beer and sandwiches," agreed Don. "Now, Tom Swift, what gives?"

"I want to key the beam. Y'see, Don, we're using the same frequency, by
a half dozen megacycles, as their meteor spotter. I'm going to retune
the beam to their frequency and key it. Realize what'll happen?"

"Sure," agreed Don, "but you're still missing the boat. You can't
transmit keyed intelligence with an intermittent contact."

"In words, what do you mean, Don?" asked Arden.

"International Code is a series of dots and dashes, you may know. Our
wabbling beam is whipping through the area in which the _Empress of
Kolain_ is passing. Therefore the contact is intermittent. And how
could you tell a dot from a dash?"

"Easy," bragged Walt Franks. "We're not limited to the speed of
deviation, are we?"

"Yes--limited by the speed of the selsyn motors that transfer the
phase-shifting circuits to the director radiators. Yeah, I get it,
Edison, and we can wind them up to a happy six or eight thousand r. p.
m. Six would get us a hundred cycles per second--a nice, low growl."

"And how will they receive that kind of signal on the meteor spotter?"
asked Arden.

"The officer of the day will be treated to the first meteor on record
that has intermittent duration--it is there only when it spells in
International Code!"

Prying the toy transmitting key from young James Burke was a job
only surpassed in difficulty by the task of opening the vault of the
Interplanetary Bank after working hours. But Burke, Junior, was plied
with soda pop, ice cream, and candy. He was threatened, cajoled, and
finally bribed. And what Venus Equilateral paid for the toy finally
would have made the toy manufacturer go out and look for another job.
But Walt Franks carried the key to the scene of operations and set it
on the bench to look at it critically.

"A puny gadget, at that," he said, clicking the key. "Might key a
couple of hundred watts with it--but not too long. She'd go up like a
skyrocket under our load!"

Walt opened up a cabinet and began to pull out parts. He piled several
parts on a bread board, and in an hour had a very husky thyraton hooked
into a circuit that was simplicity itself. He hooked the thyraton into
the main power circuit and tapped the key gingerly. The transmitter
followed the keyed thyraton and Don took a deep breath.

"Do you know code?" he asked.

"Used to. Forgot it when I came to Venus Equilateral. Used to hold a
ham ticket on Terra. But there's no use hamming on the station here
where you can wake somebody by yelling at the top of your voice. The
thing to ask is, 'Does anyone know code on board the _Empress of
Kolain_?'"

They forgot their keying circuit and began to adjust the transmitter
to the frequency used by the meteor spotter. It was a job. But it was
done, all the way from the master oscillator stage through the several
frequency doubler stages and to the big power-driver stage. The output
stage came next, and then a full three hours of tinkering with files
and hacksaws were required to adjust the length of the main radiator
and the director elements so that their length became right for the
changed frequency.

Finally Walt took the key and said: "Here goes!"

He began to rattle the key. In the power room the generators screamed
and the lights throughout the station flickered just a bit at the
sudden surges.

Don Channing said to Arden: "If someone of the _Empress of Kolain_ can
understand code--"

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Empress of Kolain_ was zipping along in its silent passage
through the void. It was an unseen, undetected, unaware bit of human
manufacture marking man's will among the stars. In all the known
universe it moved against the forces of celestial mechanics because
some intelligent mote that infested the surface of a planet once had
the longing to visit the stars. In all the Solar System, most of the
cosmic stuff was larger than it--but it alone defied the natural laws
of space.

Because it alone possessed the required _outside_ force spoken of in
Newton's "Universal Laws."

And it was doing fine.

Dinner was being served in the dining room. A group of shapely girls
added grace to the swimming pool on the promenade deck. The bar was
filled with a merry crowd which in turn were partly filled with liquor.
A man in uniform, the Second Officer, was throwing darts with a few
passengers in the playroom, and there were four oldish ladies on
sabbatical leave who were stricken with _mal-de-void_.

The passage up to now had been uneventful. A meteor or two had come to
make the ship swing a bit--but the swerve was less than the pitch of an
ocean vessel in a moderate sea and it did not continue as did an ocean
ship. Most of the time the _Empress of Kolain_ seemed as steady as
solid rock.

Only the First Officer, on the bridge, and the Chief Pilot, far below
in the Control Room, knew just how erratic their course truly was. But
they were not worried. They were not a shell, fired from a gun; they
were a spaceship, capable of steering themselves into any port on Venus
when they arrived and the minute wobbulations in their course could be
corrected when the time came. For nothing had ever prevented a ship of
space from seeing where it was going.

Yes, it was uneventful.

Then the meteor screen flashed into life. A circle of light appeared
in the celestial globe and the ship's automatic pilot swerved ever so
little. The dot of light was gone.

Throughout the ship, people laughed nervously. A waiter replaced a
glass of water that had been set too close to the edge of the table
and a manly-looking fellow dived into the swimming pool to haul a
good-looking blonde to the edge again. She'd been in the middle of a
swan dive when the swerve came and the ship had swerved without her.
The resounding smack of feminine stomach against the water was of
greater importance than the meteor, now so many hundred miles behind.

The flash of light returned and the ship swerved again. Upon the
third swerve, the First Officer was watching the celestial globe with
suspicion. He went white. It was conceivable that the _Empress of
Kolain_ was about to encounter a meteor shower.

And that was bad.

He marked the place and set his observation telescope in synchronism
with the celestial globe. He searched the sky. There was nothing but
the ultimate starry curtain in the background. He snapped a switch and
the voice of the pilot came out of a speaker in the wall.

"You called, Mr. Hendall?"

"Tony, take the levers, will you please? Something is rotten in the
State of Denmark."

"O.K., sir. I'm riding personal."

"Kick out the meteor-spotter coupling circuits and forget the alarm."

"Right, Mr. Hendall, but will you confirm that in writing?"

Hendall scribbled on the telautograph and then abandoned the small
'scope. The flashing in the celestial globe continued, but the ship no
longer danced in its path. Hendall went up into the big dome.

The big twenty-inch Cassegrain showed nothing at all, and Hendall
returned to the bridge scratching his head. Nothing on the spotting
'scope and nothing on the big instrument.

That intermittent spot was large enough to mean a huge meteor. But
wait. At the speed of the _Empress_, it should have retrogressed in the
celestial globe unless it was so huge and so far away--but Sol didn't
appear on the globe and it was big and far away, bigger by far. Nothing
short of a planet at less-than-planetary distances would do this.

Not even a visible change in the position of the spot.

"Therefore," thought Hendall, "this is no astral body that makes this
spot!"

Hendall went to a cabinet and withdrew a cable with a plug on either
end. He plugged one end into the test plug on the meteor spotter and
the opposite end into the speaker. A low humming emanated from the
speaker in synchronism with the flashing of the celestial globe.

It hit a responsive chord.

Hendall went to the main communication microphone and spoke. His voice
went all over the _Empress of Kolain_ from pilot room and cargo spaces
to swimming pool and infirmary.

"Attention!" he said in a formal voice. "Attention to official orders!"

Dancers stopped in midstep. Swimmers paused and then made their way
to the edges of the pool and sat with their feet dangling in the warm
water. Diners sat with their forks poised foolishly.

"Official orders!" meant an emergency.

Hendall continued: "I believe that something never before tried is
being attempted. I am forced against my better knowledge to believe
that some agency is trying to make contact with us; a spaceship
in flight! This is unknown in the annals of space flying and is,
therefore, indicative of something important. It would not have been
tried without preparations unless an emergency exists.

"However, the requirements of an officer of space do not include a
knowledge of code because of the lack of communication with the planets
while in space. Therefore, I request that any person with a working
knowledge of International Morse will please present himself to the
nearest officer."

Minutes passed. Minutes during which the flashing lights continued.

Then the door of the bridge opened and Third Officer Jones entered with
a thirteen-year-old youngster at his heels. The boy's eyes went wide
at the sight of the instruments on the bridge, and he looked around in
amazed interest.

"This is Timmy Harris," said Jones. "He knows code!"

"Go to it, Mr. Harris," said Hendall.

The boy swelled visibly. You could almost hear him thinking: "He called
me 'mister'!"

Then he went to the table by the speaker and reached for pencil and
paper. "It's code all right," he said. Then Timmy winked at Jones, "He
has a lousy fist!"

Timmy Harris began to write.

"--course and head for Terra direct"--the beam faded for
seconds--"Venusian fever and you will be quarantined.

"Calling CQ, calling CQ, calling CQ. Calling _Empress of Kolain_ ...
empowered us to contact you and convey ... message--you are requested
to correct your course and head ... a plague of Venusian fever and
you--Johnson of Interplanet has empowered us ... the following message:
'You are requested to correct your ... head for Terra direct.' Calling
CQ...."

"Does that hash make sense to you?" asked Jones of Hendall.

"Sure," smiled Hendall, "it is fairly plain. It tells us that Keg
Johnson of Interplanet wants us to head for Terra direct because of a
plague of Venusian fever that would cause us to stay in quarantine.
That would ruin the Line Moss. Prepare to change course, Mr. Jones!"

"Who could it be?" asked Jones foolishly.

"There is only one outfit in the Solar System that could possibly think
of a stunt like this. And that is Channing and Franks. This signal came
from Venus Equilateral!"

"Wait a minute," said Timmy Harris. "Here's some more."

"'As soon as this signal--intelligible--at right angles to your course
for ten minutes. That will take--out of--beam and reflected--will
indicate to us--left the area and know of our attempt.'"

"They're using a beam of some sort that indicates to them that we are
on the other end but we can't answer. Mr. Jones, and Pilot Canton,
ninety degrees north for ten minutes! Call the navigation officer to
correct our course. I'll make the announcement to the passengers. Mr.
Harris, you are given the freedom of the bridge for the remainder of
the trip."

Mr. Harris was overwhelmed. He'd learn plenty--and that would help him
when he applied for training as a space officer; unless he decided to
take a position with Venus Equilateral when he grew up.

The signal faded from the little cruiser and silence prevailed. Don
spoke into the microphone and said: "Run her up a millisecond," to the
beam controller. The beam wiped the space above the previous course for
several minutes and Franks was sending furiously:

"You have answered our message. We'll be seeing you!"

Channing told the man in the cruiser to return. He kicked the main
switch and the generators whined down the scale and coasted to a stop.
Tube filaments darkened and meters returned to zero.

"O.K., Warren. Let the spinach lay. Get the next crew to clean up the
mess and polish the set-up into something presentable. I'll bet a cooky
that we'll be chasing spaceships all the way to Pluto after this. We'll
work it into a fine thing and perfect our technique. Right now I owe
the gang a dinner."




                             _Interlude:_


_When necessity dictates a course of action and the course of action
proves valuable, it is but a short step to the inclusion of the answer
into the many facets of modern technical civilization. Thus it was
that not many months after Venus Equilateral successfully established
planet-to-ship communications with the "Empress of Kolain" that all
course constants were delivered to the relay station and thereafter
messages were transmitted as a part of the regular business of
Interplanetary Communications._

_This, of course, offered another problem. Ships in space were in the
position of being able to catch messages but were not able to answer
back. It would take, perhaps, another emergency to set up conditions
which demanded the reverse of the problem of contacting a ship in
space._

_But there was a more immediate problem. Spacecraft were protected from
meteors by means of radar that was coupled to the steering panels of
the ships; when a meteor threatened, the ship merely turned aside by
that fraction of a degree that gave it safety._

_It took, however, but a few meteors, and the resulting few fractions
of a degree to shunt the swiftly moving ship out of the coverage-area
of the ship-seeking beams from Venus Equilateral. Then the power and
ingenuity of Venus Equilateral was wasted on vacant space and the
messages intended for the ships went undelivered._

_Since the ship must avoid meteors, and the meteors could not be
diverted from their courses, there was but one answer: Swerve the ship
and let the messages go hang, for a message is of no use to a riddled
spacecraft!_

_But, thought several people, if the meteor cannot be steered, perhaps
it might be removed...._




                                RECOIL


Walter Franks sat in the director's office; his feet on the director's
desk. He was smoking one of the director's cigarettes. He was drinking
the director's liquor, filched shamelessly from the director's private
filing cabinet where it reposed in the drawer marked "S." Drawer "B"
would have given beer, but Walt preferred Scotch.

He leaned forward and dropped the director's cigarette into the
director's wastebasket and then he pressed the button on the desk and
looked up.

But it was not the director's secretary who entered. It was his
own, but that did not disturb Franks. He knew that the director's
ex-secretary was off on Mars enjoying a honeymoon with the director.

Jeanne entered and smiled. "Must you call me in here to witness you
wasting the company's time?" she asked in mock anger.

"Now look, Jeanne, this is what Channing does."

"No dice. You can't behave as Don Channing behaves. The reason is my
husband."

"I didn't call to have you sit on my lap. I want to know if the mail is
in."

"I thought so," she said. "And I brought it in with me. Anything more?"

"Not until you get a divorce," laughed Franks.

"You should live so long," she said with a smile. She stuck her tongue
out at him.

Walt thumbed his way through the mail, making notations on some, and
setting others aside for closer reading. He came to one and tossed it
across the desk at Jeanne. She took the message and read:

    DEAR ACTING DIRECTOR:

    HAVING A WONDERFUL HONEYMOON; GLAD YOU AREN'T HERE.

    DON AND ARDEN.

"Wonderful stuff, love," smiled Franks.

"It is," agreed Jeanne. A dreamy look came into her eyes.

"Scram, Jeanne. There are times when you can't work worth a darn.
Mostly when you're thinking of that husband of yours. What's he got
that I haven't?"

"Me," said Jeanne slyly. She arose and started for the door. "Oh," she
said, "I almost forgot. Warren phoned and said that the turret is ready
for a try-out."

"Fine," said Walt. "Swell." He unfolded himself from the chair with
alacrity and almost beat the girl to the door.

"My," she laughed, "you can move after all."

"Sure," he grinned. "Now that I have something for which to live."

"I hope it's worth it. You've sunk a lot of change into that bug-house."

"I know, but we can stand it. After all, since Don took over this
affair, Venus Equilateral is an up and running business. We're out of
the Government subsidy class now, and are making money. If this works,
we'll make more. It's worth a gamble."

"What are you trying to build?" asked Jeanne.

"Why, since this business of contacting ships-at-space has become so
universally liked, we have a tough time keeping ships on the mobile
beam. That's because they are always ducking out of the way of loose
meteorites and stuff, and that screws up their course. We can't see
'em, and must take their position on the basis of their expected
course. We never know whether we hit 'em until they land.

"Now I've been trying to devise a space gun that will blast meteors
directly instead of avoiding them by coupling the meteor detector to
the autopilot."

"Gonna shoot 'em out of existence?"

"Not exactly. Popping at them with any kind of a rifle would be like
trying to hit a flying bird with a spitball. Look, Jeanne, speed on the
run from Mars to Terra at major opposition is up among the thousands of
miles per second at the turnover. A meteor itself may be blatting along
at fifty miles per second. Now a rifle, shooting a projectile at a few
thousand feet per second, would be useless. You'd have the meteor in
your lap and out of the other side while the projectile is making up
its mind to move forward and relieve the pressure that is building up
behind it due to the exploding powder.

"I've designed an electron gun. It is a superpowered, over-sized
edition of the kind they used to use in kinescope tubes, oscilloscope
tubes, and electron microscopes. Since the dingbat is to be used in
space, we can leave the works of the gun open and project a healthy
stream of electrons at the offending object without their being slowed
and dispersed by an impeding atmosphere."

"But that sounds like shooting battleships with a toy gun."

"Not so fast on the objections, gal," said Franks. "I've seen a simple
oscilloscope tube with a hole in the business end. It was burned right
through a quarter inch of glass because the fellows were taking pix and
had the intensity turned up high. The sweep circuit blew a fuse and the
beam stopped on one spot. That was enough to puncture the screen."

"I see. That was just a small affair."

"A nine-inch tube. The electron gun in a nine-inch kinescope tube is
only about four inches long and three-quarters of an inch in diameter.
Mine, out there in the turret, is six feet in diameter and thirty feet
long. I can fire out quite a bundle of electrons from a tube of that
size."

"It sounds as though you mean business."

"I do. This is the right place to do research of that kind. Out here on
Venus Equilateral, we're in a natural medium for an electron gun, and
we've the power requirements to run it. I can't think of any place in
the system that offers better chances."

"When are you going to try it out?"

"As soon as a meteor comes over the pike, as long as Warren says we're
ready."

Jeanne shook her head. "I wish Channing were here. Things are wild
enough when you are both working on something screwball, but I could
get scared something fierce at the thought of either one of you working
without the other."

"Why?"

"You two sort of act as balance wheels to one another's craziness. Oh,
don't take that word to heart. Everybody on the relay station thinks
the world of you two, myself included. _Craziness_ in this case means a
sort of friendly description of the way your brains work. Both of you
dash off on tangents now and then, and when either one of you get off
the beam, the other one seems to swing the weight required to bring the
lost one back to the fold."

"That's a real mess of mixed metaphors, Jeanne. But I am going to
surprise Don hairless when he gets back here and finds that I've done
what people claimed couldn't be done. I'm going to be the bird whose
bust sits in the Hall of Fame in between Edison, Einstein, Alexander
Graham Bell, S. F. B. Morse, and--"

"Old Man River, Jack Frost, and Little Boy Blue," laughed Jeanne. "I
hope it's not a bust, Walt."

"You mean I should have a whole statue?"

"I mean, I hope your dream is not a bust."

Jeanne left, with Walt right behind her. Franks did not remain at the
desk, however, but made his way from the office level to the outer
skin of the relay station by way of a not-often-used stairway that
permitted him to drop to the outer skin. Above his head were the first
levels of apartmental cubicles occupied by the personnel of Venus
Equilateral. Out here, Walt had but a scant thickness of steel between
him and the void of space.

Franks came to a room built from outer skin to inner skin and about
fifty feet in diameter. He unlocked the door with a key on his watch
chain, and entered. Warren was waiting for him.

"Hi, ordnance expert. We're ready as soon as they are."

"How's she working?"

"I should know? We've been squirting ropes of electrons out to blank
space for hours. She gets rid of them all right. But have we done any
good? I dunno."

"Not a meteor in sight, I suppose."

"The detector hasn't blinked once. But when she does, your electron gun
will pick it up a thousand miles before it gets here, and will follow
the darned thing until it gets a half thousand miles out of sight."

"That sounds fine. It's a good thing that we don't have to swivel that
mess of tube around a whole arc in actual use. It would take too long.
But we'll put one in each quadrant of a spaceship and devise it so that
its working arc will be small enough to make it work. Time enough to
find that out after we know if it works."

"That's something that I've been wondering about," said Warren. "Why
didn't we build a small one out here and evacuate the skin for a few
hundred feet? We could set up a few chunks of iron and squirt electrons
at them."

"And have the folks upstairs screaming? Nope. I've a hunch that when
this beam hits something hard, it will create quite a ruckus. It would
be fine to have a hunk blown right off the skin, wouldn't it?"

"Guess you're right," admitted Warren.

The meteor alarm flashed, and a bell dinged once.

"Here's our chance," snapped Walt. "We've about fifteen seconds to work
on this one."

He looked out of a tiny window, and saw that the big tube had lined up
with the tiny model that was a monitor for the big tube. He sighted
through the model, which in itself was a high-powered telescope, and he
saw the jagged meteor rushing forward at an angle to the station. It
would miss by many miles, but it would offer a good target.

"Cathode's hot," said Warren.

Walt Franks grasped the power switch and thrust it down part way.
Meters leaped up their scales and from somewhere there came the
protesting whine of tortured generators. Through the window, nothing
very spectacular was happening. The cathode glowed slightly brighter
due to the passage of current through its metal and out of the coated
surface. But the electrostatic stresses that filled the gaps between
the accelerator and focussing anodes was no more visible than the
electricity that runs a toy motor. Its appearance had not changed a
bit, but from the meters, Walt Franks knew that megawatts of electronic
power, in the shape of high-velocity electrons, were being poured from
the cathode, accelerated by the ring anodes; and focussed to a narrow
beam by the focussing anodes. And from the end of the framework that
supported these anodes, a stream of high-velocity electrons poured
forth, twelve inches in diameter.

Through the telescope, the meteor did not seem to be disturbed. It
exploded not, neither did it melt. It came on inexorably, and if the
inanimate nickel and iron of a meteor can be said to have such, it came
on saucily and in utter disregard for the consequences.

Frantically, Walt cranked the power up higher and higher, and the
lights all over the station dimmed as the cathode gun drained the
resources of the station.

Still no effect.

Then in desperation, Walt slammed the power lever down to the bottom
notch. The girders strained in the tube from the terrific electrostatic
stresses, and for a second, Walt was not certain that the meteor was
not finally feeling the effects of the electron bombardment.

He was not to be sure, for the experiment came to a sudden stop.

An insulator arced where it led the high-voltage lines that fed the
anodes through the wall. Immediately it flashed over, and the room
filled to the brim with the pungent odor of burning insulation. A
medium-voltage anode shorted to one of the high-voltage anodes, and the
stress increased in the tube. They broke from their moorings, these
anodes, and plunged backward, down the tube toward the cathode. They
hit, and it was enough to jar the whole tube backward on the gimbals.

The shock warped the mounting of the tube, and it flexed slightly, but
sufficiently to bring the farthermost and highest voltage anode into
the electron stream. It glowed redly, and the secondary emission raved
back through the series of electrodes, heating them and creating more
warpage.

Then the pyrotechnics stopped. Great circuit breakers crashed open up
in the power room hundreds of feet above them, high in the station.

Walt Franks looked out through the window at the tangled mess that
had been a finely machined piece of equipment. He saw the men looking
quizzically at him as he turned away from the window, and with a smile
that cost him an effort, he said: "All right, so Marconi didn't get WLW
on his first try, either. Come on, fellows, and we'll clean up this
mess."

With the utter disregard that inanimate objects show toward the inner
feelings of the human being, the meteor alarm blinked again and the
bell rang. The pilot tube swiveled quickly to one side, lining up with
the spot in the celestial globe of the meteor detector. In the turret
that housed the big tube, motors strived against welded commutators
and the big tube tried to follow.

Walt looked at the pointing tube and said: "Bah! Go ahead and point!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Don Channing smiled at Arden. "Mrs. Channing," he said, "must you
persist in keeping me from my first love?"

Arden smiled winningly. "Naturally. That's what I'm here for. I intend
to replace your first love entirely and completely."

"Yeah," drawled Don, "and what would we live on?"

"I'll permit you to attend to your so-called first love during eight
hours every day, provided that you remember to think of me every
half-hour."

"That's fine. But you really aren't fair about it. We were on Terra
for two weeks. I was just getting interested in a program outlined by
one of the boys that works for Interplanet, and what happened? You
hauled me off to Mars. We stayed for a week at the Terraland Hotel at
Canalopsis and the first time that Keg Johnson came to see us with an
idea and a sheaf of papers, you rushed me off to Lincoln Head. Now I'm
scared to death that some guy will try to open a blueprint here; at
which I'll be rushed off to Palanortis Country until someone finds us
there. Then it'll be the Solar Observatory on Mercury or the Big Glass
on Luna."

Arden soothed Don's ruffled feelings by sitting on his lap and
snuggling. "Dear," she said in a voice that positively dripped, "we're
on a honeymoon, remember?"

Don stood up, dumping Arden to the floor. "Yeah," he said, "but this is
the highest velocity honeymoon that I ever took!"

"And it's the first one I was ever on where the bridegroom took more
time admiring beam installations than he took to whisper sweet
nothings to his gal. What has a beam transmitter got that I haven't
got?"

"One: Its actions can be predicted. Two: It can be controlled. Three:
It never says anything original, but only repeats what it has been
told. Four: It can be turned off."

"Yeah?" drawled Arden, grinning wisely. "And how about this rumor?"

"Rumor?" asked Channing innocently.

"Yes--rumor!" stormed Arden with a chuckle. "Keep you from your first
love, me eye. I'll play second fiddle to nothing, Donald. I'll just
replace your original first love, but I'm too stinking bright to make
you forget it entirely. That, my sweet, is why I brought you here. You
can go chase the rumor whilst I do a bit of shopping. May I borrow your
checkbook?"

"Rumor?" repeated Channing with some puzzlement. "What rumor?"

"Rumor has it," said Arden in hyperbolic tones, "that two gentlemen,
by name James Baler and Bernard Carroll, who have spent years digging
up and studying the ancient Martian Artifacts, have recently uncovered
a large and strange type of vacuum tube that seems to have been used
by the Martians as a means of transmitting power. Since I felt that
the time had come for the honeymooners to spend at least eight minutes
apart, I insisted upon Lincoln Head for our next stop because Lincoln
Head happens to have been the scene of some rare happenings, if rumor--"

"Oh, nuts," grinned Channing. "That's no rumor--"

"And you let me ramble on," cried Arden.

She caught Don on the point of the chin with a pillow and effectively
smothered him. She followed her advantage with a frontal attack that
carried him backward across the bed, where she landed on top viciously
and proceeded to lambaste him with the other pillow.

It was proceeding according to plan, this private, good-natured war,
until a knock on the door brought a break in operations. Channing
struggled out from beneath Arden and went to the door, trying to comb
his hair by running spread fingers through it. He went with a sense
of failure caused by Arden's quiet laugh and the statement that he
resembled a bantam rooster.

The man at the door apologized, and then said: "I'm Doug Ferris of the
_Triworld News_."

"Come in," said Don, "and see if you can find a place to sit."

"Thanks."

"I didn't know that _Triworld News_ was interested in the wedded life
of the Channings. Why doesn't _Triworld_ wait until we find out about
it ourselves?"

"_Triworld_ does not care to pry into the private life of the newly wed
Channing family," laughed Doug. "We, and the rest of the system, do not
give a damn whether Mrs. Channing calls you Bunny-bit or Sugar-pie--"

"Sweetums," corrected Arden with a gleam in her eye.

"--we've got something big to handle. I can't get a thing out of the
gang at Canalopsis, they're all too busy worrying."

"And so you came here? What do you expect to get out of us? We're not
connected in any way with Canalopsis."

"I know," said Doug, "but you do know space. Look, Channing, the _Solar
Queen_ has been missing since yesterday morning!"

Don whistled.

"See what I mean? What I want to know is this: What is your opinion on
the matter? You've lived in space for years, on Venus Equilateral and
you've had experience beyond anybody I can reach."

"Missing since yesterday morning," mused Channing. "That means trouble."

"That's what I thought. Now if you were running the spaceport at
Canalopsis, what would your own private opinion be?"

"I don't know whether I should speak for publication," said Don.

"It won't be official. I'll corroborate anything you say before it
is printed, and so on. But I want an unofficial opinion, too. If you
want this withheld, say so, but I still want a technical deduction to
base my investigation on. I don't understand the ramifications and the
implications of a missing ship. It is enough to make Keg Johnson's hair
turn gray overnight, though, and I'd like to know what is so bad before
I start to turn stones."

"Well, keep it off the record until Canalopsis gives you the go-ahead.
I can give you an opinion, but I don't want to sound official."

"O.K. Do you suppose she was hit by a meteor shower?"

"Doubt it like the devil. Meteor detectors are many and interconnected
on a spaceship, as well as being alarmed and fused to the nth degree.
Any trouble with them will bring a horde of ringing bells all through
the ship which would bring the personnel a-running. They just don't go
wrong for no reason at all."

"Suppose that so many meteors came from all directions that the factors
presented to the autopilot--"

"No dice. The possibility of a concentration of meteors from all
directions all about to pass through a certain spot in space is
like betting on two Sundays in a row. Meteors don't just run in all
directions, they have a general drift. And the meteor detecting
equipment would have been able to pick up the centroid of any group of
meteors soon enough to lift the ship around it. Why, there hasn't been
a ship hit by a meteor in ten years."

"But--"

"And if it had been," continued Channing, "the chances are more than
likely that the ship wouldn't have been hit badly enough to make it
impossible to steer, or for the crew to shoot out message tubes which
would have landed on Canalopsis."

"Look, there's one thing I don't understand," said Doug. "Spacecraft
are always dodging meteors, yet Venus Equilateral seems immune."

"It's the velocity," explained Don. "Venus Equilateral is traveling
at the same speed as Venus, of course. A spacecraft hits it up in
the hundreds of miles per second. Say two hundred and seventy miles
per second, which is about ten times the orbital velocity of Venus
Equilateral. Then with a given dispersion of meteors throughout space,
any spacecraft has ten times the possible chances of encounter because
the ship covers ten times the volume in the same time. Besides, truly
missing meteors is a hypothetical problem."

"How so?"

"To avoid only those whose courses will intersect yours would demand
some sort of course predicting gear that would read the course of the
oncoming meteor and apply it in a space problem to the predicted course
of the ship. That's just too much machinery, Doug. So spacecraft merely
turn aside for anything that even _looks_ close. They don't take any
chances at all," said Don Channing. "They can't afford to."

"Suppose that the ship ducked a big shower and it went so far out of
course that they missed Mars?"

"That's out, too," laughed Channing.

"Why?"

"A standard ship of space is capable of hitting it up at about four
G all the way from Terra to Mars at major opposition and end up with
enough power and spare cathodes to continue to Venus in quadrature. Now
the velocity of the planets in their orbits is a stinking matter of
miles per second, while the top speed of a ship in even the shortest
passage runs up into four figures per second. You'd be surprised at
what velocity you can attain at one G for ten hours."

"Yes?"

"It runs to slightly less than two hundred and fifty miles per second,
during which you've covered only four million miles. In the shortest
average run from Venus to Terra at conjunction, a skimpy twenty-five
million miles, your time of travel is a matter of twenty-five hours
odd, running at the standard two G. Your velocity at turnover--or the
halfway point where the ship stops going _up_ from Terra and starts to
go _down_ to Venus--is a cool five hundred miles per second. So under
no condition would the ship miss its objective badly enough to cause
its complete loss. Why, this business is run so quickly that were it
not for the saving in time and money that amounts to a small percentage
at the end of each flight, the pilot could head for his planet and
approach the planet asymptotically."

"You know what you're doing, don't you?" asked the reporter.

"I think so."

"You're forcing my mind into accepting something that has never
happened before, and something that has no basis for its--"

"You mean piracy? I wonder. We've all read tales of the Jolly Roger
being painted on the side of a sleek ship of space while the pirate,
who is a fine fellow at heart though uninhibited, hails down the
cruiser carrying radium. He swipes the stuff and kisses all the women
whilst menacing the men with a gun-hand full of searing, coruscating,
violently lethal ray pistol. But that sounds fine in stories. The trick
is tougher than it sounds, Douglas. You've got to catch your rabbit
first."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that finding a ship in space to prey upon is somewhat less
difficult than juggling ten billiard balls whilst riding a horse
blindfolded. Suppose you were to turn pirate. This is what would happen:

"You'd get the course of the treasure ship from the spaceport, fine and
good, by resorting to spies and such. You'd lie in wait out there in
the blackness of space, fixing your position by the stars and hoping
that your error in fix was less than a couple of hundred thousand
miles. The time comes. You look to your musket, sharpen your cutlass,
and see to the priming of your derringers that are thrust into the red
sash at your waist. You are right on the course, due to your brilliant
though lawless navigator who was tossed out of astrogator's school for
filching the teacher's whiskey. Then the treasure ship zoops past at
a healthy hundred miles per second and you decide that since she is
hitting it up at two G, you'd have had to start from scratch at a heck
of a lot better to catch her within the next couple of light years."

"But suppose you took the course as laid and applied the same
acceleration? Suppose you followed on the heels of your quarry until
you were both in space? You could do it then, couldn't you?"

"Gosh," said Channing, "I never thought of that. That's the only way a
guy could pirate a ship--unless he planted his men on board and they
mutinied."

"Then it might be pirates?"

"It might be," admitted Channing. "It'd have to occur near beginning
or end, of course, though. I can't think of anything safer than being
shot at out of a gun of any kind while both crates are hitting it up at
a couple of hundred miles per second and at a distance of a few miles
apart. It would be all right if you were both running free, but at two
G acceleration, you'd have to do quite a bit of ballistic gymnastics to
score a hit."

"Or run in front of your quarry and sow a bouquet of mines."

"Except that the meteor detector would show the position of the pirate
craft in the celestial globe and the interconnecting circuits would
cause the treasure ship to veer off at a sharp angle. Shucks, Doug,
this thing has got too many angles to it. I can't begin to run it off
either way. No matter how difficult it may sound, there are still ways
and means to do it. The one thing that stands out like a sore thumb
is the fact that the _Solar Queen_ has turned up missing. Since no
inanimate agency could cause failure, piracy is the answer."

"You're sure of that?"

"Not positive. There are things that might cause the ship to founder.
But what they are depends on too many coincidences. It's like hitting a
royal flush on the deal, or filling a full house from two pairs."

"Well, thanks, Channing. I'm heading back to Canalopsis right now. Want
to come along?"

Channing looked at Arden, who was coming from the dressing room
carrying her coat and he nodded. "The gal says yes," he grinned. "Annoy
her until I find my shoes, will you?"

Arden wrinkled her nose at Don. "I'll like that," she said to Doug.

       *       *       *       *       *

The trip from Lincoln Head to Canalopsis was a fast one. Doug drove
the little flier through the thin air of Mars at a breakneck speed
and covered the twelve hundred miles in just shy of an hour. At the
spaceport, Channing found that he was not denied the entrance as the
reporter had been. He was ushered into the office of Keg Johnson, and
he and the manager of the Canalopsis Spaceport greeted Don with a
worried expression on his face.

"Still gone," said Johnson cryptically. "Like the job of locating her?"

Don shook his head with a sympathetic smile. "Like trying to find a
grain of sand on a beach--a specified grain, I mean. Wouldn't know how
to go about it."

Keg nodded. "I thought as much. That leaves her out of the picture.
Well, up to now space travel has been about as safe as spending the
evening in your easy-chair. Hello, Arden, how's married life?"

"Can't tell yet," she said with a twinkle. "I've got to find out
whether I can break him of a dozen bad habits before I'll commit
myself."

"I wish you luck, Arden, although from that statement, it's Don that
needs the luck."

"We came to see if there was anything we could do about the _Solar
Queen_," offered Channing.

"What can anybody do?" asked Keg with spread hands. "About all we can
do is to put it down in our remembrances and turn to tomorrow. Life
goes on, you know," said Keg in a resigned tone, "and either we keep up
or we begin to live in the past. Are you going to stay here for a day
or two?"

"Was thinking about it," said Don.

"Well, suppose you register at the Terraland and meet me back here for
lunch. If anything occurs, I'll shoot you a quickie." Keg looked at his
watch and whistled. "Lordy," he said ruefully. "I didn't know how late
it was. Look, kids, I'll run you downtown myself, and we'll all have
lunch at the Terraland. How's that?"

"Sounds better," admitted Channing. "My appetite, you know."

"I know," laughed Arden. "Come on, meat-eater, and we'll peel a calf."

It was during lunch that a messenger raced into the dining room and
handed Keg a letter. Keg read, and then swore roundly. He tossed the
letter across the table to Don and Arden.

    TO THE OPERATORS OF ALL SPACELINES:

    IT HAS COME TO MY ATTENTION THAT YOUR SHIPS NEED PROTECTION. THE
    ABSENCE OF THE SOLAR QUEEN IS PROOF ENOUGH THAT YOUR EFFORTS ARE
    INSUFFICIENT TO INSURE THE ARRIVAL OF A SPACESHIP AT ITS
    DESTINATION.

    I AM CAPABLE OF OFFERING PROTECTION AT THE REASONABLE RATE OF ONE
    DOLLAR SOLARIAN FOR EVERY GROSS TON, WITH THE RETURN OF TEN DOLLARS
    SOLARIAN IF ANY SHIP FAILS TO COME THROUGH SAFELY. I THINK THAT YOU
    MAY FIND IT NECESSARY TO SUBSCRIBE TO MY INSURANCE, SINCE WITHOUT
    MY PROTECTION I CANNOT BE RESPONSIBLE FOR FAILURES.

    ALLISON (HELLION) MURDOCH.

"Why the dirty racketeer," stormed Arden. "Who is he, anyway?"

"Hellion Murdoch is a man of considerable ability as a surgeon and a
theoretical physicist," explained Don. "He was sentenced to the gas
chamber ten years ago for trying some of his theories out on human
beings without their consent. He escaped with the aid of fifteen or
twenty of his cohorts who had stolen the _Hippocrates_ right out of the
private spaceport of the Solarian Medical Research Institute."

"And they headed for the unknown," offered Keg. "Wonder where they've
been for the last ten years?"

"I'll bet a hat that they've been in the Melapalan Jungle, using the
machine shop of the _Hippocrates_ to fashion guns. That machine shop
was a dilly, if I remember correctly."

"It was. The whole ship was just made to be as self-sustaining as it
could be. They used to run all over the System in it, you know, chasing
bugs. But look, Don, if I were you, I'd begin worrying about Venus
Equilateral. That's where he'll hit next."

"You're right. But what are you going to do?"

"Something that will drive him right out to the relay station," said
Keg in a sorrowful tone. "Sorry, Don, but when I put an end to all
space shipping for a period of six weeks, Hellion Murdoch will be
sitting in your lap."

"He sure will," said Channing nervously. "Arden, are you willing to run
a gantlet?"

"Sure," she answered quickly. "Are you sure that there will be no
danger?"

"Reasonably sure, or I wouldn't take you with me. Unless Murdoch has
managed to build himself a couple of extra ships, we've got a chance in
three that he'll be near one of the other two big spaceports. So we'll
slide out of here unannounced and at a peculiar time of day. We'll load
up with gravanol and take it all the way to the station at six G."

"He may have two or three ships," said Keg. "A man could cover all
the standard space shipping in three, and he might not have too bad a
time with two, especially if he were only out looking for those which
weren't paid for. But, look, I wouldn't check out of the Terraland if
I were you. Keep this under cover. Your heap is all ready to take sky
from Canalopsis Spaceport and you can leave directly."

"Hold off on your announcement as long as possible," Don asked Keg.

Johnson smiled and nodded. "I'll give you time to get there anyway. But
I've no control over what will be done at Northern Landing or Mojave.
They may kick over the traces."

"Arden, we're moving again," laughed Don. "Keg, ship us our duds as
soon as this affair clears up." Channing scribbled a message on the
back of Murdoch's letter. "Shoot this off to Walt Franks, will you? I
won't wait for an answer, that'll take about fifty minutes, and by that
time I'll have been in space for twenty."

They paused long enough to stop at the nurse's office at the spaceport
for a heavy shot of gravanol and a thorough bracing with wide adhesive
tape. Then they made their way to the storage space of the spaceport
where they entered their small ship. Channing was about to send the
power lever home when the figure of Keg Johnson waved him to stop.

Keg ran up to the space lock and handed in a paper.

"You're it," he said. "Good luck, Channings."

It was another message from Hellion Murdoch. It said, bluntly:

    TO DONALD A. CHANNING, PH.D.:
    DIRECTOR OF COMMUNICATIONS:

    CONSIDERABLE DIFFICULTY HAS BEEN EXPERIENCED IN TRANSMITTING
    MESSAGES TO THE INTERESTED PARTIES. I DESIRE A FREE HAND IN
    TELLING ALL WHO CARE THE PARTICULARS OF MY INSURANCE.

    SINCE YOUR RELAY STATION IS IN A POSITION TO CONTROL ALL
    COMMUNICATIONS BETWEEN THE WORLDS, I AM OFFERING YOU THE OPTION
    OF EITHER SURRENDERING THE STATION TO ME, OR OF FIGHTING ME FOR
    ITS POSSESSION. I AM CONFIDENT THAT YOU WILL SEE THE INTELLIGENT
    COURSE; AN UNARMED STATION IN SPACE IS NO MATCH FOR A FULLY ARMED
    AND EXCELLENTLY MANNED CRUISER.

    YOUR ANSWER WILL BE EXPECTED IN FIVE DAYS.

    ALLISON (HELLION) MURDOCH.

Channing snarled and thrust the power lever down to the last notch. The
little ship leaped upward at five G, and was gone from sight in less
than a minute.

Arden shook her head. "What was that message you sent to Franks?" she
asked.

"I told him that there was a wild-eyed pirate on the loose, and that he
might take a stab at the station. We are coming in as soon as we can
get there and to be on the lookout for us on the landing communications
radio, and also for anything untoward in the nature of space vessels."

"Then this is not exactly a shock," said Arden, waving the message from
Murdoch.

"Not exactly," said Channing dryly. "Now look, Arden, you go to sleep.
This'll take hours and hours, and gabbing about it will only lay you
out cold."

"I feel fine," objected Arden.

"I know, but that's the gravanol, not you. The tape will keep you
intact, and the gravanol will keep you awake without nausea. But you
can't get something for nothing, Arden, and when that gravanol wears
off, you'll spend ten times as long with one-tenth of the trouble you
might have had. So take it easy for yourself now and later you'll be
glad that you aren't worse."

The sky blackened, and Channing knew that they were free in space. Give
them another fifteen minutes and the devil himself couldn't find them.
With no flight plan scheduled and no course posted, they might as well
have been in the seventeenth dimension. As they emerged from the thin
atmosphere, there was a fleeting flash of fire from several miles to
the east, but Channing did not pay particular attention to it. Arden
looked through a telescope and thought she saw a spaceship circling,
but she could not be sure.

Whatever it was, nothing came of it.

The trip out to the station was a monotonous series of uneventful
hours, proceeding along one after the other. They dozed and slept most
of the time, eating sparingly and doing nothing that was not absolutely
necessary.

Turnabout was accomplished and then the deceleration began, equally
long and equally monotonous. It was equally inactive. Channing tried
to plan, but it failed because he could not plan without talking and
discussing the affair with his men. Too much depended upon their
co-operation. He fell into a morose, futile feeling that made itself
evident in grousing; Arden tried to cheer him, but Don's usually
bubbling spirit was doused too deep. Also, Arden herself was none too
happy, which is necessary before one can cheer another.

Then they sighted the station and Channing's ill spirit left. A man of
action, what he hated most was the no-action business of just sitting
in a little capsule waiting for the relay station to come up out of
the sky below. Once it was sighted, Channing foresaw action, and his
grousing stopped.

They zipped past the station at a distance of ten miles, and Channing
opened the radio.

"Walt Franks! Wake up, you slumberhead."

The answer came inside of half a minute. "Hello, Don. Who's asleep?"

"Where are you? In Joe's?"

"Joe has declared a drought for the duration," said Franks with a
laugh. "He thinks we can't think on Scotch."

"We can't. Have you seen the boys?"

"Murdoch's crew? Sure, they're circling at about five miles, running
around in the plane of the ecliptic. Keep running on the colure and the
chances are that you won't even see 'em. But, Don, they can hear us!"

"How about the landing stage at the south end?"

"There are two of them running around the station at different heights
from north to south. The third is circling in a four-mile circle on a
plane five miles south of the station. We've picked up a few HE shells,
and I guess that, if you try to make a landing there, you'll be shot to
bits. That devil is using the meteor detector for a gun pointer."

"Walt, remember the visual loran?"

"Y'mean the one we used to find the _Empress_?"

"Uh-huh. Rig it without the mirrors? Get me? D'you know what I want to
do?"

"Yop. All we have to do is clear away some of the saw grass again.
Not too much, though, because it hasn't been too long since we cut it
before. I get you all right."

"Fine. How soon?"

"I'm in the beam control north, I've got a portable mike, and I walk
over to the mirror and begin to tinker with the screws. _Ouch!_ I've
skun me a knuckle. Now look, Don, I'm going inside and crack the
passage end. I've broadcast throughout the station that it is to be
cracked, and the men are swarming all over the axis of the station
doing just that. Come--a-running!"

Channing circled the little ship high to the north and came down
toward the axis of the station. He accelerated fiercely for a portion
of the time, and then made a slambang turnabout. A pilot light on
the instrument panel gleamed, indicating that some of the plates
were strained and that the ship was leaking air. Another light lit,
indicating that the automatic pressure control was functioning, and
that the pressure was maintained, though it might not long be.

Then in deceleration, Channing fought the ship on to a die-straight
line with the open door at the north end. He fixed the long, long
passageway in the center of his sights, and prayed.

The ship hit the opening squarely, and only then did their terrific
speed become apparent. Past bulkhead after bulkhead they drove, and a
thin scream came to their ears as the atmosphere down in the bowels of
the station was compressed by the tiny ship's passage.

Doors slammed behind the ship as it passed, and air locks were opened,
permitting the station's center to fill to its normal pressure once
more.

Then the rocketing ship slowed. Channing saw a flash of green and knew
that the Martian saw grass was halfway down the three-mile length of
the station. He zipped past storerooms and rooms filled with machinery,
and then the ship scraped lightly against one of the bulkheads.

It caromed from this bulkhead against the next, hitting it in a
quartering slice. From side to side the ship bounced, crushing the
bulkheads and tearing great slices from the flanks of the ship.

It slowed, and came to rest against a large room full of packing cases,
and was immediately swarmed over by the men of Venus Equilateral.

They found Channing partly conscious. His nose was bleeding but
otherwise he seemed all right. Arden was completely out, though a quick
check by the station's medical staff assured Don that she would be all
right as soon as they gave her a workout. He was leaving the center
of the station when Franks came puffing up the stairway from the next
lowest level.

"Gosh," he said. "It's a real job trying to guess where you stopped.
I've been hitting every hundred feet and asking. Well, that was one for
the book."

"Yeah," groaned Don. "Come along, Walt. I want a shower. You can give
the resumé of the activities while I'm showering and trying to soak
this adhesive off. Arden, lucky girl, will be unconscious when Doc rips
it off; I never liked the way they remove tape."

"There isn't much to tell," said Franks. "But what there is, I'll tell
you."

       *       *       *       *       *

Channing was finishing the shower when Walt mentioned that it was too
bad that they hadn't started his electron gun a few weeks sooner.

Don shut off the water, fumbled for a towel, and said: "What?"

Franks repeated.

Again Channing said: "What? Are you nuts?"

"No. I've been tinkering with an idea of mine. If we had another month
to work on it, I think we might be able to clip Murdoch's ears."

"Just what are you using in this super weapon, chum?"

Franks explained.

"Mind if I put in an oar?" asked Channing.

"Not at all. So far we might be able to fry a smelt at twenty feet, or
we could cook us a steak. But I haven't been able to do a thing yet.
We had it working once, and I think we heated a meteor somewhat, but
the whole thing went blooey before we finished the test. I've spent the
last week and a half fixing the thing up again, and would have tried it
out on the next meteor, but your message brought a halt to everything
but cleaning up the mess and making ready just in case we might think
of something practical."

"I'll put in my first oar by seeing the gadget. Wait till I find my
pants, and I'll go right along."

Don inspected the installation and whistled. "Not half bad, sonny, not
half bad."

"Except that we haven't been able to make it work."

"Well, for one thing, you've been running on the wrong track. You need
more power."

"Sure," grinned Walt. "More power, he says. I don't see how we can cram
any more soup into this can. She'll melt."

"Walt, what happens in a big gun?"

"Powder burns; expanding products of combustion push--"

"Functionally, what are you trying to accomplish? Take it on the basis
of a solid shot, like they used to use back in the sailing ship days."

"Well," said Walt thoughtfully, "I'd say they were trying to heave
something large enough to do damage."

"Precisely. Qualifying that statement a little, you might say that the
projectile transmits the energy of the powder charge to its objective."

"Right," agreed Walt.

"And it is possible to transmit that energy mechanically. I think
if we reason this idea out in analogy, we might be able to do it
electrically. First, there is the method. There is nothing wrong with
your idea, functionally. Electron guns are as old as radio. They--"

The door opened and Arden entered. "Hi, fellows," she said, "What's
cooking?"

"Hi, Arden. Like marriage?" Walt asked.

"How long do people have to be married before people stop asking that
darn fool question?" asked Arden.

"O.K., how about your question?"

"I meant that. I ran into Warren, who told me that the brains were down
here tinkering on something that was either a brilliant idea or an
equally brilliant flop--he didn't know which. What goes?"

"Walt has turned Buck Rogers and is now about to invent a ray gun."

"No!"

"Yes!"

"Here's where we open a psychopathic ward," said Arden sadly. "So far,
Venus Equilateral is the only community that hasn't had a village
idiot. But no longer are we unique. Seriously, Walt?"

"Sure enough," said Channing. "He's got an idea here that may work with
a little tinkering."

"Brother Edison, we salute you," said Arden. "How does it work?"

"Poorly. Punk. Lousy."

"Well, sound recording has come a long way from the tinfoil cylinder
that scratched out: 'Mary had a little lamb!' And transportation has
come along swell from the days of sliding sledges. You may have the
nucleus of an idea, Walt. But I meant its operation instead of its
efficiency."

"We have an electron gun of super size," explained Walt. "The cathode
is a big affair six feet in diameter and capable of emitting a
veritable storm of electrons. We accelerate them by means of properly
spaced anodes of the proper voltage level, and we focus them into a
nice bundle by means of electrostatic lenses--"

"Whoah, Tillie, you're talking like the venerable Buck Rogers himself.
Say that in words of one cylinder, please," chuckled Arden.

"Well, any voltage gradient between electrodes of different voltage
acts as a prism, sort of. When you have annular electrodes of the
proper size, shape, and voltage difference, they act as a lens."

"In other words, the ring-shaped electrodes are electrostatic lenses?"

"Nope. It is the space between them. With light or electrons a convex
lens will converge the light no matter which direction the light is
coming from."

"Uh-huh. I see in a sort of vague manner. Now, fellows, go on from
there. What's necessary to make this dingbat tick?"

"I want to think out loud," said Channing.

"That's nothing unusual," said Arden. "Can't we go into Joe's? You
can't think without a tablecloth, either."

"What I'm thinking is this, Walt. You've been trying to squirt
electrons like a fireman runs a hose. Walt, how long do you suppose
a sixteen-inch rifle would last if the explosives were constantly
replaced and the fire burned constantly?"

"Not long," admitted Walt.

"A gun is an overloaded machine," said Don. "Even a little one. The
life of a gun barrel is measured in seconds; totalling up the time of
transit of all the rounds from new gun to worn barrel gives a figure
expressed in seconds. Your electron gun, Walt, whether it be fish,
flesh, or fowl, must be overloaded for an instant."

"Is overload a necessary requirement?" asked Arden. "It seems to me
that you might be able to bore a sixteen-inch gun for a twenty-two.
What now, little man?"

"By the time we get something big enough to do more than knock paint
off, we'll have something bigger than a twenty-two," grinned Channing.
"I was speaking in terms of available strength versus required punch.
In the way that a girder will hold tremendous overloads for brief
instants, a gun is overloaded for milliseconds. We'll have a problem--"

"O.K., aside from that, have you figured out why I haven't been able
to do more than warm anything larger than a house brick?"

"Sure," laughed Channing. "What happens in a multi-grid radio tube when
the suppressor grid is hanging free?"

"Charges negative and blocks the electron stream ... hey! That's it!"

"What?" asked Arden.

"Sure," said Walt. "We fire off a batch of electrons, and the first
contingent that arrives charges the affair so that the rest of the beam
sort of wriggles out of line."

"Your meteor is going to take on a charge of phenomenal negative value,
and the rest of your beam is going to be deflected away, just as your
electron lenses deflect the original beam," said Channing. "And now
another thing, old turnip. You're squirting out a lot of electrons.
That's much amperage. Your voltage--velocity--is nothing to rave about
even though it sounds high. Watts is what you want, to corn a phrase."

"_Phew_," said Walt. "Corn, he says. Go on, prodigy, and make with the
explanations. I agree, we should have more voltage and less quantity.
But we're running the stuff at plenty of voltage now. Nothing short
of a Van Der Graf generator would work--and while we've got one up on
the forty-ninth level, we couldn't run a supply line down here without
reaming a fifty-foot hole through the station, and then I don't know
how we'd get that kind of voltage down here without ... that kind of
stuff staggers the imagination. You can't juggle a hundred million
volts on a wire. She'd squirt off in all directions."

"Another thing, whilst I hold it in my mind," said Channing,
thoughtfully. "You go flinging electrons off the station in basketful
after basketful, and the next bird that drops a ship on the landing
stage is going to spot-weld himself right to the south end of Venus
Equilateral. It wouldn't be long before the station would find itself
being pulled into Sol because of the electrostatic stress--if we didn't
run out of electrons first!"

"I hardly think that we'd run out--but we might have a tough time
flinging them away after a bit. Could it be that we should blow out a
fist full of protons at the same time?"

"Might make up a concentric beam and wave positive ions at the target,"
said Channing. "Might help."

"But this space-charge effect. How do we get around that?"

"Same way we make the electron gun work. Fire it off at a devilish
voltage. Run your electron velocity up near the speed of light; the
electrons at that speed will acquire considerable mass, in accordance
with Lorenz's equation which shows that as the velocity of a mass
reaches the speed of light, its mass becomes infinite. With a healthy
mass built up by near-light velocities, the electrons will not be as
easy to deflect. Then, too, we can do the damage we want before the
charge can be built up that will deflect the stream. We ram 'em with
a bundle of electrons moving so fast that the charging effect can not
work; before the space charge can build up to the level required for
self-nullification of our beam, the damage is done."

"And all we need is a couple of trillion volts. Two times ten to the
twelfth power. _Grrr._"

"I can see that you'll need a tablecloth," said Arden. "You birds can
think better over at Joe's. Come along and feed the missus, Don."

Channing surveyed the instrument again, and then said: "Might as well,
Walt. The inner man must be fed, and we can wrangle at the same time.
Argument assists the digestion--and vice versa."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Now," said Channing as the dishes were pushed aside, clearing a space
on the table. "What are we going to do?"

"That's what I've been worrying about," said Walt. "Let's list the
things that make our gun ineffective."

"That's easy. It can't dish out enough. It's too dependent upon
mobility. It's fundamentally inefficient because it runs out of
ammunition too quick, by which I mean that it is a sort of gun with
antiseptic bullets. It cures its own damage."

"Prevents," said Arden.

"All right, it acts as its own shield, electrostatically."

"About this mobility," said Walt, "I do not quite agree with that."

"You can't whirl a hunk of tube the size and weight of a good-sized
telescope around fast enough to shoot holes in a racing spaceship,"
said Channing. "Especially one that is trying to dodge. We've got to
rely upon something that can do the trick better. Your tube did all
right following a meteor that rung in a course that can be predicted,
because you can set up your meteor spotter to correct for the
mechanical lag. But in a spaceship that is trying to duck your shot,
you'll need something that works with the speed of light. And, since
we're going to be forced into something heavy and hard hitting, its
inertia will be even more so."

"Heavy and hard hitting means exactly what?"

"Cyclotron, betatron or synchrotron. One of those dinguses that whirls
nucleons around like a stone on a string until the string breaks and
sends the stone out at terrific speed. We need a velocity that sounds
like a congressional figure."

"We've got a cyclotron."

"Yeah," drawled Channing, "A wheezy old heap that cries out in anguish
every time the magnets are charged. I doubt that we could move the
thing without it falling apart. The betatron is the ticket."

"But the cyclotron gives out with a lot more soup."

"If I had to increase the output of either one, I could do it a lot
quicker with the betatron," said Channing. "In a cyclotron, the
revolution of the ions in their acceleration period is controlled by an
oscillator, the voltage output of which is impressed on the D chambers.
In order to speed up the ion stream, you'd have to do two things. One:
Build a new oscillator that will dish out more power. Two: Increase the
strength of the magnets.

"But in the betatron, the thing is run differently. The magnet is built
for A. C. and the electron gun runs off the same. As your current
starts up from zero, the electron gun squirts a bouquet of electrons
into a chamber built like a pair of angel's food cake tins set rim to
rim. The magnet's field begins to build up at the same time, and the
resulting increase in field strength accelerates the electrons and at
the same time, its increasing field keeps the little devils running
in the same orbit. Shoot it with two-hundred-cycle current, and in
the half cycle your electrons are made to run around the center a few
million times. That builds up a terrific velocity--measured in six
figures, believe it or not. Then the current begins to level off at
the top of the sine wave, and the magnet loses its increasing phase.
The electrons, still in acceleration, begin to whirl outward. The
current levels off for sure and begins to slide down--and the electrons
roll off at a tangent to their course. This stream can be collected
and used. In fact, we have a two-hundred-cycle beam of electrons at a
couple of billion volts. That, brother, ain't hay!"

"Is that enough?"

"Nope."

"Then how do you hope to increase this velocity? If it is easier to run
this up than it would be the cyclotron, how do we go about it?"

Channing smiled and began to draw diagrams on the tablecloth. Joe
looked over with a worried frown, and then shrugged his shoulders.
Diagrams or not, this was an emergency--and besides, he thought, he
needed another lesson in high powered gadgetry.

"The nice thing about this betatron," said Channing, "is the fact that
it can and does run both ends on the same supply. The current and
voltage phases are correct so that we do not require two supplies which
operate in a carefully balanced condition. The cyclotron is one of the
other kinds; though the one supply is strictly D. C., the strength
of the field must be controlled separately from the supply to the
oscillator that runs the D plates. You're sitting on a fence, juggling
knobs and stuff all the time you are bombarding with a cyc.

"Now let us inspect the supply of the betatron. It is sinusoidal.
There is the catch. There is the thing that makes it possible.
That single fact makes it easy to step the power up to terrific
quantities. Since the thing is fixed by nature so that the output is
proportional--electron gun initial velocity versus magnetic field
strength--if we increase the input voltage, the output voltage goes up
without having to resort to manipulistic gymnastics on the part of the
operator."

"Go on, Professor Maxwell."

"Don't make fun of a great man's name," said Arden. "If it wasn't for
Clerk Maxwell, we'd still be yelling out of the window at one another
instead of squirting radio beams all over the Solar System."

"Then make him quit calling me Tom Swift."

"Go on, Don, Walt and I will finish this argument after we finish
Hellion Murdoch."

"May I?" asked Channing with a smile. He did not mind the interruption;
he was used to it in the first place and he had been busy with his
pencil in the second place. "Now look, Walt, what happens when you
smack a charged condenser across an inductance?"

"You generate a damped cycle of the amplitude of the charge on the
condenser, and of frequency equal to the L, C constants of the
condenser and inductance. The amplitude decays according to the factor
Q, following the equation for decrement--"

"Never mind, I've got it here on my whiteboard," smiled Channing,
pointing to the tablecloth. "You are right. And the purity of the wave?"

"Sinusoidal ... hey! That's it!" Walt jumped to his feet and went to
the telephone.

"What's 'it'?" asked Arden.

"The betatron we have runs off of a five-hundred-volt supply," chuckled
Channing. "We can crank that up ten to one without running into any
difficulty at all. Five-hundred-volt insulation is peanuts, and the
stuff they put on wires nowadays is always good for ten times that
just because it wouldn't be economical to try to thin the installation
down so that it only protects five hundred. I'll bet a crank that he
could crank the input up to fifty thousand volts without too much
sputtering--though I wouldn't know where to lay my lunch hooks on
a fifty-thousand-volt condenser of any appreciable capacity. Well,
stepping up the rig ten to one will dish us out just shy of a couple of
thousand million volts, which, as Brother Franks says, is not hay!"

Walt returned after a minute and said: "Warren's measuring the
inductance of the betatron magnet. He will then calculate the value
of C required to tune the thing to the right frequency and start to
achieve that capacity by mazing up whatever high-voltage condensers we
have on the station. Now, Don, let's calculate how we're going to make
the thing mobile."

"That's a horse of a different color. We'll have to use electromagnetic
deflection. From the constants of the electron stream out of our
souped-up Suzy, we'll have to compute the necessary field to deflect
such a beam. That'll be terrific, because the electrons are hitting it
up at a velocity approaching that of light--maybe a hundred and seventy
thousand miles per--and their mass will be something fierce. That again
will help to murder Murdoch; increasing mass will help to keep the
electrons from being deflected, since it takes more to turn a heavy
mass--et cetera, see Newton's laws of inertia for complete statement.
Have 'em jerk the D plates out of the cyc and bring the magnet frame
down here--to the turret, I mean--and set 'em up on the vertical. We'll
use that to run the beam up and down, we can't possibly get one hundred
and eighty degree deflection, of course, but we can run the deflection
over considerable range. It should be enough to catch a spaceship that
is circling the station. For the horizontal deflection, what have we
got?"

"Nothing. But the cyc magnet is a double pole affair. We could break
the frame at the D plates and set one winding sidewise to the other and
use half on each direction."

"Sure. Have one of Warren's gang fit the busted pole pieces up with
a return-magnetic frame so that the field will be complete. He can
weld some girders on and around in an hour. That gives us complete
deflection properties up and down; left and right. We should be able to
cover a ninety-degree cone from your turret."

"That'll cover all of Murdoch's ships," said Walt.

"Too bad we haven't got some U-235 to use. I'd like to plate up one of
his ships with some positive ions of U-235 and then change the beam to
slow neutrons. That might deter him from his life of crime."

"Variations, he wants," said Arden. "You're going to impale one ship on
a beam of electrons; one ship on a beam of U-235 ions; and what will
you have on the third?"

"I'll think of something," said Channing. "A couple of hundred pounds
of U-235 should make things hum, though."

"More like making them disappear," said Franks. "_Swoosh!_ No ship.
Just an incandescent mass falling into the Sun. I'm glad we haven't any
purified U-235 or plutonium in any quantity out here. We catch a few
slow neutrons now and then, and I wouldn't be able to sleep nights.
The things just sort of wander right through the station as though it
weren't here at all; they stop just long enough to register on the
counter upstairs and then they're gone."

"Well, to work, people. We've got a job to do in the next three and a
half days."

Those days were filled with activity. Hauling the heavy parts down to
the turret was no small job, but it was accomplished after a lot of
hard work and quite a bit of tinkering with a cutting torch. The parts
were installed in the outer skin, and the crew with the torch went back
over the trail and replaced the gaping holes they left in the walls
and floors of Venus Equilateral. The engineering department went to
work, and for some hours the place was silent save for the clash of
pencil on paper and the scratching of scalps. The most popular book in
the station became a volume on nuclear physics, and the second most
popular book was a table of integrals. The stenographic force went
to work combing the library for information pertaining to electronic
velocities, and a junior engineer was placed in as buffer between the
eager stenographers and the harried engineering department. This was
necessary because the stenographers got to the point where they'd send
anything at all that said either "electrons" or "velocity," and one of
the engineers read halfway through a text on atomic structure before
he realized that he had been sold a bill of goods. Wire went by the
mile down to the turret, and men proceeded to blow out half of the
meters in the station with the high-powered beam. Luckily, the thing
was completely nonspectacular, or Murdoch might have gained an inkling
of their activities. The working crew manipulated constants and made
haywire circuits, and finally announced that the beam would deflect--if
the calculations were correct.

"They'd better be," said Channing. He was weary. His eyes were puffed
from lack of sleep, and he hadn't had his clothing off in three days.

"They are," said Franks. He was in no better shape than Don.

"They'd better be right," said Channing ominously. "We're asking for a
kick in the teeth. The first bundle of stuff that leaves our gun will
energize Murdoch's meteor spotter by sheer electrostatic force. His
gun mounts, which you tell me are coupled to the meteor detector for
aiming, will swivel to cover the turret out here. Then he'll let us
have it right in the betatron. If we don't get him first, he'll get us
second."

"Don," said Walt in a worried voice. "How are we going to replace the
charge on the station? Like the bird who was tossing baseballs out of
the train--he quit when he ran out of them. Our gun will quit cold when
we run out of electrons--or when the positive charge gets so high that
the betatron can't overcome the electrostatic attraction."

"Venus Equilateral is a free grid," smiled Channing. "As soon as we
shoot off electrons, Old Sol becomes a hot cathode and our station
collects 'em until the charge is equalized again."

"And what is happening to the bird who is holding on to something
when we make off with a million volts? Does he scrape himself off the
opposite wall in a week or so--after he comes to--or can we use him for
freezing ice cubes? Seems to me that it might be a little bit fatal."

"Didn't think of that," said Channing. "There's one thing, their
personal charge doesn't add up to a large quantity of electricity. If
we insulate 'em and put 'em in their spacesuits, they'll be all right
as long as they don't try to grab anything. They'll be on the up and
down for a bit, but the resistance of the spacesuit is high enough
to keep 'em from draining out all their electrons at once, I recall
the experiments with early Van Der Graf generators at a few million
volts--the operator used to sit in the charged sphere because it was
one place where he couldn't be hit by man-made lightning. It'll be
rough, but it won't kill us. Spacesuits, and have 'em sit in plastic
chairs, the feet of which are insulated from the floor by china dinner
plates. This plastic wall covering that we have in the apartments is a
blessing. If it were all bare steel, every room would be a miniature
hell. Issue general instructions to that effect. We've been having
emergency drills for a long time; now's the time to use the grand
collection of elastomer spacesuits. Tell 'em we give 'em an hour to get
ready."

Hellion Murdoch's voice came over the radio at exactly the second of
the expiration of his limit. He called Channing and said:

"What is your answer, Dr. Channing?"

Don squinted down the pilot tube of the meteor spotter and saw the
_Hippocrates_ passing. It was gone before he spoke, but the second ship
came along, and the pilot tube leaped into line with it. Don checked
meters on the crude panel before him, and then pressed the plastic
handle of a long lever.

There was the crash of heavy-duty oil switch.

Crackles of electricity flashed back and forth through the station, and
the smell of ozone arose. Electric light filaments leaned over crazily,
trying to touch the inner walls of the glass. Panes of glass ran blue
for an instant, and the nap of the carpets throughout the station
stood bolt upright. Hair stood on end, touched the plastic helmet
dome, discharged, fell to the scalp, raised again and discharged, fell
once more, and then repeated this raising and falling, again and again
and again. Electric clocks ran crazily, and every bit of electronic
equipment on the station began to act in an unpredictable manner.

Then things settled down again as the solar emission charged the
station to equilibrium.

Aboard the ship, it was another story. The celestial globe of the
meteor spotter blazed once in a blinding light and then went completely
out of control. It danced with pin points of light, and the coupler
that was used to direct the guns went crazy. Turrets tried to swivel,
but the charge raised hob with the electronic controls, and the guns
raised once, and then fell, inert. One of them belched flame, and the
shell went wild. The carefully balanced potentials in the driver tubes
were upset, and the ship lost headway. The heavy ion stream from the
driving cathode bent and spread, touching the dynodes in the tubes. The
resulting current brought them to a red heat, and they melted down and
floated through the evacuated tube in round droplets. Instruments went
wild, and gave every possible answer, and the ship became a bedlam of
ringing bells and flashing danger lights.

But the crew was in no shape to appreciate this display. From
metal parts in the ship there appeared coronas that reached for
the unprotected men, and seared their flesh. And since their
gravity-apparent was gone, they floated freely through the air, and
came in contact with highly charged walls, ceilings and floors; to say
nothing of the standard metal furniture.

It was a sorry bunch of pirates that found themselves in a
ship-without-motive-power that was beginning to leave their circular
course on a tangent that would let them drop into the Sun.

"That's my answer, Murdoch!" snapped Channing. "Watch your second ship!"

"You young devil!" snarled Murdoch. "What did you do?"

"You never thought that it would be an electronics engineer that made
the first energy gun, did you, Murdoch? I'm now going to take a shot at
No. 3!"

No. 3's turrets swiveled around and from the guns flashes of fire came
streaming. Channing punched his lever savagely, and once again the
station was tortured by the effects of its own offensive.

Ship No. 3 suffered the same fate as No. 2.

Then, seconds later, armor-piercing shells began to hit Venus
Equilateral. They hit, and because of the terrific charge, they began
to arc at the noses. The terrible current passed through the fuses, and
the shells exploded on contact instead of boring in before detonation.
Metal was bent and burned, but only a few tiny holes resulted. As the
charge on the station approached equilibrium once more, men ran with
torches to seal these holes.

"Murdoch," said Channing, "I want you!"

"Come and get me!"

"Land--or die!" snapped Channing in a vicious tone. "I'm no
humanitarian, Murdoch. You'd be better off dead!"

"Never!" said Hellion Murdoch.

Channing pulled the lever for the third time, but as he did, Murdoch's
ship leaped forward under several G. The magnets could not change in
field soon enough to compensate for this change in direction, and
the charge failed to connect as a bull's eye. It did expend some
of its energy on the tail of the ship. Not enough to cripple the
_Hippocrates_, but the vessel took on a charge of enough value to make
things hard on the crew.

Metal sparked, and instruments went mad. Meters wound their needles
around the end pegs. The celestial globe glinted in a riot of color and
then went completely dead. Gun servers dropped their projectiles as
they became too heavily charged to handle, and they rolled across the
turret floors, creating panic in the gun crews. The pilot fought the
controls, but the charge on his driver tubes was sufficient to make his
helm completely unpredictable. The panel sparked at him and seared his
hands, spoiling his nervous control and making him heavy-handed.

"Murdoch," cried Channing in a hearty voice, "that was a miss! Want a
hit?"

Murdoch's radio was completely dead. His ship was yawing from side to
side as the static charges raced through the driver tubes. The pilot
gained control after a fashion, and decided that he had taken enough.
He circled the station warily and began to make a shaky landing at the
south end.

Channing saw him coming, and with a glint in his eye, he pressed the
lever for the fourth and last time.

Murdoch's ship touched the landing stage just after the charge had been
driven out into space. The heavy negative charge on the _Hippocrates_
met the heavy positive charge on Venus Equilateral. The ship touched,
and from that contact, there arose a cloud of incandescent gas. The
entire charge left the ship at once, and through that single contact.
When the cloud dissipated, the contact was a crude but efficient welded
joint that was gleaming white-hot.

Channing said to Walt: "That's going to be messy."

Inside of the _Hippocrates_, men were frozen to their handholds. It
was messy, and cleaning up the _Hippocrates_ was a job not relished by
those who did it.

But cleaning up Venus Equilateral was no small matter, either.

A week went by before the snarled-up instruments were repaired. A week
in which the captured _Hippocrates_ was repaired, too, and used to
transport prisoners to and material and special supplies from Terra,
and Venus, and Mars. A week in which the service from planet to planet
was erratic.

Then service was restored, and life settled down to a reasonable level.
It was after this that Walt and Channing found time to spend an idle
hour together. Walt raised his glass and said: "Here's to electrons!"

"Yeah," grinned Channing, "here's to electrons. Y'know, Walt, I was a
little afraid that space might become a sort of Wild West show, with
the ships bristling with space guns and betatrons and stuff like that.
In which case you'd have been a stinking benefactor. But if the recoil
is as bad as the output--and Newton said that it must be--I can't see
ships cluttering up their insides with stuff that'll screw up their
instruments and driver tubes. But the thing that amuses me about the
whole thing is the total failure you produced."

"Failure?" asked Walt. "What failed?"

"Don't you know? Have you forgotten? Do you realize that spaceships are
still ducking around meteors instead of blasting them out of the way
with the Franks Electron Gun? Or did you lose sight of the fact that
this dingbat started out in life as a meteor-sweeper?"

Walt glared over the rim of his glass, but he had nothing to say.




                             _Interlude:_


_Once the threat of piracy was over, Don Channing had an opportunity to
think once more of the much-talked-about tube that had been found on
the Martian Desert by Carroll and Baler. Predicated as a general rule,
any medium used for the transmission of energy can be used as a means
to transmit messages--intelligence, to use the more technical term. The
reverse is not true, practically._

_And since Don Channing's initial problem during these days was to
devise means of two-way communication from ship to planet--if not ship
to ship--he immediately returned to Mars to seek out Messrs. Baler and
Carroll._

_Strangely enough, the problem of communicating from planet to ship
was not solved--nor would it be complete until some means of returning
messages was devised. For the cams that kept the ship beams pointed
to the place where the invisible spaceship was supposed to be had no
way of knowing when the ship might swerve to miss a meteor. Many were
the messages that went into space--undelivered--because a ship dodged
a meteor that might have been dangerous. Postulating the rather low
possibility of danger made little difference. Misdirected messages were
of less importance than even the remote danger of death in the skies._

_But Don Channing's luck was running low. On arriving at Lincoln Head,
he discovered that Baler and Carroll had packed up their tube and left
for Terra. Keg Johnson knew about it; he informed Channing that the
foremost manufacturer of electrical apparatus had offered a lucrative
bid for the thing as it stood and that Big Jim Baler had grinned,
saying that the money that the Terran Electric Company was tossing
around would permit the two of them, Carroll and himself, to spend the
rest of their lives digging around the artifacts of Mars in style._

_So Channing sent word to Venus Equilateral and told them to get in
touch with either the Baler-Carroll combine or Terran Electric and make
dicker._

_Then he started to make the journey back to Venus Equilateral on the
regular spacelanes...._




                             OFF THE BEAM


Thirty hours out of Mars for Terra, the _Ariadne_ sped along her
silent, invisible course. No longer was she completely severed from all
connection with the planets of the inner system; the trick cams that
controlled the beams at Venus Equilateral kept the ship centered by
sheer mathematics in spite of her thirty hours at two G, which brought
her velocity to eleven hundred miles per second.

What made this trip ironic was the fact that Don Channing was aboard.
The beams had been bombarding the _Ariadne_ continually ever since
she left Mars with messages for the Director of Communications. In
one sense, it seemed funny that Channing was for once on the end of a
communications line where people could talk to him but from which he
could not talk back. On the other hand, it was a blessing in disguise,
for the Director of Communications was beginning to paper-talk himself
into some means of contacting Venus Equilateral from a spaceship.

A steward found Channing in the salon and handed him a 'gram. Channing
smiled, and the steward returned the smile and added: "You'll fix these
ships to talk back one day. Wait till you read that one--you'll burn
from here to Terra!"

"Reading my mail?" asked Channing cheerfully. The average spacegram was
about as secret as a postcard, so Channing didn't mind. He turned the
page over and read:

    HOPE YOU'RE WELL FILLED WITH GRAVANOL AND ADHESIVE TAPE FOR YOUR
    JUMP FROM TERRA TO STATION. SHALL TAKE GREAT DELIGHT IN RIPPING
    ADHESIVE TAPE OFF YOUR MEASLY BODY. LOVE.

    ARDEN

"She will, too," grinned Don. "Well, I'd like to toss her one back, but
she's got me there. I'll just fortify myself at the bar and think up a
few choice ones for when we hit Mojave."

"Some day you'll be able to answer those," promised the steward. "Mind
telling me why it's so tough?"

"Not at all," smiled Channing. "The problem is about the same as
encountered by the old-time cowboy. It's a lot easier to hit a man on
a moving horse from a nice, solid rock than it is to hit a man on a
nice, solid rock from a moving horse. Venus Equilateral is quite solid
as things go. But a spaceship's course is fierce. We're wobbling a few
milliseconds here and a few there, and by the time you use that arc
to swing a line of a hundred million miles, you're squirting quite a
bit of sky. We're tinkering with it right now, but so far we have come
up with nothing. Ah, well, the human race got along without electric
lights for a few million years, we can afford to tinker with an idea
for a few months. Nobody is losing lives or sleep because we can't talk
with the boys back home."

"We've been hopping from planet to planet for quite a number of years,
too," said the steward. "Quite a lot of them went by before it was even
possible to contact a ship in space."

"And that was done because of an emergency. Probably this other
thing will go on until we hit an emergency; then we shall prove that
old statement about a loaf of bread being the maternal parent of a
locomotive." Channing lit a cigarette and puffed deeply. "Where do we
stand?"

"Thirty hours out," answered the steward. "About ready for turnover. I
imagine that the power engineer's gang is changing cathodes about now."

"It's a long drag," said Channing. He addressed himself to his glass
and began to think of a suitable answer for his wife's latest thrust.

Bill Hadley, of the power engineer's gang, spoke to the pilot's
greenhouse below the ship. "Hadley to the pilot room; cathodes 1 and 3
ready."

"Pilot Greenland to Engineer Hadley: Power fade-over from even to odd
now under way. Tubes 2 and 4 now dead; load on 1 and 3. You may enter 2
and 4."

"Check!"

Hadley cracked an air valve beside a circular air door. The hiss of
entering air crescendoed and died, and then Hadley cracked the door
that opened in upon the huge driver tube. With casual disregard for
the annular electrodes that would fill the tube with sudden death if
the pilot sent the driving power surging into the electrodes, Hadley
climbed to the top of the tube and used a spanner to remove four
huge bolts. A handy differential pulley permitted him to lower the
near-exhausted cathode from the girders to the air door, where it was
hauled to the deck. A fresh cathode was slung to the pulley and hoisted
to place. Hadley bolted it tight and clambered back into the ship. He
closed the air door and the valve, and then opened the valve that led
from the tube to outer space. The tube evacuated and Hadley spoke once
more to the pilot room.

"Hadley to Greenland: Tube 4 ready."

"Check."

The operation was repeated on tube 2, and then Pilot Greenland said:
"Fade-back beginning. Power diminishing on 1 and 3, increasing on 2 and
4. Power equalized, acceleration two G as before. Deviation from norm:
two-tenths G."

Hadley grinned at the crew. "You'd think Greenland did all that
himself, the way he talks. If it weren't for autopilots, we'd have been
all over the sky."

Tom Bennington laughed. He was an old-timer, and he said in a
reminiscent tone: "I remember when we did that on manual. There were as
many cases of _mal-de-void_ during cathode change as during turnover.
Autopilots are the nuts--look! We're about to swing right now, and
I'll bet a fiver that the folks below won't know a thing about it."

       *       *       *       *       *

A coincidence of mammoth proportions occurred at precisely that
instant. It was a probability that made the chance of drawing a royal
flush look like the chances of tomorrow coming on time. It was, in
fact, one of those things that they said couldn't possibly happen,
which went to prove only how wrong they were. It hadn't happened yet
and probably wouldn't happen again for a million million years, but it
did happen once.

Turnover was about to start. A relay circuit that coupled the
meteor-spotter to the autopilot froze for a bare instant, and the
coincidence happened between the freezing of the relay contacts
and the closing of another relay whose purpose it was to shunt the
coupler circuits through another line in case of relay failure. In
the conceivably short time between the failure and the device that
corrected failure, the _Ariadne_ hit a meteor head-on.

It is of such coincidence that great tragedies and great victories are
born.

The meteor, a small one as cosmic objects go, passed in through the
broad observation dome at the top of the ship. Unhampered, it zipped
through the central well of the _Ariadne_ and passed out through the
pilot's greenhouse at the bottom of the ship. Its speed was nothing
worth noting; a scant twenty miles per second almost sunward. But the
eleven hundred miles per second of the _Ariadne_ made the passage of
the meteor through the six hundred feet of the ship's length of less
duration than the fastest camera shutter.

In those microseconds, the meteor did much damage.

It passed through the main pilot room cable and scrambled those
circuits which it did not break entirely. It tore the elevator system
from its moorings. It entered as a small hole in the observation dome
and left taking the entire pilot's greenhouse and all of the complex
paraphernalia with it.

The lines to the driver tubes were scrambled, and the ship shuddered
and drove forward at 10 gravities. An inertia switch tried to function,
but the resetting solenoid had become shorted across the main battery
and the weight could not drop.

Air doors clanged shut, closing the central well from the rest of the
ship and effectively sealing the well from the crew.

The lights in the ship flickered and died. The cable's shorted lines
grew hot and fire crept along its length and threatened the continuity.
The heat opened fire-quenching vents and a cloud of CO_{2} emerged
together with some of the liquid gas itself. The gas quenched the
fire and the cold liquid cooled the cable. Fuses blew in the shorted
circuits--

And the _Ariadne_ continued to plunge on and on at 10 gravities: the
maximum speed possible out of her driving system.

The only man who remained aware of himself aboard the _Ariadne_ was the
man who was filled with gravanol and adhesive tape. No other person
expected to be hammered down by high acceleration. Only Channing,
intending to leave Terra in his own little scooter, was prepared to
withstand high G. He, with his characteristic haste of doing anything
slowly, was ready to make the Terra to Venus Equilateral passage at
five or six gravities.

It might as well have caught him, too. With all of the rest
unconscious, hurt, or dead, he was alone and firmly fastened to the
floor of the salon under eighteen hundred pounds of his own, helpless
weight.

And as the hours passed, the _Ariadne_ was driving farther and farther
from the imaginary spot that was the focus of the communicator beams
from Venus Equilateral.

The newly replaced cathodes in the driving tubes were capable of
driving the ship for about two hundred G-hours at one G, before
exhaustion to the point of necessary replacement for safety purposes.
The proportion is not linear, nor is it a square-law, but roughly it
lies in the region just above linear, so that the _Ariadne_ drove on
and on through space for ten hours at ten G before the cathodes died
for want of emitting surface. They died, not at once, but in irregular
succession so that when the last erg of power was gone from the drivers
it was zooming on a straight line tangent from its point of collision
but rolling in a wild gyration through the void.

And twenty-five hundred miles per second, added to her initial velocity
of eleven hundred miles per second summed up to thirty-six hundred
miles per second. She should have had about seventy-five million miles
to go at minus two G to reach Terra in thirty hours from the halfway
point, where she turned ends to go into deceleration. Instead, the
_Ariadne_ after ten hours of misdirected ten-G acceleration was thirty
million miles on her way, or about halfway to Terra. Three hours later,
driving free, the _Ariadne_ was passing Terra, having missed the planet
by several million miles.

Back in space, at a no longer existent junction between the beams from
Venus Equilateral and the _Ariadne_, Arden Channing's latest message
was indicating all sorts of minor punishment for her husband when she
got him home.

By the time that the _Ariadne_ should have been dropping out of the sky
at Mojave Spaceport, the ship would be one hundred and ninety million
miles beyond Terra and flirting with the imaginary line that marked the
orbit of Mars.

That would be in seventeen hours.

Weightless, Channing pursued a crazy course in the salon of the
spinning ship. He ached all over from the pressure, but the gravanol
had kept his head clear and the adhesive tape had kept his body
intact. He squirmed around in the dimness and could see the inert
figures of the rest of the people who had occupied the salon at
the time of the mishap. He became sick. Violence was not a part of
Channing's nature--at least he confined his violence to those against
whom he required defense. But he knew that many of those people who
pursued aimless orbits in the midair of the salon with him would never
set foot on solidness again.

He wondered how many broken bones there were among those who had lived
through the ordeal. He wondered if the medical staff of one doctor and
two nurses could cope with it.

Then he wondered what difference it made, if they were to go on and
on? Channing had a rough idea of what had happened. He knew something
about the conditions under which they had been traveling, how long, and
in what direction. It staggered him, the figures he calculated in his
mind. It behooved him to do something.

He bumped an inert figure and grabbed. One hand took the back of the
head and came away wet and sticky. Channing retched, and then threw
the inert man from him. He coasted back against a wall, and caught a
handrail. Hand-over-hand he went to the door and into the hall. Down
the hall he went to the passengers' elevator shaft, and with no thought
of what his action would have been on any planet, Channing opened the
door and dove down the shaft for several decks. He emerged and headed
for the sick ward.

He found the doctor clinging to his operating table with his knees and
applying a bandage to one of his nurses' head.

"Hello, Doc," said Channing. "Help?"

"Grab Jen's feet and hold her down," snapped the doctor.

"Bad?" asked Don as he caught the flailing feet.

"Seven stitches, no fracture," said the doctor.

"How's the other one?"

"Unconscious, but unharmed. Both asleep in bed, thank God. So was I.
Where were--? You're Channing; all doped up with gravanol and adhesive.
Thank yourself a god for that one, too. I'm going to need both of my
nurses, and we'll all need you."

"Hope I can do some good," said Don.

"You'd better. Or any good I can do will be wasted. Better start right
now. Here," the doctor produced a set of keys, "these will unlock
anything on the ship but the purser's safe. You'll need 'em. Now get
along and do something and leave the body-mending to me. Scram!"

"Can you make out all right?"

"As best I can. But you're needed to get us help. If you can't, no man
in the Solar System can. You're in the position of a man who can not
afford to help in succoring the wounded and dying. It'll be tough, but
there it is. Get cutting. And for Heaven's sake, get us two things:
light and a floor. I couldn't do more than slap on tape whilst floating
in air. See you later, Channing, and good luck."

The nurse squirmed, groaned, and opened her eyes. "What happened?" she
asked, blinking into the doctor's flashlight.

"Tell you later, Jen. Get Fern out of her coma in the ward and then
we'll map out a plan. Channing, get out of here!"

Channing got after borrowing a spare flashlight from the doctor.

He found Hadley up in the instrument room with a half dozen of his men.
They were a mass of minor and major cuts and injuries, and were working
under a single incandescent lamp that had been wired to the battery
direct by means of spare cable. The wire went snaking through the air
in a foolish, crooked line, suspended on nothing. Hadley's gang were
applying first aid to one another and cursing the lack of gravity.

"Help?" asked Channing.

"Need it or offer it?" asked Hadley with a smile.

"Offer it. You'll need it."

"You can say that again--and then pitch in. You're Channing, of
Communications, aren't you? We're going to have a mad scramble on
the main circuits of this tub before we can unwind it. I don't think
there's an instrument working in the whole ship."

"You can't unravel the whole works, can you?"

"Won't try. About all we can do is replace the lighting system and hang
the dead cathodes in again. They'll be all right to take us out of this
cockeyed skew-curve and probably will last long enough to keep a half-G
floor under us for tinkering, for maybe forty or fifty hours. Assistant
Pilot Darlange will have to learn how to run a ship by the seat of his
pants--as far as I can guess there isn't even a splinter of glass left
in the pilot room--so he'll have to correct this flight by feel and by
using a haywire panel."

"Darlange is a school pilot," objected one of Hadley's men.

"I know, Jimmy, but I've seen him work on a bum autopilot, and he
can handle haywire all right. It'll be tough without Greenland, but
Greenland--" Hadley let the sentence fall; there was no need to mention
the fact that Greenland was probably back there with the rest of the
wreckage torn from the _Ariadne_.

Jimmy nodded, and the action shook him from his position. He floated.
He grabbed at a roll of tape that was floating near him and let it go
with a laugh as he realized it was too light to do him any good.

"Too bad that this gyration is not enough to make a decent gravity at
the ends, at least," snorted Hadley. He hooked Jimmy by an arm and
hauled the man back to a place beside him. "Now look," he said. "I
can't guess how many people are still in working condition after this.
Aside from our taped and doped friend here, the only ones I have are we
who were snoozing in our beds when the crush came. I'll bet a cookie
that the rest of the crowd are all nursing busted ribs, and worse.
Lucky that full ten G died slowly as the cathodes went out; otherwise
we'd all have been tossed against the ceiling with bad effects.

"Jimmy, you're a committee of one to roam the crate and make a list of
everyone who is still in the running and those who can be given minor
repairs to make them fit for limited work. Doc has a pretty good supply
of Stader splints; inform him that these are to be used only on men who
can be useful with them. The rest will have to take to plaster casts
and the old-fashioned kind of fracture support.

"Pete, you get to the executive desk and tell Captain Johannson that
we're on the job and about to make with repairs. As power engineer,
I've control of the maintenance gang, too, and we'll collect the whole,
hale, and hearty of Michaels' crew on our merry way.

"Tom, take three of your men and begin to unravel the mess with an eye
toward getting us lights.

"Tony, you can do this alone since we have no weight. You get the stale
cathodes from the supply hold and hang 'em back in the tubes.

"Channing, until we get a stable place, you couldn't do a thing about
trying to get help, so I suggest that you pitch in with Bennington,
there, and help unscramble the wiring. You're a circuit man, and though
power-line stuff is not your forte, you'll find that running a lighting
circuit is a lot easier than neutralizing a microwave transmitter. Once
we get light, you can help us haywire a control panel. Right?"

"Right," said Channing. "And as far as contacting the folks back home
goes, we couldn't do a darned thing until the time comes when we should
be dropping in on Mojave. They won't be looking for anything from us
until we're reported missing; then I imagine that Walt Franks will have
everything from a spinthariscope to a gold-foil electroscope set up.
Right now I'm stumped, but we have seventeen hours before we can start
hoping to be detected. Tom, where do we begin?"

Bennington smiled inwardly. To have Don Channing asking him for orders
was like having Captain Johannson request the batteryman's permission
to change course. "If you can find and remove the place where the
shorted line is, and then splice the lighting circuit again, we'll
have a big hunk of our work done. The rest of us will begin to take
lines off of the pilot's circuits right here in the instrument room, so
that our jury-controls can be hooked in. You'll need a suit, I think,
because I'll bet a hat that the shorted circuit is in the well."

For the next five hours, the instrument room became a beehive of
activity. Men began coming in driblets, and were put to work as
they came. The weightlessness gave quite a bit of trouble; had the
instrument panels been electrically hot, it would have been downright
dangerous, since it was impossible to do any kind of work without
periodically coming into contact with bare connections. Tools floated
around the room in profusion, and finally Hadley appointed one man
to do nothing but roam the place to retrieve "dropped" tools. The
soldering operations were particularly vicious, since the instinctive
act of flinging excess solder from the tip of an iron made droplets
of hot solder go zipping around the room to splash against something,
after which the splashes would continue to float.

Men who came in seeking to give aid were handed tools and told to do
this or that, and the problem of explaining how to free a frozen relay
to unskilled help was terrific.

Then at the end of five hours, Channing came floating in to the
instrument room. He flipped off the helmet and said to Hadley: "Make
with the main switch. I think I've got it."

Throughout the ship the lights blinked on.

With the coming of light, there came hope also. Men took a figurative
hitch in their belts and went to work with renewed vigor. It seemed
as though everything came to a head at about this time, too. Hadley
informed Darlange that his jury-control was rigged and ready for
action, and about the same time, the galley crew came in with
slender-necked bottles of coffee and rolls.

"It was a job, making coffee," grinned the steward. "The darned stuff
wanted to get out of the can and go roaming all over the place. There
isn't a one of us that hasn't got a hot coffee scar on us somewhere.
Now if he"--nodding at Darlange--"can get this thing straightened out,
we'll have a real dinner."

"Hear that, Al? All that stands between us and a dinner is you. Make
with the ship-straightening. Then we'll all sit around and wait for
Channing to think."

"Is the ship's communicator in working order?" asked Darlange.

"Sure. That went on with the lights."

Darlange called for everyone in the ship to hold himself down, and
then he tied his belt to the frame in front of the haywired panel. He
opened the power on drivers 1 and 2, and the ship's floor surged ever
so little.

"How're you going to know?" asked Hadley.

"I've got one eye on the gyrocompass," said Darlange. "When it stops
turning, we're going straight. Then all we have to do is to set our
bottom end along the line of flight and pack on the decel. Might as
well do it that way since every MPS we can lose is to our advantage."

He snapped switches that added power to driver 3. Gradually the
gyrocompass changed from a complex rotation-progression to a simpler
pattern, and eventually the simple pattern died, leaving but one
freedom of rotation. "I'm sort of stumped," grinned Darlange. "We're
now hopping along, but rotating on our long axis. How we stop axial
rotation with drivers set parallel to that axis I'll never guess."

"Is there a lifeship in working order?" asked Hadley.

"Sure."

"Tom, turn it against the rotation and apply the drivers on that until
we tell you to stop."

An hour later the ship had ceased to turn. Then Darlange jockeyed the
big ship around so that the bottom was along the line of flight. Then
he set the power for a half-G, and everyone relaxed.

Ten minutes later Captain Johannson came in.

"You've done a fine job," he told Hadley. "And now I declare an hour
off for dinner. Dr. MacLain has got a working medical center with
the aid of a few people who understand how such things work, and the
percentage of broken bones, though terrific in number, is being taken
care of. The passengers were pretty restive at first, but the coming of
light seemed to work wonders. This first glimmer of power is another.
About nine or ten who were able to do so were having severe cases
of skysickness." He smiled ruefully. "I'm not too sure that I like
no-weight myself."

"Have you been in the observation dome?" asked Don.

"Yes. It's pierced, you know."

"Did the meteor hit the telescope?"

"No, why?"

"Because I'm going to have to get a sight on Venus Equilateral before
we can do anything. We'll have to beam them something, but I don't know
what right now."

"Can we discuss that over a dinner?" asked the captain. "I'm starved,
and I think that the rest of this gang is also."

"You're a man after my own heart," laughed Channing. "The bunch out
at the station wouldn't believe me if I claimed to have done anything
without drawing it up on a tablecloth."

"Now," said Channing over his coffee, "what have we in the way of
electronic equipment?"

"One X-ray machine, a standard set of communicating equipment, one beam
receiver with 'type machine for collecting stuff from your station, and
so on."

"You wouldn't have a betatron in the place somewhere?" asked Don
hopefully.

"Nope. Could we make one?"

"Sure. Have you got about a hundred pounds of Number 18 wire?"

"No."

"Then we can't."

"Couldn't you use a driver? Isn't that some kind of a beam?"

"Some kind," admitted Channing. "But it emits something that we've
never been able to detect except in an atmosphere where it ionizes the
air into a dull red glow."

"You should have been wrecked on the _Sorcerer's Apprentice_," laughed
Hadley. "They're the guys who have all that kind of stuff."

"Have they?" asked Johannson.

"The last time I heard, they were using a large hunk of their upper
hull for a Van Der Graf generator."

"That would do it," said Channing thoughtfully. "But I don't think I'd
know how to modulate a Van Der Graf. A betatron would be the thing. You
can modulate that, sort of, by keying the input. She'd give out with
hundred-and-fifty-cycle stuff. How much of a trick is it to clear the
observation dome from the top?"

"What do you intend to do?"

"Well, we've got a long, hollow tube in this ship. Knock out the
faceted dome above, and we can rig us up a huge electron gun. We'll
turn the ship to point at the station and beam 'em with a bouquet of
electrons."

"How're you going to do that?"

"Not too tough, I don't think. Down here," and Channing began to trace
on the tablecloth, "we'll put in a hot cathode. About this level we'll
hang the first anode, and at this level we'll put the second anode.
Here'll be an acceleration electrode, and up near the top we'll put
a series of focussing anodes. We'll tap in to the driver-tube supply
and take off voltage to suit us. Might use a tube at that, but the
conversion to make an honest electron gun out of it would disrupt our
power, and then it would be impossible to re-make a driver out of it
without recourse to a machine shop."

"How are you going to make electrodes?"

"We'll use the annular gratings that run around the central well at
each level," said Channing. "We'll have a crew of men cut 'em free and
insulate the resulting rings with something. Got anything?"

"There is a shipment of methyl-methacrylate rods for the Venus Power
Company in hold 17," said the cargo master.

"Fine," said Channing. "What size?"

"Three inches by six feet."

"It'll be tricky work, and you'll have to wait until your cut edge has
cooled before you hook on the rods," mused Don. "But that's the ticket."

"Which floors do you want?"

"Have you got a scale drawing of the _Ariadne_?"

"Sure."

"Then this is where my tablecloth artistry falls flat. The focussing of
an electron beam depends upon the electrode spacing and the voltage.
Since our voltage is fixed if we take it from the drivers' electrodes,
we'll have to do some mighty fine figuring. I'll need that scale
drawing."

Channing's tablecloth engineering was not completely wasted. By the
time the scale drawing was placed before him, Channing had half of the
table filled with equations. He studied the drawing, and selected the
levels which were to serve as electrodes. He handed the drawings to
Hadley, and the power engineer began to issue instructions to his gang.

Then the central well began to swarm with space-suited men who bore
cutting torches. Hot sparks danced from the cut girders that held the
floorings, and at the same time, a crew of men were running cables from
the various levels to the instrumented room. More hours passed while
the circular sections were insulated with the plastic rods.

The big dome above was cut in sections and removed, and then the sky
could be seen all the way from the bottom of the ship where the pilot's
greenhouse should have been.

Channing looked it over and then remarked: "All we need now is an
electron collector."

"I thought you wanted to shoot 'em off," objected Hadley.

"I do. But we've got to have a source of supply. You can't toss
baseballs off of the Transplanet Building in Northern Landing all
afternoon, you know, without having a few brought to you now and then.
Where do you think they come from?"

"Hadn't thought of it in that way. What'd happen?"

"We'd get along for the first umpty-gillion electrons, and then all
the soup we could pack on would be equalized by the positive charge
on the ship and we couldn't shoot out any more until we got bombarded
by the sun--and that bombardment is nothing to write home about as
regards quantity. We're presenting too small a target. What we need is
a selective solar intake plate of goodly proportions."

"We could use a mental telepathy expert, too. Or one of those new beam
tubes that Baler and Carroll dug up out of the Martian desert. I've
heard that those things will actually suck power out of any source, and
bend beams so as to enter the intake vent, or end."

"We haven't one of those, either. Fact of the matter is," grinned
Channing, ruefully, "we haven't much of anything but our wits."

"Unarmed, practically," laughed Hadley.

"Half armed, at least. Ah, for something to soak up electrons. I'm now
wondering if this electron gun is such a good idea."

"Might squirt some protons out the other direction," offered Hadley.

"That would leave us without either," said Don. "We'd be like the man
who tossed baseballs off of one side and himself off the other--Hey!
Of course, we have some to spare. We can cram electrons out of the
business end, thus stripping the planetary rings from the atoms in
our cathode. From the far side we'll shoot the canal rays, which in
effect will be squirting protons, or the nuclei. Since the planetaries
have left for the front, it wouldn't be hard to take the protons away,
leaving nothing. At our present voltages, we might be able to do it."
Channing began to figure again, and he came up with another set of
anodes to be placed beyond the cathode. "We'll ventilate the cathode
and hang these negative electrodes on the far side. They will attract
the protons, impelled also by the positive charge on the front end.
We'll maintain a balance that way, effectively throwing away the whole
atomic structure of the cathode. The latter will fade, just as the
cathodes do in the driving tubes, only we'll be using electronic power
instead of sub-electronic. Y'know, Hadley, some day someone is going to
find a way to detect the--we'll call it radiation for want of anything
better--of the driver. And then there will be opened an entirely new
field of energy. I don't think that anybody has done more about the
so-called sub-electronic field than to make a nice, efficient driving
device out of it."

"Well, let's get our canal-ray electrodes in place. We've got about two
hours before they realize that we aren't going to come in at Mojave.
Then another two hours of wild messages between Venus Equilateral and
Mojave. Then we can expect someone to be on the lookout. I hope to be
there when they begin to look for us. At our present velocity, we'll
be flirting with the Asteroid Belt in less than nothing flat. That
isn't too bad--normally--but we're running without any meteor detector
and autopilot coupler. We couldn't duck anything from a robin's egg on
up."

"We'll get your anodes set," said Hadley.

       *       *       *       *       *

Walt Franks grinned at Arden Channing. "That'll burn him," he assured
her.

"It's been on the way for about twenty minutes," laughed Arden. "I
timed it to arrive at Terra at the same time the _Ariadne_ does.
They'll send out a special messenger with it, just as Don is getting
aboard his little scooter. It'll be the last word, for we're not
following him from Terra to here."

"You know what you've started?" asked Franks.

"Nothing more than a little feud between husband and self."

"That's just the start. Before he gets done, Don will have every ship
capable of answering back. I've found that you can catch him off
base just once. He's a genius--one of those men who never make the
same mistake twice. He'll never again be in a position to be on the
listening end only."

"Don's answer should be on the way back by now," said Arden. "Could be
you're right. Something should be done."

"Sure I'm right. Look at all the time that's wasted in waiting for
a landing to answer 'grams. In this day and age, time is money,
squared. The latter is to differentiate between this time and the first
glimmering of speedy living."

"Was there a first glimmering?" asked Arden sagely. "I've often thought
that the speed-up was a stable acceleration from the dawn of time to
the present."

"All right, go technical on me," laughed Walt. "Things do move. That
is, all except the message from your loving husband."

"You don't suppose he's squelched?"

"I doubt it. Squelching Donald Channing is a job for a superbeing. And
I'm not too sure that a superbeing could squelch Don and make him stay
squelched. Better check on Mojave."

"Gosh, if Don missed the _Ariadne_ and I've been shooting him all kinds
of screwy 'types every hour on the hour; Walt, that'll keep him quiet
for a long, long time."

"He'd have let you know."

"That wouldn't have been so bad. But if the big bum missed and was
ashamed of it--that'll be the payoff. Whoa, there goes the 'type!"

Arden drew the tape from the machine:

    MESSAGE BEING HELD FOR ARRIVAL OF ARIADNE.

Walt looked at his watch and checked the course constants of the
_Ariadne_. He called the beam-control dome and asked for the man on the
ship's beam.

"Benny," he said, "has the _Ariadne_ arrived yet?"

"Sure," answered Benny. "According to the mechanical mind here, they've
been on Mojave for twenty minutes."

"Thanks." To Arden he said: "Something's strictly fishy."

Arden sat at the machine and pounded the keys:

    ARIADNE DUE TO ARRIVE AT 19:06:41. IT IS NOW 19:27:00. BEAM CONTROL
    SAYS TRANSMISSIONS ENDED BECAUSE OF COINCIDENCE BETWEEN TERRA BEAM
    AND STATION-TO-SHIP BEAM. PLEASE CHECK.

Arden fretted and Walt stamped up and down the room during the long
minutes necessary for the message to reach Terra and the answer to
return. It came right on the tick of the clock:

    HAVE CHECKED COURSE CONSTANTS. SHIP OVERDUE NOW FIFTY MINUTES.
    OBVIOUSLY SOMETHING WRONG. CAN YOU HELP?

Walt smiled in a grim fashion. "Help!" he said. "We go on and on for
years and years with no trouble--and now we've lost the third ship in a
row."

"They claim that those things always run in threes," said Arden. "What
are we going to do?"

"I don't know. We'll have to do something. Funny, but the one reason we
must do something is the same reason why something can be done."

"I don't get that."

"With Channing on the _Ariadne_, something can be done. I don't know
what, but I'll bet you a new hat that Don will make it possible for us
to detect the ship. There is not a doubt in my mind that if the ship is
still space-worthy, we can narrow the possibilities down to a thin cone
of space."

"How?"

"Well," said Franks taking the fountain pen out of the holder on
the desk and beginning to sketch on the blotter, "the course of the
_Ariadne_ is not a very crooked one, as courses go. It's a very shallow
skew curve. Admitting the worst, collision, we can assume only one
thing. If the meteor were small enough to leave the ship in a floating
but undirigible condition, it would also be small enough to do nothing
to the general direction of the ship. Anything else would make it
useless to hunt, follow?"

"Yes, go on."

"Therefore we may assume that the present position of the ship is
within the volume of a cone made by the tangents of the outermost
elements of the space curve that is the ship's course. We can take an
eight-thousand-mile cylinder out of one place--for the origin of their
trouble is between Mars and Terra and the 'shadow' of Terra in the cone
will not contain the _Ariadne_."

"Might have passed close enough to Terra to throw her right into the
'shadow' of Terra by attraction," objected Arden.

"Yeah, you're right. O.K., so we can't take out that cylinder of
space. And we add a sort of sidewise cone on to our original cone,
a volume through which the ship might have passed after flying close
enough to Terra to be deflected. I'll have the slipstick experts give a
guess as to the probability of the _Ariadne's_ course, and at the same
time we'll suspend all incoming operations. I'm going to set up every
kind of detector I can think of, and I don't want anything upsetting
them."

"What kind of stuff do you expect?" asked Arden.

"I dunno. They might have a betatron aboard. In that case we'll
eventually get a blast of electrons that'll knock our front teeth out.
Don may succeed in tinkering up some sort of electrostatic field. We
can check the solar electrostatic field to about seven decimal places
right here, and any deviation in the field to the tune of a couple
of million electron volts at a distance of a hundred million miles
will cause a distortion in the field that we can measure. We'll ply
oscillating beams through the area of expectation and hope for an
answering reflection, though I do not bank on that. We'll have men on
the lookout for everything from smoke signals to helio. Don't worry too
much, Arden, your husband is capable of doing something big enough to
be heard. He's just the guy to do it."

"I know," said Arden soberly. "But I can't help worrying."

"Me, too. Well, I'm off to set up detectors. We'll collect something."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Have we got anything like a piece of gold leaf?" asked Channing.

"I think so, why?"

"I want to make an electroscope. That's about the only way I'll know
whether we are getting out with this cockeyed electron gun."

"How so?" asked Hadley.

"We can tell from the meter that reads the beam current whether
anything is going up the pipe," explained Channing. "But if we just
build us a nice heavy duty charge--as shown by the electroscope--we'll
be sure that the electrons are not going far. This is one case where no
sign is good news."

"I'll have one of the boys set up an electroscope in the instrument
room."

"Good. And now have the bird on the telescope find Venus Equilateral.
Have him set the 'scope angles to the figures here and then have
him contact Darlange to have the ship slued around so that Venus
Equilateral is on the cross hairs. That'll put us on a line with the
station. A bundle of electrons of this magnitude will make a reading on
any detectors that Walt can set up."

Hadley called the observation dome. "Tim," he said, giving a string of
figures, "set your 'scope for these and then get Darlange to slue the
crate around so that your cross hairs are on Venus Equilateral."

"O.K.," answered Tim. "That's going to be a job. This business of
looking through a 'scope while dressed in a spacesuit is no fun. Here
goes."

He called Darlange, and the communicator system permitted the men in
the instrument room to hear his voice. "Dar," he said, "loop us around
about forty-one degrees from driver 3."

Darlange said: "Right!" and busied himself at his buttons.

"Three degrees on driver 4."

"Right!"

"Too far, back her up a degree on 4."

Darlange laughed. "What do you think these things are, blocks and
tackles? You mean: 'Compensate a degree on 2.'"

"You're the pilot. That's the ticket--and I don't care if you lift it
on one hand. Can you nudge her just a red hair on 3?"

"Best I can do is a hair and a half," said Darlange. He gave driver 3
just a tiny, instantaneous surge.

"Then take it up two and back one and a half," laughed Tim. "Whoa,
Nellie, you're on the beam."

"Fine."

"Okay, Dar, but you'll have to play monkey on a stick. I'll prime you
for any moving so that you can correct immediately."

"Right. Don, we're on the constants you gave us. What now?"

"At this point I think a short prayer would be of assistance," said
Channing soberly. "We're shooting our whole wad right now."

"I hope we make our point."

"Well, it's all or nothing," agreed Don as he grasped the switch.

He closed the switch, and the power demand meters jumped up across
their scales. The gold leaf electroscope jumped once; the ultra-thin
leaves jerked apart by an inch, and then oscillated stiffly until they
came to a balance. Channing, who had been looking at them, breathed
deeply and smiled.

"We're getting out," he said.

"Can you key this?" asked Hadley.

"No need," said Channing. "They know we're in the grease. We know that
if they can collect us, they'll be on their way. I'm going to send out
for a half-hour, and then resort to a five-minute transmission every
fifteen minutes. They'll get a ship after us with just about everything
we're liable to need, and they can use the five-minute transmissions
for direction finding. The initial shot will serve to give them an idea
as to our direction. All we can do now is to wait."

"And hope," added Captain Johannson.

Electrically, Venus Equilateral was more silent than it had ever been.
Not an electrical appliance was running on the whole station. People
were cautioned about walking on deep-pile rugs, or combing their hair
with plastic combs, or doing anything that would set up any kind of
electronic charge. Only the highly filtered generators in the power
rooms were running and these had been shielded and filtered long years
before; nothing would emerge from them to interrupt the ether. All
incoming signals were stopped.

And the men who listened with straining ears claimed that the sky was
absolutely clear save for a faint crackle of cosmic static which they
knew came from the corona of the Sun.

One group of men sat about a static-field indicator and cursed the
minute wiggling of the meter, caused by the ever moving celestial
bodies and their electronic discharges. A sunspot emission passed
through the station once, and though it was but a brief passage, it
sent the electrostatic field crazy and made the men jump.

The men who were straining their ears to hear became nervous and were
jumping at every loud crackle.

And though the man at the telescope knew that his probability of
picking up a sight of the _Ariadne_ was as slender as a spider's
web, he continued to search the starry heavens. He swept the narrow
cone of the heavens wherein the _Ariadne_ was lost according to the
mathematical experts, and he looked at every bit of brightness in the
field of his telescope as though it might be the missing ship.

The beam-scanners watched their return-plates closely. It was difficult
because the receiver gains were set to maximum and every tick of static
caused brief flashes of light upon their plates. They would jump at
such a flash and hope for it to reappear on the next swipe, for a
continuous spot of light would indicate the ship they sought. Then, as
the spot did not reappear, they would go on with their beams to cover
another infinitesimal portion of the sky. Moving forward across the
cone of expectancy bit by bit, they crossed and recrossed until they
were growing restive.

Surely the ship must be there!

At the south end landing stage, a group of men were busy stocking a
ship. Supplies and necessities were carried aboard, while another
group of men tinkered with the electrical equipment. They cleared a
big space in the observation dome, and began to install a replica of
the equipment used on the station for detection. No matter what kind
of output Channing sent back, they would be able to follow it to the
bitter end.

They made their installations in duplicate, with one piece of each
equipment on opposite sides of the blunt dome. Balancing the inputs of
each kind by turning the entire ship would give them an indication of
direction.

Franks did not hope that the entire installation could be completed
before the signal came, but he was trying to outguess himself by
putting some of everything aboard. When and if it came, he would be
either completely ready with everything or he at least would have a
good start on any one of the number of detectors. If need be, the
detecting equipment in the station itself could be removed and used to
complete the mobile installation.

Everything was in a complete state of nervous expectancy. Watchers
watched, meter readers squinted for the barest wiggle, audio observers
listened, trying to filter any kind of man-made note out of the
irregular crackle that came in.

And the station announcing equipment was dead quiet, to be used only
in case of emergency or to announce the first glimmer of radiation,
whether it be material, electrical, kinetic, potential, or wave front.

Long they listened--and then it came.

The station announcing equipment broke forth in a multitude of voices.

"Sound input on radio!"

"Visual indication on scanner plates!"

"Distortion on electrostatic field indicator!"

"Super-electroscopes indicate negative charge!"

"Nothing on the telescope!"

There were mingled cheers and laughter as the speaker system broke away
from babel, and each group spoke its piece with no interference. Walt
Franks left the ship at the south end and raced to the beam control
dome, just as fast as the runway car would take him. He ran into the
dome in spacesuit and flipped the helmet back over his shoulder, "What
kind of indication?" he yelled.

Men crowded around him, offering him papers and showing figures.

"Gosh," he said, "Don can't have everything going up there."

"He's hit just about everything but the guy squinting through the
'scope."

"What's he doing?" asked Franks of nobody in particular.

Charles Thomas, who had been busy with the electrostatic field
indicator said: "I think maybe he's using some sort of electron
gun--like the one you tried first off on the meteor destroyer job,
remember?"

"Yeah, but that one wouldn't work--unless Don has succeeded in doing
something we couldn't do. Look, Chuck, we haven't had time to set up a
complete field indicator on the ship--grab yours and give the boys a
lift installing it, hey?"

"Sure thing," said Thomas.

"And look, fellows, any indication of direction, velocity, or distance?"

"Look for yourself," said the man on the beam scanner. "The whole plate
is shining. We can't get a fix on them this way--they're radiating
themselves and that means our scanner-system finder is worthless."

"We can, but it's rough," offered one of the radio men. "It came from
an area out beyond Terra--and as for our readings it might have covered
a quarter of the sky."

"The field indicator is a short-base finder," explained Thomas. "And
no less rough than the radio boys. I'd say it was out beyond Terra by
fifty million miles at least."

"Close enough. We'll have to track 'em down like a radio
equipped bloodhound. Chuck, come along and run that
mechanico-electro-monstrosity of yours. Gene, you can come along and
run the radio finder. Oh, yes, you, Jimmy, may continue to squint
through that eyepiece of yours--but on the _Relay Girl_. We need a
good, first-class squinter, and you should have an opportunity to help."

Jimmy laughed shortly. "The only guy on the station that didn't get an
indication was me. Not even a glimmer."

"Channing didn't know we'd be _looking_ for him, or he'd probably
light a flare, too. Cheer up, Jimmy, after all this crude, electrical
rigmarole is finished, and we gotta get right down to the last
millimeter, it's the guy with the eye that polishes up the job. You'll
have your turn."

Twenty minutes after the first glimmer of intelligent signal, the
_Relay Girl_ lifted from the south end and darted off at an angle,
setting her nose roughly in the direction of the signal.

Her holds were filled with spare batteries and a whole dozen
replacement cathodes, as well as her own replacements. Her crew was
filled to the eyebrows with gravanol, and there must have been a mile
of adhesive tape and cotton on their abdomens. At six G she left,
and at six G she ran, her crew immobilized but awake because of the
gravanol. And though the acceleration was terrific, the tape kept the
body from folding of its own weight. When they returned, they would all
be in the hospital for a week, but their friends would be with them.

Ten minutes after take-off, the signals ceased.

Walt said: "Keep her running. Don's saving electricity. Tell me when we
pick him up again."

Franklen, the pilot, nodded. "We haven't got a good start yet. It'll be
touch and go. According to the slipstick boys, they must be clapping it
up at between twenty-five hundred and five thousand miles per second to
get that far--and coasting free or nearly so. Otherwise they'd have
come in. Any suggestions as to course?"

"Sure. Whoop it up at six until we hit about six thousand. Then
decelerate to four thousand by using one G. We'll vacillate in velocity
between four and five until we get close."

Forty-one hours later, the _Relay Girl_ made turnover and began to
decelerate.

       *       *       *       *       *

Channing said to Captain Johannson: "Better cut the decel to about
a quarter G. That'll be enough to keep our heads from bumping the
ceiling, and it will last longer. This is going to be a long chase, and
cutting down a few MPS at a half G isn't going to make much never-mind.
I'll hazard a guess that the boys are on their way right now."

"If you say so," said Johannson. "You're the boss from now on. You
know that wild bunch on the station better than I do. For myself, I've
always felt that an answer was desirable before we do anything."

"I know Franks and my wife pretty well--about as well as they know me.
I've put myself in Walt's place--and I know what Walt would do. So--if
Walt didn't think of it, Arden would--I can assume that they are aware
of us, have received our signals, and are, therefore, coming along as
fast as they can. They'll come zipping out here at from five to seven
G to what they think is halfway and then decelerate again to a sane
velocity. We won't catch sight of them for sixty or seventy hours, and
when we do, they'll be going so fast that it will take another twenty
hours' worth of manipulation to match their speed with ours. Meanwhile,
I've got the gun timed to shoot our signal. When the going gets
critical, I'll cut the power and make it continuous."

"You're pretty sure of your timing?"

"Well, the best they can do as for direction and velocity and distance
is a crude guess. They'll place us out here beyond Terra somewhere.
They'll calculate the course requirements to get us this far in the
time allotted, and come to a crude figure. I'd like to try keying
this thing, but I know that keying it won't work worth a hoot at this
distance. Each bundle of keyed electrons would act as a separate
negative charge that would spread out and close up at this distance.
It's tough enough to hope that the electron beam will hold together
that far, let alone trying to key intelligence with it. We'll leave
well enough alone--and especially if they're trying to get a fix on us;
there's nothing worse than trying to fix an intermittent station. Where
are we now?"

"We're on the inner fringe of the Asteroid Belt, about thirty million
miles north, and heading on a secant course at thirty-four hundred MPS."

"Too bad Jupiter isn't in the neighborhood," said Channing. "We'll be
flirting with his orbit by the time they catch us."

"Easily," said Johannson. "In sixty hours, we'll have covered about six
hundred and fifty million miles. We'll be nearer the orbit of Saturn,
in spite of the secant course."

"Your secant approaches a radius as you get farther out," said Don,
absently. "As far as distances go, Titan, here we come!"

Johannson spoke to the doctor. "How're we doing?"

"Pretty well," said Doc. "There's as pretty an assortment of fractured
limbs, broken ribs, cracked clavicles, and scars, mars, and abrasions
as you ever saw. There are a number dead, worse luck, but we can't do
a thing about them. We can hold on for a week as far as food and water
goes. Everyone is now interested in the manner of our rescue rather
than worrying about it." He turned to Channing. "The words Channing and
Venus Equilateral have wonderful healing powers," he said. "They all
think your gang are part magician and part sorcerer."

"Why, for goodness' sake?"

"I didn't ask. Once I told 'em you had a scheme to contact the relay
station, they were all satisfied that things would happen for the
better."

"Anything we can do to help you out?"

"I think not," answered Doc. "What I said before still goes. Your job
is to bring aid--and that's the sum total of your job. Every effort
must be expended on that and that alone. You've got too many whole
people depending on you to spend one second on the hurt. That's my job."

"O.K.," said Channing. "But it's going to be a long wait."

"We can afford it."

"I hope we're not complicating the job of finding us by this quartering
deceleration," said Captain Johannson.

"We're not. We're making a sort of vector from our course, but the
deviation is very small. As long as the fellows follow our radiation,
we'll be found," Channing said with a smile. "The thing that is tough
is the fact that all the floors seem to lean over."

"Not much, though."

"They wouldn't lean at all if we were running with the whole set of
equipment," said Darlange. "We run a complete turnover without spilling
a drop from the swimming pool."

"Or even making the passengers aware of it unless they're looking at
the sky."

"Stop worrying about it," said Doc. "I'm the only guy who has to worry
about it and as long as the floor is still a floor, I can stand sliding
into the corner once in a while."

"We might tinker with the turnover drivers," offered Don. "We can
bring 'em down to a place where the velocity-deceleration vectors
are perpendicular to the floor upon which we stand while our ship is
sluing. We've got a lot of time on our hands, and I, for one, feel a
lot happier when I'm doing something."

"It's a thought," said Hadley. "Wanna try it?"

"Let's go."

       *       *       *       *       *

Thirty hours after the _Relay Girl_ left the station, Walt and Franklen
held a council of war, in which Chuck Thomas was the prime factor.

"We've come about two hundred million miles, and our present velocity
is something like four thousand miles per second," said Walt. "We're
going out toward Mars on a slightly-off radial course, to the north of
the ecliptic. That means we're a little over a quarter of a billion
miles from Sol, or about to hit the Asteroid Belt. Thinking it over a
little, I think we should continue our acceleration for another thirty
hours. What say?"

"The field has shown no change in intensity that I can detect," said
Thomas. "If they haven't dropped their radiated intensity, that
means that we are no closer to them than we were before. Of course,
we'd probably have to cut the distance by at least a half before any
measurable decrement made itself evident."

"They must be on the upper limit of that four thousand MPS," observed
Walt. "There's one thing certain, we'll never catch them by matching
their speed."

"Where will another thirty hours at six G put us and how fast?" asked
Franklen.

Silence ensued while they scribbled long figures on scratch paper.

"About eight hundred million miles from Sol," announced Walt.

"And about eight thousand MPS," added Chuck.

"That's a little extreme, don't you think?" asked Franklen.

"By about thirty percent," said Walt, scratching his chin. "If we hold
to our original idea of hitting it for six thousand, where will we be?"

"That would make it about forty-five hours from take-off, and we'd be
about four hundred and sixty million miles from Sol." Chuck grinned
widely and said: "By Jove!"

"What?"

"By Jove!"

"'By Jove!' What?"

"That's where we'd be--By Jove!"

"_Phew!_"

"I agree with you," said Franklen to Walt. "Better ignore him."

"Sure will after that. So then we'll be 'By Jove' at six thousand. That
would be a swell place to make turnover, I think. At one G decel to
about four thousand MPS that'll put us about--um, that'd take us about
ninety hours! We'll make that three G at twenty hours, which will put
us about three hundred and fifty million miles along, which plus the
original four hundred and sixty million adds up to eight hundred and
ten million--"

"When an astronaut begins to talk like that," interrupted Arden, "we of
the skyways say that he is talking in Congressional figures. The shoe
is on the other foot. What on earth are you fellows figuring?"

"Where we'll be and how fast we'll be going at a given instant of
particular importance," offered Walt. "When did you wake up?"

"About the third hundred million. All of those ciphers going by made a
hollow sound, like a bullet whistling in the wind."

"Well, we're trying to make the theories of probability match with
figures. We'll know in about forty-five hours whether we were right or
not."

"It's a good thing we have all space to go around in. Are you sure that
we have all eternity?"

"Don't get anxious. They're still coming in like a ton of bricks
four times per hour, which means that they're riding easy. I don't
want to overrun them at about three thousand MPS and have to spend
a week decelerating, returning, more decelerating, and then matching
velocities."

"I see. You know best. And where is this Asteroid Belt that I've heard
so much about?"

"To the south of us by a few million miles. Those bright specks that
you can't tell from stars are asteroids. The common conception of the
Asteroid Belt being filled to overflowing with a collection of cosmic
rubble like the rings of Saturn is a lot of hooey. We'll be past in
a little while and we haven't even come close to one. Space is large
enough for all of us, I think."

"But not when all of us want the same space."

"I don't care for their area," said Walt with a smile. "Let 'em have
it, I don't care. I'll stay up here and let them run as they will."

"You mean the ones that are moving downward?" asked Arden, indicating
the sky.

"Those are asteroids, yes. We're to the north, as you may check by
going around the ship to the opposite side. You'll see Polaris almost
directly opposite, there. Sol is almost directly below us, and that
bright one that you can see if you squint almost straight up is Saturn."

"I won't bother crossing the ship to see Polaris. I prefer the
Southern Cross, anyway. The thing I'm most interested in is: Are we
accomplishing anything?"

"I think that we've spent the last thirty hours just catching up,"
explained Walt. "Up to right now, we are going backwards, so to speak;
we're on even terms now, and will be doing better from here on in."

"It's the waiting that gets me down," said Arden. "Oh, for something to
do."

"Let's eat," suggested Walt. "I'm hungry, and now that I think of it, I
haven't eaten since we left the station. Arden, you are hereby elected
to the post of galley chief. Get Jimmy from the dome if you need help."

"Help? What for?"

"He can help you lift it out of the oven. Don must have a cast-iron
stomach."

"That's hearsay, I'll show you! As soon as I find the can opener,
breakfast will be served."

"Make mine dinner," said Chuck. "We've been awake all the time."

"O.K., we will have a combined meal, from grapefruit to ice cream.
Those who want any or all parts may choose at will. And fellows, please
let me know as soon as you get something tangible."

"That's a promise," said Walt. "Take it easy, and don't worry. We'll be
catching up with them one of these days."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Hadley, how much coating have we got on those cathodes?" asked Don
Channing.

"Not too much. We had about twenty G hours to begin with. We went to a
half G for twenty hours, and now we're running on a quarter G, which
would let us go for forty hours more."

"Well, look. If it should come to a choice between floor and signal
gun, we'll choose the gun. We've about eight hours left in the
cathodes, and since everybody is now used to quarter G we might even
slide it down to an eighth G, which would give us about sixteen hours."

"Your gun is still putting out?"

"So far as I can tell. Six hours from now, we should know, I think,
predicating my guess on whatever meager information they must have."

"We could save some juice by killing most of the lights in the ship."

"That's a thought. Johannson, have one of your men run around and
remove all lights that aren't absolutely necessary. He can kill about
three-quarters of them, I'm certain. That'll save us a few kilowatt
hours," said Channing. "And another thing. I'm about to drop the power
of our electron gun and run it continuously. If the boys are anywhere
in the neighborhood, they'll be needing continuous disturbance for
direction finding. I'd say in another five hours that we should start
continuous radiation."

"You know, Channing, if this thing works out all right, it will be a
definite vote for pure, deductive reasoning."

"I know. But the deductive reasoning is not too pure. It isn't
guesswork. There are two factors of known quality. One is that I know
Walt Franks and the other is that he knows me. The rest is a simple
matter of the boys on the station knowing space to the last inch, and
applying the theory of probabilities to it. We'll hear from them soon,
or I'll miss my guess. Just you wait."

"Yeah," drawled Captain Johannson, "we'll wait!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Chuck Thomas made another computation and said: "Well, Walt, we've been
narrowing them down for quite a long time now. We're getting closer and
closer to them, according to the field intensity. I've just got a good
idea of direction on that last five minute shot. Have Franklen swivel
us around on this course; pretty soon we'll be right in the middle of
their shots."

"We're approaching them asymptotically," observed Walt. "I wish I knew
what our velocity was with respect to theirs. Something tells me that
it would be much simpler if I knew."

"Walt," asked Arden, "how close can you see a spaceship?"

"You mean how far? Well, I don't know that it has ever been tried and
recorded. But we can figure it out easy enough by analogy. A period
is about thirty-thousandths of an inch in diameter, and visible from
a distance of thirty inches. I mean visible with no doubt about its
being there. That's a thousand to one. Now, the _Ariadne_ is about six
hundred feet tall and about four hundred feet in its major diameter,
so we can assume a little more than the four hundred feet--say five
hundred feet average of circular area, say--follow me?"

"Go on, you're vague, but normal."

"Then at a thousand to one, that becomes five hundred thousand
feet, and dividing by five thousand--round figures because it isn't
important enough to use that two hundred and eighty feet over the five
thousand--gives us one thousand miles. We should be able to see the
_Ariadne_ from a distance of a thousand miles."

"Then at four thousand miles per second we'll be in and through and out
of visual range in a half second?"

"Oh, no. They're rambling on a quite similar course at an unknown
but high velocity. Our velocity with respect to theirs is what will
determine how long they're within visual range."

"Hey, Walt," came the voice of Chuck Thomas. "The intensity of Don's
beam has been cut to about one-quarter and is now continuous. Does that
mean anything?"

"Might mean trouble for them. Either they're running out of soup and
mean for us to hurry up, or they assume we're close enough to obviate
the need for high power. We'd better assume they want haste and act
accordingly. How're the boys on the radio detectors coming along?"

"Fine. They've taken over the direction finding and claim that we are
right on their tail."

"Anything in the sights, Jimmy?"

"Not yet. But the electroscope boys claim that quarter power or not,
the input is terrific."

"Take a rest, Jimmy. We won't be there for a while yet. No use burning
your eyes out trying to see 'em. There'll be time enough for you to do
your share after we get 'em close enough to see with the naked eye.
What do the beam-scanners say?"

"Shucks," answered the man on the scanners, "they're still radiating.
How are we going to fix 'em on a reflected wave when they're more
powerful on their own hook? The whole plate is glaring white. And,
incidentally, so is the celestial globe in the meteor spotter. I've had
to cut that or we'd never be able to hold this course. Anything like a
meteor that comes in our way now will not register, and--"

The _Relay Girl_ lurched sickeningly. All over the ship, things rattled
and fell to the floors. Men grabbed at the closest solid object, and
then the _Relay Girl_ straightened out once more.

"_Whoosh!_" said Franks. "That was a big one!"

"Big one?" called Jimmy. "That, my friend, was none other than the
_Ariadne_!"

"Can you prove that?"

"Sure," chuckled Jimmy. "I saw 'em. I can still see 'em!"

"Franklen, hang on about seven G and follow Jimmy's orders. Chuck, see
if you can get anything cogent out of your gadget. Holy Green Fire,
with a cubic million million million megaparsecs in which to run, we
have to be so good that we run right into our quarry. Who says that
radio direction finding is not a precise science? Who says that we
couldn't catch--"

"Walt, they're losing fast."

"O.K., Jimmy, can you give me any idea as to their velocity with
respect to ours?"

"How long is she?"

"Six hundred feet."

Jimmy was silent for some seconds, "They're out of sight again, but I
make it about four to seven hundred miles per second."

"At seven G we should match that seven hundred in about four hours."

"And then go on decelerating so that they'll catch up?"

"No," said Walt. "I used the max figure and we can assume they aren't
going that fast, quite. At the end of four hours, we'll turnover and
wait until they heave in sight again and then we'll do some more
oscillating. We can match their velocity inside of ten hours, or
Franklen will get fired."

"If I don't," promised Franklen, "I'll quit. You can't fire me!"

"We should be able to contact them by radio," said Walt.

"We are!" called the radio man. "It's Channing. He says: 'Fancy meeting
you here.' Any answer?"

"Just say, 'Dr. Channing, I presume?'"

Channing's voice came out of the ship's announcer system as the radio
man made the necessary connections. It said: "Right--but what kept you
so long?"

"Our boss was away," replied Walt. "And we can't do a thing without
him."

"Some boss. Some crew of wild men. Can't go off on a fishing trip
without having my bunch chasing all over the Solar System."

"What's wrong with a little sight-seeing tour? We didn't mean any harm.
And speaking of harm, how are you and the rest of that bunch getting
along?"

"We're O.K. What do you plan after we finally get close enough
together to throw stones across?"

"We've got a whole hold full of spare batteries and a double set of
replacement cathodes. There is a shipload of gravanol aboard, too.
You'll need that and so will we. By the time we finish this jaunt,
we'll have been about as far out as anybody ever gets."

"Yeah--got any precise figures? We've been running on a guess and a
hope. I make it about seven hundred million."

"Make it eight and a half. At six G you'll cover another hundred and
fifty million miles before you stop. Take it twenty-two hours at six
G--and then another twenty-two at six. That should put you right back
here but going the other way at the same velocity. But wait, you've
been coasting. Mark off that last twenty-two hours and make it like
this: You'll be one thousand million miles from Sol when you come to
a stop at the end of the first twenty-two hours at six G. That hangs
you out beyond the orbit of Saturn by a couple of hundred million.
Make it back forty-four hours at six G, turnover and continue. By
that time we'll all be in so close that we can make any planet at
will--preferably you to Terra and we'll head for Venus Equilateral.
You'll come aboard us? No need for you to go with the rest."

"I can have the scooter sent out from Terra," said Channing. "How's
Arden?"

"I'm fine, you big runabout. Wait until I get you!"

"Why, Arden, I thought you might be glad to see me."

"Glad to see you?"

"But Arden--"

"Don't you 'But Arden' me, you big gadabout. Glad to see you! Boy, any
man that makes me chase him all over the Solar System! You just wait.
As soon as I get ahold of you, Don Channing, I'm going to--to bust out
and bawl like a kid! Hurry up, willya?"

"I'll be right over," said Don soberly.

And, strangely enough, Don did not deviate.




                             _Interlude:_


_Six thousand years ago, Sargon of Akkad held court on the plains of
Assyria by torchlight. Above his head there shone the myriad of stars,
placed there to increase his power and glory._

_But on one of the stars above called Mars, there were people who knew
a mighty civilization and a vast world of science. They flew above the
thin air of Mars and they hurled power by energy beam across the face
of the planet._

_Then they--died. They died, and they left but broken fragments of
their once-mighty civilization buried in the shifting, dusty sands
of Mars. Long centuries afterwards, man crossed space to find these
fragments and wonder._

_How or why they died is a matter of conjecture. It is known that iron
is the most stable of all known atomic structures besides helium. It
is also known that the surface of Mars has its characteristic reddish
hue because of the preponderance of iron compounds there. From the few
remaining artifacts, it is known that Mars exceeded the present Terran
science, which includes atomic power. The inference is that Mars died
completely in the horror of atomic war._

_This is but reasoning. The facts that are of interest include the
finding of a gigantic vacuum tube fastened to a shattered steel tower
in the sands between Canalopsis and Lincoln Head, Mars._

_The original finders, Martian archeologists Baler and Carroll, were
versed enough in electronics to make tests. They discovered many
interesting facts about this tube before they sold it to Terran
Electric for a monumental sum of money. Their reasons for selling the
thing were simple. They preferred digging in the sands of Mars to
plunging into the depths of a highly technical manufacturing business,
and the money was more than adequate._

_Don Channing's main objection was that Carroll and Baler did not
consult Venus Equilateral before they disposed of their find._

_That made it necessary for Venus Equilateral to acquire a tube for
their research by dealing with Terran Electric, which in this case was
similar to obtaining a ton of uranium ore from Oak Ridge back in the
year 1945. Often, of course, the shortest distance home is..._




                             THE LONG WAY


Don Channing stood back and admired his latest acquisition with all of
the fervency of a high school girl inspecting her first party dress.
It was so apparent, this affection between man and gadget, that the
workmen who were now carrying off the remnants of the packing case did
so from the far side of the bench so that they would not come between
the Director of Communications and the object of his affection. So
intent was Channing to the adoration of the object that he did not
hear the door open, nor the click of high heels against the plastic
flooring. He was completely unaware of his surroundings until Arden
said:

"Don, what on earth is that?"

"Ain't she a beaut," breathed Channing.

"Jilted for a jimcrank," groaned Arden. "Tell me, my quondam husband,
what is it?"

"Huh?" asked Don, coming to life once more.

"In plain, unvarnished words of one cylinder, what is that ... that
_that_?"

"Oh, you mean the transmission tube?"

"How do you do?" said Arden to the big tube. "Funny looking thing, not
like any transmitting tube I've ever seen before."

"Not a transmitting tube," explained Channing. "It is one of those
power transmission tubes that Baler and Carroll found on the Martian
Desert."

"I presume that is why the etch says: 'Made by Terran Electric,
Chicago'?"

Channing laughed. "Not the one found--there was only _one_ found. This
is a carbon copy. They are going to revolutionize the transmission of
power with them."

"Funny-looking gadget."

"Not so funny. Just alien."

"Know anything about it?"

"Not too much. But I've got Barney Carroll coming out here and a couple
of guys from Terran Electric. I'm going to strain myself to keep from
tinkering with the thing until they get here."

"Can't you go ahead? It's not like you to wait."

"I know," said Channing. "But the Terran Electric boys have sewed up
the rights to this dingus so tight that it is squeaking. Seems to be
some objection to working on them in the absence of their men."

"Why?"

"Probably because Terran Electric knows a good thing when they see
it. Barney's latest 'gram said that they were very reluctant to lend
this tube to us. Legally they couldn't refuse, but they know darned
well that we're not going to run power in here from Terra--or anywhere
else. They know we want it for experimentation, and they feel that it
is their tube and that if any experimentation is going to take place,
they're going to do it."

The workmen returned with two smaller cases; one each they placed on
benches to either side of the big tube. They knocked the boxes apart
and there emerged two smaller editions of the center tube--and even
Arden could see that these two were quite like the forward half and the
latter half, respectively, of the larger tube.

"Did you buy 'em out?" she asked.

"No," said Don simply. "This merely makes a complete circuit."

"Explain that one, please."

"Sure. This one on the left is the input-terminal tube which they call
the power-end. The good old D.C. goes in across these big terminals. It
emerges from the big end, here, and bats across in a beam of intangible
something-or-other until it gets to the relay tube, where it is once
more tossed across to the load-end tube. The power is taken from these
terminals on the back end of the load-end tube and is then suitable
for running motors, refrigerators, and so on. The total line-loss
is slightly more than the old-fashioned transmission line. The
cathode-dynode requires replacements about once a year. The advantages
over high-tension wires are many; in spite of the slightly-higher
line-losses, they are replacing long-lines everywhere.

"When they're properly aligned they will arch right over a mountain
of solid iron without attenuation. It takes one tower every hundred
and seventy miles, and the only restriction on tower height is that
the tube must be above ground by ten to one the distance that could be
flashed over under high intensity ultraviolet light."

"That isn't clear to me."

"Well, high tension juice will flash over better under ultraviolet
illumination. The tube must be high enough to exceed this distance by
ten to one at the operating voltage of the stuff down the line. The
boys in the Palanortis Jungles say they're a godsend, since there are a
lot of places where the high tension towers would be impossible since
the Palanortis Whitewood grows about a thousand feet tall."

"You'd cut a lot of wood to ream a path through from Northern Landing
to the power station on the Boiling River," said Arden.

"Yeah," drawled Don, "and towers a couple of hundred miles apart are
better than two thousand feet. Yeah, these things are the nuts for
getting power shipped across country."

"Couldn't we squirt it out from Terra?" asked Arden. "That would take
the curse off of our operating expenses."

"It sure would," agreed Channing heartily. "But think of the trouble
in aligning a beam of that distance. I don't know--there's this two
hundred miles' restriction, you know. They don't transmit worth a hoot
over that distance, and it would be utterly impossible to maintain
stations in space a couple of hundred miles apart, even from Venus,
from which we maintain a fairly close tolerance. We might try a hooting
big one, but the trouble is that misalignment of the things result in
terrible effects."

The door opened and Chuck Thomas and Walt Franks entered.

"How's our playthings?" asked Walt.

"Cockeyed looking gadgets," commented Chuck.

"Take a good look at 'em," said Channing. "Might make some working
X-ray plates, too. It was a lucky day that these got here before the
boys from Terran Electric. I doubt that they'd permit that."

"O.K.," said Chuck, "I'll bring the X-ray up here and make some pix.
We'll want working prints; Warren will have to take 'em and hang
dimensions on to fit."

"And we," said Channing to Walt Franks, "will go to our respective
offices and wait until the Terran Electric representatives get here."

The ship that came with the tubes took off from the landing stage, and
as it passed their observation dome, it caught Don's eye. "There goes
our project for the week," he said.

"Huh?" asked Walt.

"He's been like that ever since we tracked him down on the _Ariadne_,"
said Arden.

"I mean the detection of driver radiation," said Channing.

"Project for the week?" asked Walt. "Brother, we've been tinkering with
that idea for months, now."

"Well," said Don, "there goes four drivers, all batting out umpty-ump
begawatts of something. They can hang a couple of G on a six hundred
foot hull for hours and hours. The radiation they emit must be
detectable; don't tell me that such power is not."

"The interplanetary companies have been tinkering with drivers for
years and years," said Walt. "They have never detected it?"

"Could be, but there are a couple of facts that I'd like to point
out. One is that they're not interested in detection. They only want
the best in driver efficiency. Another thing is that the radiation
from the drivers is sufficient to ionize atmosphere into a dull red
glow that persists for several minutes. Next item is the fact that
we on Venus Equilateral should be able to invent a detector; we've
been tinkering with detectors long enough. Oh, I'll admit that it is
secondary-electronics--"

"Huh? That's a new one on me."

"It isn't electronics," said Channing. "It's sub-etheric or something
like that. We'll call it subelectronics for lack of anything else. But
we should be able to detect it somehow."

"Suppose there is nothing to detect?"

"That smacks of one hundred percent efficiency," laughed Don.
"Impossible."

"How about an electric heater?" asked Arden.

"Oh, Lord, Arden, an electric heater is the most ineffic--"

"Is it?" interrupted Arden with a smile. "What happens to radiation
when intercepted?"

"Turns to heat, of course."

"That takes care of the radiation output," said Arden. "Now, how about
electrical losses?"

"Also heat."

"Then everything that goes into an electric heater emerges as heat,"
said Arden.

"I get it," laughed Walt. "Efficiency depends on what you hope to
get. If what you want is losses, anything that is a total loss is one
hundred percent efficient. Set your machine up to waste power and it
becomes one hundred percent efficient as long as there is nothing
coming from the machine that doesn't count as waste."

"Fine point for arguing," smiled Channing. "But anything that will make
atmosphere glow dull red after the passage of a ship will have enough
waste to detect. Don't tell me that the red glow enhances the drive."

The door opened again and Chuck Thomas came in with a crew of men. They
ignored the three, and started to hang heavy cloth around the walls and
ceiling. Chuck watched the installation of the barrier-cloth, and then
said: "Beat it--if you want any young Channings!"

Arden, at least, had the grace to blush.

       *       *       *       *       *

The tall, slender man handed Don an envelope full of credentials. "I'm
Wesley Farrell," he said. "Glad to have a chance to work out here with
you fellows."

"Glad to have you," said Don. He looked at the other man.

"This is Mark Kingman."

"How do you do?" said Channing. Kingman did not impress Channing as
being a person whose presence in a gathering would be demanded with
gracious shouts of glee.

"Mr. Kingman is an attorney for Terran Electric," explained Wesley.

Kingman's pedestal was lowered by Channing.

"My purpose," said Kingman, "is to represent my company's interest in
the transmission tube."

"In what way?" asked Don.

"Messrs. Baler and Carroll sold their discovery to Terran Electric
outright. We have an iron-bound patent on the device and/or any
developments of the device. We hold absolute control over the
transmission tube, and therefore may dictate all terms on which it is
to be used."

"I understand. You know, of course, that our interest in the
transmission tube is purely academic."

"I have been told that. We're not too certain that we approve. Our
laboratories are capable of any investigation you may desire, and we
prefer that such investigations be conducted under our supervision."

"We are not going to encroach on your power rights," explained
Channing.

"Naturally," said Kingman in a parsimonious manner. "But should you
develop a new use for the device, we shall have to demand that we have
complete rights."

"Isn't that a bit high-handed?" asked Don.

"We think not. It is our right."

"You're trained technically?" asked Don.

"Not at all. I am a lawyer, not an engineer. Dr. Farrell will take care
of the technical aspects of the device."

"And in looking out for your interests, what will you require?"

"Daily reports from your group. Daily conferences with your legal
department. These reports should be prepared prior to the day's work
so that I may discuss with the legal department the right of Terran
Electric to permit or disapprove the acts."

"You understand that there may be a lot of times when something
discovered at ten o'clock may change the entire program by ten oh six?"

"That may be," said Kingman, "but my original statements must be
adhered to, otherwise I am authorized to remove the devices from your
possession. I will go this far, however; if you discover something that
will change your program for the day, I will then call an immediate
conference which should hurry your program instead of waiting until the
following morning for the decision."

"Thanks," said Channing dryly. "First, may we take X-ray prints of the
devices?"

"No. Terran Electric will furnish you with blueprints which we consider
suitable." Kingman paused for a moment. "I shall expect the complete
program of tomorrow's experiments by five o'clock this evening."

Kingman left, and Wes Farrell smiled uncertainly. "Shall we begin
making the list?"

"Might as well," said Channing. "But, how do you lay out a complete
experimental program for twelve hours ahead?"

"It's a new one on me, too," said Farrell.

"Well, come on. I'll get Walt Franks, and we'll begin."

"I wonder if it might not be desirable for Kingman to sit in on these
program-settings?" said Channing, after a moment of staring at the page
before him.

"I suggested that to him. He said 'No.' He prefers his information in
writing."

Walt came in on the last words. Channing brought Franks up to date and
Walt said: "But why should he want a written program if he's going to
disallow certain ideas?"

"Sounds to me like he's perfectly willing to let us suggest certain
lines of endeavor; he may decide that they look good enough to have the
Terran Electric labs try themselves," said Channing.

Wes Farrell looked uncomfortable.

"I have half a notion to toss him out," Channing told Farrell. "I also
have half a notion to make miniatures of this tube and go ahead and
work regardless of Kingman or Terran Electric. O.K., Wes, we won't do
anything illegal. We'll begin by making our list."

"What is your intention?" asked Wes.

"We hope that these tubes will enable us to detect driver radiation,
which will ultimately permit us to open ship-to-ship two-way
communication."

"May I ask how you hope to do this?"

"Sure. We're going to cut and try. No one knows a thing about the
level of driver-energy; we've selected a name for it: Subelectronics.
The driver tube is akin to this transmission tube, if what I've been
able to collect on the subject is authentic. By using the transmission
tube--"

"Your belief is interesting. I've failed to see any connection between
our tube and the driver tube."

"Oh, sure," said Channing expansively. "I'll admit that the similarity
is of the same order as the similarity between an incandescent lamp
and a ten dynode electron-multiplier such as we use in our final beam
stages. But recall this business of the cathode-dynode. In both, the
emitting surface is bombarded by electrons from electron guns. They
both require changing."

"I know that, but the driver cathode disintegrates at a rate of loss
that is terrific compared to the loss of emitting surface in the
transmission tube."

"The driver cathode is worth about two hundred G-hours. But remember,
there is no input to the driver such as you have in the transmission
tube. The power from the driver comes from the disintegration of the
cathode surface--there isn't a ten-thousandth of an inch of plating on
the inside of the tube to show where it went. But the transmission tube
has an input and the tube itself merely transduces this power to some
level of radiation for transmission. It is re-transduced again for use.
But the thing is this: your tube is the only thing that we know of that
will accept sub-electronic energy and use it. If the driver and the
transmission tubes are similar in operational spectrum, we may be able
to detect driver radiation by some modification."

"That sounds interesting," said Wes. "I'll be darned glad to give you a
lift."

"Isn't that beyond your job?" asked Channing.

"Yeah," drawled Farrell, "but could you stand by and watch me work on a
beam transmitter?"

"No--"

"Then don't expect me to watch without getting my fingers dirty," said
Farrell cheerfully. "Sitting around in a place like this would drive me
nuts without something to do."

"O.K., then," smiled Don. "We'll start off by building about a dozen
miniatures. We'll make 'em about six inches long--we're not going to
handle much power, you know. That's first."

       *       *       *       *       *

Kingman viewed the list with distaste. "There are a number of items
here which I may not allow," he said.

"For instance?" asked Channing with lifted eyebrows.

"One, the manufacture or fabrication of power transmission tubes by
anyone except Terran Electric is forbidden. Two, your purpose in
wanting to make tubes is not clearly set forth. Three, the circuit in
which you intend to use these tubes is unorthodox, and must be clearly
and fully drawn and listed."

"Oh, spinach! How can we list and draw a circuit that is still in the
embryonic stage?"

"Then clarify it. Until then I shall withhold permission."

"But look, Mr. Kingman, we're going to develop this circuit as we go
along."

"You mean that you're going to fumble your way through this
investigation?"

"We do not consider a cut-and-try program as fumbling," said Walt
Franks.

"I am beginning to believe that your research department has not the
ability to reduce your problems to a precise science," said Kingman
coldly.

"Name me a precise science," snapped Channing, "or even a precise art!"

"The legal trade is as precise as any. Everything we do is done
according to legal precedent."

"I see. And when there is no precedent?"

"Then we all decide upon the proper course, and establish a precedent."

"But I've got to show you a complete circuit before you'll permit me to
go ahead?"

"That's not all. Your program must not include reproducing these
tubes either in miniature or in full size--or larger. Give me your
requirements and I shall request Terran Electric to perform the
fabrication."

"Look, Kingman, Venus Equilateral has facilities to build as good a
tube as Terran Electric. I might even say better, since our business
includes the use, maintenance, and development of radio tubes; your
tubes are not too different from ours. Plus the fact that we can whack
out six in one day, whilst it will take seventy-three hours to get 'em
here after they're built on Terra."

"I'm sorry, but the legal meaning of the patent is clear. Where is your
legal department?"

"We have three. One on each of the Inner Planets."

"I'll request you to have a legal representative come to the station so
that I may confer with him. One with power of attorney to act for you."

"Sorry," said Channing coldly. "I wouldn't permit any attorney to act
without my supervision."

"That's rather a backward attitude," said Kingman. "I shall still
insist on conducting my business with one of legal mind."

"O.K. We'll have Peterman come out from Terra. But he'll still be
under my supervision."

"As you wish, I may still exert my prerogative and remove the tubes
from your possession."

"You may find that hard to do," said Channing.

"That's illegal!"

"Oh, no, it won't be. You may enter the laboratory at any time and
remove the tubes. Of course, if you are without technical training you
may find it most difficult to disconnect the tubes without getting
across a few thousand volts. That might be uncomfortable."

"Are you threatening me?" said Kingman, bristling. His stocky frame
didn't take to bristling very well, and he lost considerable prestige
in the act.

"Not at all, I'm just issuing a fair warning that the signs that say:
'DANGER! HIGH-VOLTAGE!' are not there for appearance."

"Sounds like a threat to me."

"Have I threatened you? It sounds to me as though I were more than
anxious for your welfare. Any threat of which you speak is utterly
without grounds, and is a figment of your imagination; based upon
distrust of Venus Equilateral, and the personnel of Venus Equilateral
Relay Station."

Kingman shut up. He went down the list, marking off items here and
there. While he was marking, Channing scribbled a circuit and listed
the parts. He handed it over as Kingman finished.

"This is your circuit?" asked the lawyer skeptically.

"Yes."

"I shall have to ask for an explanation of the symbols involved."

"I shall be happy to present you with a book on essential radio
technique," offered Channing. "A perusal of which will place you in
possession of considerable knowledge. Will that suffice?"

"I believe so. I cannot understand how; being uncertain of your steps
a few minutes ago, you are now presenting me with a circuit of your
intended experiment."

"The circuit is, of course, merely symbolic. We shall change many of
the constants before the day is over--in fact, we may even change the
circuit."

"I shall require a notice before each change so that I may pass upon
the legal aspects."

"Walt," said Don, "will you accompany me to a transparency experiment
on the Ninth Level?"

"Be more than glad to," said Walt. "Let's go!"

       *       *       *       *       *

They left the office quickly, and started for Joe's. They had not
reached the combined liquor vending and restaurant establishment when
the communicator called for Channing. It was announcing the arrival
of Barney Carroll, so instead of heading for Joe's, they went to the
landing stage at the south end of the station to greet the Visitor.

"Barney," said Don, "of all the companies, why did you pick on Terran
Electric?"

"Gave us the best deal," said the huge, grinning man.

"Yeah, and they're getting the best of my goat right now."

"Well, Jim and I couldn't handle anything as big as the power
transmission set-up. They paid out a large slice of jack for the
complete rights. All of us are well paid now. After all, I'm primarily
interested in Martian artifacts, you know."

"I wonder if they had lawyers," smiled Walt wryly.

"Probably. And, no doubt, the legals had a lot to do with the fall of
the Martian civilization."

"As it will probably get this one so wound up with red tape that
progress will be impossible--or impractical."

"Well, Barney, let's take a run up to the lab. We can make paper-talk
even if Brother Kingman won't let us set it to soldering iron. There
are a lot of things I want to ask you about the tube."

They sat around a drawing table and Channing began to sketch. "What
I'd hoped to do is this," he said, drawing a schematic design. "We're
not interested in power transmission, but your gadget will do a bit
of voltage amplification because of its utter indifference to the
power-line problem of impedance matching. We can take a relay tube
and put in ten watts, say, across ten thousand ohms. That means
the input will be somewhat above three hundred volts. Now, if our
output is across a hundred thousand ohms, ten watts will give us one
thousand volts. So we can get voltage amplification at the expense
of current--which we will not need. Unfortunately, the relay tube as
well as the rest of the system will give out with the same kind of
power that it is impressed with--so we'll have amplification of driver
radiation. Then we'll need a detector. We haven't been able to get one
either yet, but this is a start, providing that Terran Electric will
permit us to take a deep breath without wanting to pass on it."

"I think you may be able to get amplification," said Barney. "But to do
it, you'll have to detect it first."

"Huh?"

"Sure. Before these darned things will work, this in-phase anode must
be right on the beam. That means that you'll require a feedback circuit
from the final stage to feed the in-phase anodes. Could be done without
detection, I suppose."

"Well, for one thing, we're going to get some amplification if we
change the primary anode--so. That won't permit the thing to handle any
power, but it will isolate the output from the input and permit more
amplifications. Follow?"

"Can we try it?"

"As soon as I get Terran Electric's permission."

"Here we go again!" groaned Walt.

"Yeah," said Don to Barney, "now you'll see the kind of birds you sold
your gadget to."

They found Kingman and Farrell in conference. Channing offered his
suggestion immediately, and Kingman looked it over, shaking his head.

"It is not permitted to alter, change, rework, or repair tubes owned by
Terran Electric," he said.

"What are we permitted to do?" asked Channing.

"Give me your recommendation and I shall have the shop at Terran
Electric perform the operation."

"At cost?"

"Cost plus a slight profit. Terran Electric, just as Venus Equilateral,
is not in business from an altruistic standpoint."

"I see."

"Also," said Kingman severely, "I noticed one of your men changing the
circuit slightly without permission. Why?"

"Who was it?"

"The man known as Thomas."

"Charles Thomas is in charge of development work," said Channing. "He
probably noted some slight effect that he wanted to check."

"He should have notified me first--I don't care how minute the change.
I must pass on changes first."

"But you wouldn't know their worth," objected Barney.

"No, but Mr. Farrell does, and will so advise me."

Wes looked at Channing. "Have you been to the Ninth Level yet?"

"Nope," said Channing.

"May I accompany you?"

Channing looked at Farrell critically. The Terran Electric engineer
seemed sincere, and the pained expression on his face looked like
frustrated sympathy to Don. "Come along," he said.

       *       *       *       *       *

Barney smiled cheerfully at the sign on Joe's door. "That's a good
one, 'Best Bar in Twenty-seven Million Miles, Minimum!' What's the
qualification for?"

"That's as close as Terra ever gets. Most of the time the nearest bar
is at Northern Landing, Venus; sixty-seven million miles from here.
Come on in and we'll get plastered."

Farrell said, "Look, fellows, I know how you feel. They didn't tell me
that you weren't going to be given permission to work. I understood
that I was to sort of walk along, offer suggestions and sort of prepare
myself to take over some research myself. This is sickening."

"I think you mean that."

"May I use your telephone? I want to resign."

"Wait a minute. If you're that sincere, why don't we outguess 'em?"

"Could do," said Wes. "How?"

"Is there any reason why we couldn't take a poke to Sol himself?"

"You mean haul power out of the sun?"

"That's the general idea. Barney, what do you think?"

"Could be--but it would take a redesign."

"Fine. And may we pray that the redesign is good enough to make a
difference to the Interplanetary Patent Office." Channing called Joe,
"The same. Three Moons all around. Scotch," he explained to the others,
"synthesized in the Palanortis Country."

"Our favorite import," said Walt.

Joe grinned. "Another tablecloth session in progress?"

"Could be. As soon as we oil the think-tank, we'll know for sure."

"What does he mean?" asked Barney.

Joe smiled. "They all have laboratories and draftsmen and textbooks,"
he said. "But for real engineering, they use my tablecloths. Three more
problems and I'll have a complete tablecloth course in astrophysics,
with a sideline in cartooning and a minor degree in mechanical
engineering."

"Oh?"

"Sure. Give 'em a free hand, and a couple of your tubes and a
tablecloth and they'll have 'em frying eggs by morning. When I came out
here, they demanded a commercial bond and I thought they were nuts. Who
ever heard of making a restaurateur post a bond? I discovered that all
of their inventions are initially tinkered out right here in the dining
room--I could steal 'em blind if I were dishonest!" Joe smiled hugely.
"This is the only place in the System where the tablecloths have been
through blueprint machines. That," he said confidentially to Barney,
"is why some of the stuff is slightly garbled. Scotch mixed with the
drawings. They have the cloths inspected by the engineering department
before they're laundered; I lose a lot of tablecloths that way."

Joe left cheerfully amid laughter.

The Three Moons came next, and then Don began to sketch. "Suppose we
make a driver tube like this," he said. "And we couple the top end,
where the cathode is, to the input side of the relay tube. Only the
input side will require a variable-impedance anode, coupled back from
the cathode to limit the input to the required value. Then the coupling
anodes must be served with an automatic-coupling circuit so that the
limiting power is passed without wastage."

Barney pulled out a pencil. "If you make that automatic-coupling
circuit dependent upon the output from the terminal ends," he said,
"it will accept only the amount of input that is required by the power
being used from the output. Over-cooling these two anodes will inhibit
the power-intake."

"Right," said Wes. "And I am of the opinion that the power available
from Sol is of a magnitude that will permit operation over and above
the limit."

"Four million tons of energy per second!" exploded Walt. "That's
playing with fire!"

"You bet. We'll fix 'em with that!"

"Our experience with relay tubes," said Farrell slowly, "indicates that
some increase in range is possible with additional anode-focussing.
Build your tube-top with an extra set of anodes, and that'll give us
better control of the beam."

"We're getting farther and farther from the subject of communications,"
said Channing with a smile. "But I think that we'll get more out of
this."

"How so?"

"Until we get a chance to tinker with those tubes, we won't get
ship-to-ship two ways. So we'll gadgeteer up something that will make
Terran Electric foam at the mouth, and swap a hunk of it for full
freedom in our investigations. Or should we bust Terran Electric
wholeheartedly?"

"Let's slug 'em," said Walt.

"Go ahead," said Wes. "I'm utterly disgusted, though I think our
trouble is due to the management of Terran Electric. They like legal
tangles too much."

"We'll give 'em a legal tangle," said Barney. He was adding circuits to
the tablecloth sketch.

Channing, on his side, was sketching in some equations, and Walt was
working out some mechanical details. Joe came over, looked at the
tablecloth, and forthright went to the telephone and called Warren. The
mechanical designer came, and Channing looked up in surprise. "Hi," he
said, "I was just about to call you."

"Joe did."

"O.K. Look, Warren, can you fake up a gadget like this?"

Warren looked the thing over. "Give me about ten hours," he said.
"We've got a spare turnover driver from the _Relay Girl_ that we can
hand-carve. There are a couple of water-boilers that we can strip, cut
open, and make to serve as the top end. How're you hoping to maintain
the vacuum?"

"Yes," said Wes Farrell, "that's going to be the problem. If there's
any adjusting of electrodes to do, this'll take months."

"That's why we, on Venus Equilateral, are ahead of the whole
ding-busted Solar System in tube development," said Don. "We'll run the
thing out in the open--and I do mean open! Instead of the tube having
the insides exhausted, the operators will have their envelopes served
with fresh, canned air."

"Like a cartoon I saw somewhere," grinned Walt. "Had a bird in full
armor tinkering with a radio set. The caption was: 'Why shield the
set?'"

"Phooey," said Warren. "Look, Tom Swift, is this another of the Franks'
brainchildren?"

"Tom Swift?" asked Wes.

"Yeah. That's the nom de plume he invents under. The other guy we call
Captain Lightning."

"Oh?" asked Farrell. "Do you read him, too?"

"Sure," grinned Warren. "And say, speaking of comics, I came upon
an old, old volume of Webster's International Dictionary in a
rare-edition library in Chicago a couple of months ago, and they define
'Comic' as amusing, funny, and ludicrous; not imaginative fiction. How
things change."

"They do."

"But to get back to this goldberg, what is it?"

"Warren," said Channing soberly, "sit down!" Warren did. "Now," grinned
Channing, "this screwball gadget is an idea whereby we hope to draw
power out of the sun."

Warren swallowed once, and then waved for Joe. "Double," he told the
restaurateur. Then to the others he said, "Thanks for seating me. I'm
ill, I think. Hearing things. I could swear I heard someone say that
this thing is to take power from Sol."

"That's it."

"Um-m-m. Remind me to quit Saturday. This is no job for a man beset by
hallucinations."

"You grinning idiot, we're not fooling!"

"Then you'd better quit," Warren told Don. "This is no job for a bird
with delusions of grandeur, either. Look, Don, you'll want this in the
experimental blister at south end? On a coupler to the beam-turret so
that it'll maintain direction at Sol?"

"Right. Couple it to the rotating stage if you can. Remember, that's
three miles from south end."

"We've still got a few high-power selsyns," said Warren, making some
notations of his own on the tablecloth. "And thanks to the guys who
laid out this station some years ago, we've plenty of unused circuits
from one end to the other. We'll couple it, all right. Oh, Mother.
Seems to me like you got a long way off of your intended subject.
Didn't you start out to make a detector for driver radiation?"

"Yup."

"And you end up tapping the sun. D'ye think it'll ever replace the
horse?"

"Could be. Might even replace the coal mine. That's to be seen. Have
you any idea of how long you'll be?"

"Make it ten hours. I'll get the whole crew on it at once."

"Fine."

"But look. What's the reason for this change in program?"

"That's easy," said Don. "First, we had a jam session. Second, we've
come to the conclusion that the longest way 'round is the shortest
way home. We're now in the throes of building something with which to
dazzle the bright-minded management of Terran Electric and thus make
them susceptible to our charm. We want a free hand at the transmission
tubes, and this looks like a fair bit of bait."

"I get it. Quote: 'Why buy power from Terran Electric? Hang a Channing
Power Beam on your chimney pot and tap the sun?' Whoa, Mazie. Bring
on the needle, Watson. Hang out the flags, fire the cannon, ring the
bells; for Venus Equilateral is about to hang a pipeline right into
four million tons of energy per second! Don, that's a right, smart bit
of power to doodle with. Can you handle it?"

"Sure," said Channing with a wave of his hand, "we'll hang a fuse in
the line!"

"O.K.," said Warren, sweeping the tablecloth off the table like Mysto,
the Magician, right out from under the glasses. "I'll be back--wearing
my asbestos pants!"

Wes Farrell looked dreamily at the ceiling. "This is a screwy joint,"
he said idly. "What do we do for the next ten hours?"

"Red Herring stuff," said Channing with what he hoped was a
Machiavellian leer.

"Such as?"

"Making wise moves with the transmission tubes. Glomming the
barrister's desk with proposed ideas for his approval; as many as
we can think of so that he'll be kept busy. We might even think of
something that may work, meanwhile. Come, fellow conspirators, to
horse!" Channing picked up his glass and drained it, making a wry face.
"Rotten stuff--I wish I had a barrel of it!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Channing surveyed the set-up in the blister. He inspected it carefully,
as did the others. When he spoke, his voice came through the helmet
receivers with a slightly tinny sound: "Anything wrong? Looks O.K. to
me."

"O.K. by me, too," said Farrell.

"Working in suit is not the best," said Don. "Barney, you're the
bright-eyed lad, can you align the plates?"

"I think so," came the muffled booming of Barney's powerful voice.
"Gimme a screwdriver!"

Barney fiddled with the plate-controls for several minutes. "She's
running on dead center alignment, now," he announced.

"Question," put in Wes, "do we get power immediately, or must we wait
whilst the beam gets there and returns?"

"You must run your power line before you get power," said Walt. "My
money is on the wait."

"Don't crack your anode-coupling circuit till then," warned Wes. "We
don't know a thing about this; I'd prefer to let it in easy-like
instead of opening the gate and letting the whole four million tons per
second come tearing in through this ammeter!"

"Might be a little warm having Sol in here with us," laughed Channing.
"This is once in my life when we don't need a milliameter, but a
million-ammeter!"

"Shall we assign a pseudonym for it?" chuckled Walt.

"Let's wait until we see how it works."

The minutes passed slowly, and then Wes announced: "She should be here.
Check your anode-coupler, Barney."

Barney advanced the dial, gingerly. The air that could have grown
tense was, of course, not present in the blister. But the term is just
a figure of speech, and therefore it may be proper to say that the air
grew tense. Fact is, it was the nerves of the men that grew tense.
Higher and higher went the dial, and still the meter stayed inert
against the zero-end pin.

"Not a wiggle," said Barney in disgust. He twirled the dial all the way
'round and snorted. The meter left the zero pin ever so slightly.

Channing turned the switch that increased the sensitivity of the meter
until the needle stood halfway up the scale.

"Solar power, here we come," he said in a dry voice. "One-half ampere
at seven volts! Three and one-half watts. Bring on your atom-smashers!
Bring on your power-consuming factory districts. Hang the whole load
of Central United States on the wires, for we have three and one-half
watts! Just enough to run an electric clock!"

"But would it keep time?" asked Barney. "Is the frequency right?"

"Nope--but we'd run it. Look, fellows, when anyone tells you about
this, insist that we got thirty-five hundred milliwatts on our first
try. It sounds bigger."

"O.K., so we're getting from Sol just about three-tenths of the soup
we need to make the set-up self sustaining," said Walt. "Wes, this
in-phase anode of yours--what can we do with it?"

"If this thing worked, I was going to suggest that there is enough
power out there to spare. We could possibly modulate the in-phase anode
with anything we wanted, and there would be enough junk floating around
in the photosphere to slam on through."

"Maybe it is that lack of selectivity that licks us now," said Don,
"Run the voltage up and down a bit. There should be D. C. running
around in Sol, too."

"Whatever this power-level is running at," said Barney, "we may get
in-phase voltage--or in-phase power by running a line from the power
terminal back. Move over, boys, I'm going to hang a test clip in here."

Barney's gloved hands fumbled a bit, but the clip was attached. He
opened the anode-coupler once again, and the meter slammed against the
full-scale peg.

"See?" he said triumphantly.

"Yup," said Channing cryptically. "You, Bernard, have doubled our
input."

"Mind if I take a whack at aligning it?" asked Wes.

"Go ahead. What we need is a guy with eyes in his fingertips. Have you?"

"No, but I'd like to try."

Farrell worked with the deflection plate alignment, and then said,
ruefully: "No dice, Barney had it right on the beam."

"Is she aligned with Sol?" asked Channing.

Walt squinted down the tube. "Couldn't be better," he said, blinking.

"Could it be that we're actually missing Sol?" asked Don. "I mean,
could it be that line-of-sight and line-of-power aren't one and the
same thing?"

"Could be," acknowledged Wes. Walt stepped to the verniers and swung
the big intake tube over a minute arc. The meter jumped once more, and
Channing stepped the sensitivity down again. Walt fiddled until the
meter read maximum and then he left the tube that way.

"Coming up," said Channing. "We've now four times our original try. We
now have enough juice to run an electric train--toy size! Someone think
of something else, please. I've had my idea for the day."

"Let's juggle electrode-spacing," suggested Wes.

"Can do," said Walt, brandishing a huge spanner wrench in one gloved
hand.

Four solid, futile hours later, the power output of the solar beam was
still standing at a terrifying fourteen watts. Channing was scratching
furiously on a pad of paper with a large pencil; Walt was trying
voltage-variations on the supply-anodes in a desultory manner; Barney
was measuring the electrode spacing with a huge vernier rule, and Wes
was staring at the sun, dimmed to seeable brightness by a set of dark
glasses.

Wes was muttering to himself. "Electrode-voltages, O.K. ... alignment
perfect ... solar power output ... not like power-line electricity ...
solar composition ... Russell's mixture--"

"Whoooo said that!" roared Channing.

"Who said what?" asked Barney.

"Why bust our eardrums?" objected Walt.

"What do you mean?" asked Wes, coming to life for the moment.

"Something about Russell's Mixture. Who said that?"

"I did. Why?"

"Look, Wes, what are your cathodes made of?"

"Thorium, C. P. metal. That's why they're shipped in metal containers
in a vacuum."

"What happens if you try to use something else?"

"Don't work very well. In fact, if the output cathode and the input
dynode are not the same metal, they won't pass power at all."

"You're on the trail right now!" shouted Channing. "Russell's Mixture!"

"Sounds like a brand of smoking tobacco to me. Mind making a noise like
an encyclopedia and telling me what is Russell's Mixture?"

"Russell's Mixture is a conglomeration of elements which go into the
making of Sol--and all the other stars," explained Don. "Hydrogen,
Oxygen, Sodium, and Magnesium, Iron, Silicon, Potassium, and Calcium.
They, when mixed according to the formula for Russell's Mixture, which
can be found in any book on the composition of the stars, become the
most probable mixture of metals. They--Russell's Mixture--go into
the composition of all stars, what isn't mentioned in the mix isn't
important."

"And what has this Russell got that we haven't got?" asked Walt.

"H, O, Na, Mg, Fe, Si, K, and Ca. And we, dear people, have Th, which
Russell has not. Walt, call up the metallurgical lab and have 'em whip
up a batch."

"Cook to a fine edge and serve with a spray of parsley? Or do we cut it
into cubes--"

"Go ahead," said Channing. "Be funny. You just heard the man say that
dissimilar dyno-cathodes do not work. What we need for our solar beam
is a dynode of Russell's Mixture so that it will be similar to our
cathode--which in this case is Sol. Follow me?"

"Yeah," said Walt, "I follow, but, brother, I'm a long way behind.
But I'll catch up," he promised as he made connection between his
suit-radio and the station communicator system. "Riley," he said, "here
we go again. Can you whip us up a batch of Russell's Mixture?"

Riley's laugh was audible to the others, since it was broadcast by
Walt's set. "Yeah, man, we can--if it's got metal in it? What, pray
tell, is Russell's Mixture?"

Walt explained the relation between Russell's Mixture and the
composition of Sol.

"Sun makers, hey?" asked Riley. "Is the chief screwball up there?"

"Yup," said Walt, grinning at Don.

"Sounds like him. Yeah, we can make you an alloy consisting of
Russell's Mixture. Tony's got it here, now, and it doesn't look hard.
How big a dynode do you want?"

Walt gave him the dimensions of the dynode in the solar tube.

"Cinch," said Riley. "You can have it in two hours."

"Swell."

"But it'll be hotter than hell. Better make that six or seven hours. We
may run into trouble making it jell."

"I'll have Arden slip you some pectin," said Walt. "Tomorrow morning,
then?"

"Better. That's a promise."

Walt turned to the rest. "If any of us can sleep," he said, "I suggest
it. Something tells me that tomorrow is going to be one of those days
that mother told me about. I'll buy a drink."

       *       *       *       *       *

Walt opened the anode-coupler circuit, and the needle of the output
ammeter slammed across the scale and wound the needle halfway around
the stop pin. The shunt, which was an external, high-dissipation
job, turned red, burned the paint off of its radiator fins, and then
proceeded to melt. It sputtered in flying droplets of molten metal.
Smoke spewed from the case of the ammeter, dissipating in the vacuum of
the blister.

Walt closed the coupler circuit.

"Whammo!" he said. "Mind blowing a hundred-amp meter?"

"No," grinned Don. "I have a thousand-amp job that I'll sacrifice in
the same happy-hearted fashion. Get an idea of the power?"

"Voltmeter was hanging up around ten thousand volts just before the
amp-meter went by."

"Um-m-m. Ten thousand volts at a hundred amps. That is one million
watts, my friends, and no small potatoes. To run the station's
communicating equipment we need seven times that much. Can we do it?"

"We can. I'll have Warren start running the main power bus down here
and we'll try it. Meanwhile, we've got a healthy cable from the
generator room; we can run the non-communicating drain of the station
from our plaything here. That should give us an idea. We can use a
couple of million watts right there. If this gadget will handle it,
we can make one that will take the whole load without groaning. I'm
calling Warren right now. He can start taking the load over from the
generators as we increase our intake. We'll fade, but not without a
flicker."

Walt hooked the output terminals of the tube to the huge cable blocks,
using sections of the same heavy cable.

Warren called: "Are you ready?"

"Fade her in," said Walt. He kept one eye on the line voltmeter and
opened the anode-coupler slightly. The meter dipped as Warren shunted
the station load over to the tube circuit. Walt brought the line
voltage up to above normal, and it immediately dropped as Warren took
more load from the solar intake. This jockeying went on for several
minutes until Warren called: "You've got it all. Now what?"

"Start running the bus down here to take the communications load," said
Don. "We're running off of an eight hundred thousand mile cathode now,
and his power output is terrific. Or better, run us a high-tension line
down here and we'll save silver. We can ram ten thousand volts up there
for transformation. Get me?"

"What frequency?"

"Yeah," drawled Channing, "have Chuck Thomas run us a control line from
the primary frequency standard. We'll control our frequency with that.
O.K.?"

"Right-o."

Channing looked at the set-up once more. It was singularly
unprepossessing, this conglomeration of iron and steel and plastic.
There was absolutely nothing to indicate that two and one-third million
watts of power coursed from Sol, through its maze of anodes, and into
the electric lines of Venus Equilateral. The cathodes and dynode glowed
with their usual dull red glow, but there was no coruscating aura of
power around the elements of the system. The gimbals that held the big
tube slid easily, permitting the tube to rotate freely as the selsyn
motor kept the tube pointing at Sol. The supply cables remained cool
and operative, and to all appearances the set-up was inert.

"O.K., fellows," said Channing, "this is it--"

He was interrupted by the frantic waving of Kingman, from the other
side of the air lock.

"I feel slightly conscious-stricken," he said with a smile that showed
that he didn't mean it at all. "But let us go and prepare the goat for
shearing."

Kingman's trouble was terrific, according to him. "Mr. Channing," he
complained, "you are not following our wishes. And you, Mr. Farrell,
have been decidedly amiss in your hobnobbing with the engineers here.
You were sent out as my consultant, not to assist them in their
endeavors."

"What's your grief?" asked Channing.

"I find that your laboratory has been changing the circuits without
having previously informed me of the proposed change," complained
Kingman. "I feel that I am within my rights in removing the tubes
brought here. Your investigations have not been sanctioned--" He looked
out through the air lock. "What are you doing out there?"

"We have just succeeded in taking power from the sun," said Don. He
tried to keep his voice even, but the exultation was too high in him,
and his voice sounded like sheer joy.

"You have been--" Kingman did a double-take. "You _what_?" he yelled.

"Have succeeded in tapping Sol for power."

"Why, that's wonderful!"

"Thank you," said Don. "You will no doubt be glad to hear that Wes
Farrell was instrumental in this program."

"Then a certain part of the idea is rightfully the property of Terran
Electric," said Kingman.

"I'm afraid not," said Don. "Dr. Farrell's assistance was not
requested. Though his contribution was of great value, it was given
freely. He was not solicited. Therefore, since Terran Electric was not
consulted formally, Dr. Farrell's contribution to our solar power beam
can not be considered as offering a hold on our discovery."

"This is true, Dr. Farrell?"

"I'm afraid so. You see, I saw what was going on and became interested,
academically. I naturally offered a few minor suggestions in somewhat
the same manner as a motorist will stop and offer another motorist
assistance in changing a tire. The problem was interesting to me and as
a problem, it did not seem to me--"

"Your actions in discussing this with members of the Venus Equilateral
technical staff without authorization will cost us plenty," snapped
Kingman. "However, we shall deal with you later."

"You know," said Farrell with a cheerfully malicious grin, "if you had
been less stuffy about our tubes, they might be less stuffy about my
contribution."

"Ah, these non-legal agreements are never satisfactory. But that is to
be discussed later. What do you intend to do with your invention, Dr.
Channing?"

Channing smiled in a superior manner. "As you see, the device is small.
Yet it handles a couple of million watts. An even smaller unit might be
made that would suffice to supply a home, or even a community. As for
the other end, I see no reason why the size might not be increased to a
point where it may obsolete all existing power-generating stations."

Kingman's complexion turned slightly green. He swallowed hard. "You, of
course, would not attempt to put this on the market yourself."

"No?" asked Channing. "I think you'll find that Venus Equilateral is
as large, if not larger, than Terran Electric, and we have an enviable
reputation for delivering the goods. We could sell refrigerators to the
Titan colony, if we had the V-E label on them and claimed they were
indispensable. Our escutcheon is not without its adherents."

"I see," said Kingman. His present volubility would not have jogged a
jury into freeing the armless wonder from a pick-pocketing charge. "Is
your invention patentable?"

"I think so. While certain phases of it are like the driver tube,
which, of course, is public domain, the applications are quite
patentable. I must admit that certain parts are of the power
transmission tube, but not enough for you to claim a hold. At any
rate, I shall be busy for the next hour, transmitting the details to
Washington, so that the Interplanetary Patent Office may rule on it.
Our Terran legal department has a direct line there, you know, and they
have been directed to maintain that contact at all costs."

"May I use your lines?"

"Certainly. They are public carriers. You will not be restricted any
more than any other man. I am certain that our right to transmit
company business without waiting for the usual turn will not be
contested."

"That sounds like a veiled threat."

"That sounds like slander!"

"Oh, no. Believe me. But wait, Dr. Channing. Is there no way in which
we can meet on a common ground?"

"I think so. We want a free hand in this tube proposition."

"For which rights you will turn over a nominal interest in solar power?"

"Forty percent," said Channing.

"But we--"

"I know, you want control."

"We'd like it."

"Sorry. Those are our terms. Take 'em or leave 'em."

"Supposing that we offer you full and unrestricted rights to any or all
developments you or we make on the Martian transmission tubes?"

"That might be better to our liking."

"We might buck you," said Kingman, but there was doubt in his voice.

"Yes? You know, Kingman, I'm not too sure that Venus Equilateral wants
to play around with power except as a maintenance angle. What if we
toss the solar beam to the public domain? That is within our right,
too."

Kingman's green color returned, this time accompanied with beads of
sweat. He turned to Farrell. "Is there nothing we can do? Is this
patentable?"

"No--Yes," grinned Farrell.

Kingman excused himself. He went to the office provided for him and
began to send messages to the Terran Electric Company offices at
Chicago. The forty-minute wait between message and answer was torture
to him, but it was explained to him that light and radio crossed space
at one hundred and eighty-six thousand miles per second and that even
an Act of Congress could do nothing to help him hurry it. Meanwhile,
Channing's description tied up the Terran Beam for almost an hour at
the standard rate of twelve hundred words per minute. Their answers
came within a few minutes of one another.

Channing tossed the 'gram before Kingman. "Idea definitely patentable,"
said the wire.

Kingman stood up. Apparently the lawyer believed that his pronouncement
would carry more weight by looming over the smiling, easy-going
faces of his parties-of-the-second-part. "I am prepared to negotiate
with your legal department; offering them, and you, the full rights
to the transmission tube. This will include full access to any and
all discoveries, improvements, and/or changes made at any time from
its discovery to the termination of this contract, which shall be
terminated only by absolute mutual agreement between Terran Electric
and Venus Equilateral.

"In return for this, Venus Equilateral will permit Terran Electric to
exploit the solar beam tube fully and freely, and exclusively--"

"Make that slightly different," said Channing. "Terran Electric's
rights shall prevail exclusively--_except_ within the realm of
space, upon man-made celestial objects, and upon the satellites and
minor natural celestial bodies where sub-relay stations of the
Interplanetary Communications Company are established."

Kingman thought that one over. "In other words, if the transport
companies desire to use the solar beam, you will hold domain from the
time they leave an atmosphere until they again touch--"

"Let's not complicate things," smiled Don cheerfully. "I like
uncomplicated things."

Kingman smiled wryly. "I'm sure," he agreed with fine sarcasm. "But
I see your point. You intend to power the communications system with
the solar beam. That is natural. Also, you feel that a certain amount
of revenue should be coming your way. Yes, I believe that our legal
departments can agree."

"So let's not make the transport companies change masters in
mid-space," smiled Don.

"You are taking a lot on your shoulders," said Kingman. "We wouldn't
permit our technicians to dictate the terms of an agreement."

"You are not going to like Venus Equilateral at all," laughed Don. "We
wouldn't permit our legal department to dabble in things of which they
know nothing. Years ago, when the first concentric beam was invented,
which we now use to punch a hole in the Heaviside Layer, communications
was built about a group of engineers. We held the three inner
planets together by the seat of our pants, so to speak, and nurtured
communications from a slipshod, hope-to-God-it-gets-through proposition
to a sure thing. Funny thing, but when people were taking their
messages catch as catch can, there was no reason for legal lights. Now
that we can and do insure messages against their loss, we find that we
are often tied up with legal red tape.

"Otherwise, we wouldn't have a lawyer on the premises. They serve their
purpose, no doubt, but in this gang, the engineers tell the attorneys
how to run things. We shall continue to do so. Therefore you are
speaking with the proper parties, and once the contract is prepared by
you, we shall have an attorney run through the whereases, wherefores,
and parties of the first, second, and third parts to see that there is
no sleight of hand in the microscopic type."

"You're taking a chance," warned Kingman. "All men are not as
fundamentally honest as Terran Electric."

"Kingman," smiled Channing, "I hate to remind you of this, but who got
what just now? We wanted the transmission tube."

"I see your point. But we have a means of getting power out of the sun."

"We have a hunk of that, too. It would probably have been a mere matter
of time before some bright bird at Terran found the thing as it was."

"I shall see that the contract gives you domain over man-made objects
in space--including those that occasionally touch upon the natural
celestial objects. Also the necessary equipment operating under the
charter of Venus Equilateral, wherever or whenever it may be, including
any future installations."

"Fine."

"You may have trouble understanding our feelings. We are essentially a
space-born company, and as such we can have no one at the helm who is
not equipped to handle the technical details of operations in space."
Channing smiled reminiscently. "We had a so-called efficiency expert
running Venus Equilateral a couple of years ago, and the fool nearly
wrecked us because he didn't know that the airplant was not a mass of
highly complicated, chemical reaction machinery instead of what it
really is. Kingman, do you know what an airplant is?"

"Frankly, no, I should imagine it is some sort of air-purifying device."

"You'll sit down hard when I tell you that the airplant is just what it
is. Martian saw grass! Brother Burbank tossed it out because he thought
it was just weeds, cluttering up the place. He was allergic to good
engineering, anyway."

"That may be good enough in space," said Kingman, "but on Terra, we
feel that our engineers are not equipped to dabble in the legal tangles
that follow when they force us to establish precedent by inventing
something that has never been covered by a previous decision."

"O.K.," said Don. "Every man to his own scope. Write up your contract,
Kingman, and we'll all climb on the band wagon with our illiterary X's."

       *       *       *       *       *

In Evanston, north of Chicago, the leaves changed from their riotous
green to a somber brown, and fell to lay a blanket over the earth. Snow
covered the dead leaves, and Christmas, with its holly, went into the
past, followed closely by New Year's Eve with its hangover.

And on a roof by the shore of Lake Michigan, a group of men stood in
overcoats beside a huge machine that towered above the great letters of
the Terran Electric Company sign that could be seen all the way from
Gary, Indiana.

It was a beautiful thing, this tube; a far cry from the haywire thing
that had brought solar power to Venus Equilateral. It was mounted
on gimbals, and the metal was bright-plated and perfectly machined.
Purring motors caused the tube to rotate to follow the sun.

"Is she aligned?" asked the project engineer.

"Right on the button."

"Good. We can't miss with this one. There may have been something sour
with the rest, but this one ran Venus Equilateral--the whole relay
station--for ten days without interruption."

He faced the anxious men in overcoats. "Here we go," he said, and his
hand closed upon the switch that transferred the big tube from test
power to operating power.

The engineer closed the switch, and stepped over to the great, vaned,
air-cooled ammeter shunt. On a panel just beyond the shunt the meter
hung--

At Zero!

"Um," said the project engineer. "Something wrong, no doubt."

They checked every connection, every possible item in the circuit.

"Nothing wrong!"

"Oh, now look," said the project engineer. "This isn't hell, where the
equipment is always perfect except that it doesn't work."

"This is hell," announced his assistant. "The thing is perfect--except
that it doesn't work."

"It worked on Venus Equilateral."

"We've changed nothing, and we handled that gadget like it was made of
cello-gel. We're running the same kind of voltage, checked on standard
voltmeters. We're within one-tenth of one percent of the original
operating conditions. But--no power."

"Call Channing."

The beams between Terra and Venus Equilateral carried furious messages
for several hours. Channing's answer said: "I'm curious. Am bringing
the experimental ship to Terra to investigate."

The project engineer asked: "Isn't that the job they hooked up to use
the solar power for their drive?"

His assistant said: "That's it. And it worked."

"I know. I took a run on it!"

Channing was taking a chance, running the _Relay Girl_ to Terra, but
he knew his ship, and he was no man to be overcautious. He drove it
to Terra at three G, and by dead reckoning, started down into Terra's
blanket of air, heading for the Terran Electric plant which was
situated on the lake shore.

Then down out of the cloudless sky came the _Relay Girl_ in a free
fall. It screamed with the whistle of tortured air as it fell, and it
caught the attention of every man that was working at Terran Electric.

Only those on the roof saw the egg-shaped hull fall out of the sky
unchecked; landing fifteen hundred yards offshore in Lake Michigan.

The splash was terrific.

"Channing--!" said the project engineer, aghast.

"No, look there--a lifeship!"

Cautiously sliding down, a minute lifeship less than the size of a
freight car came to a landing in the Terran Electric construction yard.
Channing emerged, his face white. He bent down and kissed the steel
grille of the construction yard fervently.

Someone ran out and gave Channing a brown bottle. Don nodded, and took
a draw of monstrous proportions. He gagged, made a face, and smiled in
a very wan manner.

"Thanks," he said shakily. He took another drink, of more gentlemanly
size.

"What happened?"

"Dunno: Was coming in at three G. About four hundred miles up, the
deceleration just quit. Like that! I made it to the skeeter, here, in
just about enough time to get her away with about two miles to go.
_Whoosh!_"

Don dug into his pocket and found cigarettes. He lit up and drew
deeply. "Something cockeyed, here. That stoppage might make me think
that my tube failed; but--"

"You suspect that our tube isn't working for the same reason?" finished
the project engineer.

"Yes. I'm thinking of the trick, ultra-high powered, concentric beams
we have to use to ram a hole through the Heaviside Layer. We start out
with three million watts of sheer radio frequency and end up with just
enough to make our receivers worth listening to. Suppose this had some
sort of Heaviside Layer?"

"In which case, Terran Electric hasn't got solar power," said the
project engineer. "Tim, load this bottle into the _Electric Lady_, and
we'll see if we can find this barrier." To Channing, he said: "You look
as though you could stand a rest. Check into a hotel in Chicago and
we'll call you when we're ready to try it out."

Channing agreed. A shave, a bath, and a good night's sleep did wonders
for his nerves, as did a large amount of Scotch. He was at Terran
Electric in the morning, once more in command of himself.

Up into the sky went the ship that carried the solar tube. It remained
inert until the ship passed above three hundred and forty miles. Then
the ammeter needle swung over, and the huge shunt grew warm. The
tenuous atmosphere outside of the ship was unchanged, yet the beam drew
power of gigantic proportions.

They dropped again. The power ceased.

They spent hours rising and falling, charting this unknown barrier that
stopped the unknown radiation from bringing solar power right down to
earth. It was there, all right, and impervious. Above, megawatts raced
through the giant shunt. Below, not even a microammeter could detect a
trace of current.

"O.K., Don," said the project engineer. "We'll have to do some more
work on it. It's nothing of your doing."

Mark Kingman's face was green again, but he nodded in agreement. "We
seem to have a useless job here, but we'll think of something."

They studied the barrier and established its height as a constant three
hundred and thirty-nine, point seven six miles above Terra's mythical
sea level. It was almost a perfect sphere, that did not change with the
night and day, as did the Heaviside Layer. There was no way to find
out how thick it was, but thickness was of no importance, since it
effectively stopped the beam.

Then as Don Channing stepped aboard the _Princess of the Sky_ to get
home again, the project engineer said: "If you don't mind, I think
we'll call that one the Channing Layer!"

"Yeah," grinned Don, pleased at the thought, "and forever afterward it
will stand as a cinder in the eye of Terran Electric."

"Oh," said the project engineer, "we'll beat the Channing Layer."

But the project engineer was a bum prophet--




                             _Interlude:_


_Baffled and beaten, Mark Kingman returned to Terran Electric empty
handed. He hated science and the men who revelled in it, though he was
not above using science--and the men who revelled in it--to further his
own unscientific existence. The poetic justice that piled blow upon
blow on his unprotected head was lost on Mark Kingman and he swore
eternal vengeance._

_With a say in the operations at Terran Electric, Kingman directed
that the engineers and scientists work furiously to discover something
about this strange radiation that made the energy beam possible, that
drove spacecraft across the void, and which now was drawing power out
of the sun to feed the requirements of men who owed allegiance to Venus
Equilateral._

_Kingman was losing his sense of values. He accused Venus Equilateral
of trickery. Quietly, of course, for people had faith in the operations
of the relay station personnel and would stand for no criticism.
Because people found Venus Equilateral and all that went with it both
good and upstanding in the face of what Mark Kingman believed, it
infuriated him to the point of illegality._

_And the evil fate that makes evil men appear to flourish smiled upon
Mark Kingman, while all that Channing had to fight back with was his
faith in the unchanging physical laws of science._

_But Kingman thought he was smart enough to beat Venus Equilateral at
their own business!_




                              BEAM PIRATE


Mark Kingman was in a fine state of nerves. He looked upon life and the
people in it as one views the dark-brown taste of a hangover. It seemed
to him at the present time that the Lord had forsaken him, for the
entire and complete success of the solar beam had been left to Venus
Equilateral by a sheer fluke of nature.

Neither he, nor anyone else, could have foreseen the Channing
Layer, that effectively blocked any attempt to pierce it with the
strange, sub-level energy spectrum over which the driver tube and the
power-transmission tube worked, representing the so-called extremes of
the spectrum.

But Venus Equilateral, for their part, was well set. Ships plied the
spaceways, using their self-contained power only during atmospheric
passage, and paid Venus Equilateral well for the privilege. The relay
station itself was powered on the solar beam. There were other relay
stations that belonged to the Interplanetary Communications Company;
Luna, Deimos and Phobos, and the six that circled Venus in lieu of a
satellite; all were powered by the solar beam. The solar observatory on
Mercury used but little power, so the needs of the observatory became
the sole income for Terran Electric's planetary rights of the solar
beam, since Mercury owned no air of its own.

Mark Kingman was beginning to feel the brunt of Channing's statement
to the effect that legal-minded men were of little importance when it
came to the technical life in space, where men's lives and livelihood
depended more on technical skill than upon the legal pattern set for
their protection in the complex society of planetary civilization.

He swore vengeance.

So, like the man who doggedly makes the same mistake twice in a row,
Kingman was going to move Heaven, Hell, and three planets in an effort
to take a swing at the same jaw that had caught his fist between its
teeth before.

Out through the window of his office, he saw men toiling with the big
tube on the far roof; the self-same tube that had carried the terrific
load of Venus Equilateral for ten days without interruption and with no
apparent overload. Here on Terra, its output meter, operating through
a dummy load, showed not the slightest inclination to leave the bottom
peg and seek a home among the higher brackets.

So Kingman cursed and hated himself for having backed himself into
trouble. But Kingman was not a complete fool. He was a brilliant
attorney, and his record had placed him in the position of Chief
Attorney for Terran Electric, which was a place of no mean importance.
He had been licked on the other fellow's ground, with the other
fellow's tools.

He picked up papers that carried, side by side, the relative assets
of Venus Equilateral and Terran Electric. He studied them and thought
deeply.

To his scrutiny, the figures seemed about equal, though perhaps Venus
Equilateral was a bit ahead.

But--he had been licked on the other fellow's ground with the other
fellow's weapons. He thought that if he fought on his own ground with
his own tools he might be able to swing the deal.

Terran Electric was not without a modicum of experience in the tools
of the other fellow. Terran Electric's engineering department was
brilliant and efficient, too; at least the equal of Channing and Franks
and their gang of laughing gadgeteers. That not only gave him the edge
of having his own tools and his own ground, but a bit of the other
fellow's instruments, too. Certainly his engineering department should
be able to think of something good.

William Cartwright, business manager for Venus Equilateral, interrupted
Don and Walt in a discussion. He carried a page of stock market
quotations and a few hundred feet of ticker tape.

Channing put down his pencil and leaned back in his chair. Walt did
likewise, and said: "What's brewing?"

"Something I do not like."

"So?"

"The stock has been cutting didoes. We've been up and down so much it
looks like a scenic railway."

"How do we come out?"

"Even, mostly; but from my experience, I would say that some bird is
playing hooky with Venus Equilateral, Preferred. The common is even
worse."

"Look bad?"

"Not too good. It is more than possible that some guy with money and
the desire might be able to hook a large slice of V.E. Preferred. I
don't think they could get control, but they could garner a plurality
from stock outstanding on the planets. Most of the preferred stock
is in the possession of the folks out here, you know, but aside from
yourself, Walt, and a couple dozen of the executive personnel, the
stock is spread pretty thin. The common stock has a lot of itself
running around loose outside. Look!"

Cartwright began to run off the many yards of ticker tape. "Here,
some guy dumped a boatload at Canalopsis, and some other guy glommed
onto a large hunk at New York. The Northern Landing Exchange showed a
bit of irregularity during the couple of hours of tinkering, and the
irregularity was increased because some bright guy took advantage of
it and sold short." He reeled off a few yards and then said: "Next, we
have the opposite tale. Stuff was dumped at Northern Landing, and there
was a wild flurry of bulling at Canalopsis. The Terran Exchange was
just flopping up and down in a general upheaval, with the boys selling
at the top and buying at the bottom. That makes money, you know,
and if you can make the market tick your way--I mean control enough
stuff--your purchases at the bottom send the market up a few points,
and then you dump it and it drops again. It wouldn't take more than
a point or two to make a guy rich, if you had enough stock and could
continue to make the market vacillate."

"That's so," agreed Don. "Look, Bill, why don't we get some of our
Terran agents to tinkering, too? Get one of our best men to try to
outguess the market. As long as it is being done systematically, he
should be able to follow the other guy's thinking. That's the best we
can do unless we go Gestapo and start listening in on all the stuff
that goes through the station here."

"Would that help?"

"Yeah, but we'd all land in the hoosegow for breaking the secrecy
legislation. You know. 'No one shall ... intercept ... transmit ...
eavesdrop upon ... any message not intended for the listener,
and ... shall not ... be party to the use of any information
gained ... et cetera.' That's us. The trouble is this lag between the
worlds. They can prearrange their bulling and bearing ahead of time and
play smart. With a little luck, they can get the three markets working
just so--going up at Northern Landing; down at Terra; and up again at
Canalopsis, just like waves in a rope. By playing fast and loose on
paper, they can really run things hell, west and crooked. Illegal,
probably, since they each no doubt will claim to have all the stock in
their possession, and yet will be able to sell and buy the same stock
at the same time in three places."

"Sounds slightly precarious to me," objected Cartwright.

"Not at all, if you figure things just right. At a given instant, Pete
may be buying at sixty-five on Venus; Joe might be selling like furious
at seventy-one on Mars; and Jimmy may be bucking him up again by buying
at sixty-five on Terra. Then the picture and the tickers catch up with
one another, and Joe will start buying again at sixty-five, whilst Pete
and Jimmy are selling at seventy-one. Once they get their periodicity
running, they're able to tinker the market for quite a time. That's
where your man comes in, Bill. Have him study the market and step in at
the right time and grab us all a few cheap ones. Get me?"

"Sure," said Cartwright. "I get it. In that way, we'll tend to
stabilize the market, as well as getting the other guy's shares."

"Right. I'll leave it up to you. Handle this thing for the best
interests of all of us."

Cartwright smiled once again, and left with a thoughtful expression on
his face. Channing picked up the miniature of the power-transmission
tube and studied it as though the interruption had not occurred. "We'll
have to use about four of these per stage," he said. "We'll have to use
an input terminal tube to accept the stuff from the previous stage,
drop it across the low-resistance load, resistance couple the stage
to another output terminal tube where we can make use of the coupling
circuits without feedback. From there into the next tube, with the high
resistance load, and out of the power-putter-outer tube across the desk
to the next four-bottle stage."

"That's getting complicated," said Walt. "Four tubes per stage of
amplification."

"Sure. As the arts and sciences get more advanced, things tend to get
more complicated."

"That's essentially correct," agreed Walt with a smile. "But you're
foreguessing. We haven't even got a detector that will detect driver
radiation."

"I know, and perhaps this thing will not work. But after all, we've got
the tubes and we might just as well try them out just in case. We'll
detect driver radiation soon enough and then we might as well have a
few odd thoughts on how to amplify it for public use. Nothing could
tickle me more than to increase those three circles on our letterhead
to four. 'Planet to Planet, and Ship to Ship' is our hope. This
one-way business is not to my liking. How much easier it would have
been if I'd been able to squirt a call in to the station when I was
floating out there beyond Jupiter in that wrecked ship. That gave me to
think, Walt. Driver radiation detection is the answer."

"How so?"

"We'll use the detector to direct our radio beam, and the ship can have
a similar gadget coupled to their beam, detecting a pair of drivers set
at one hundred and eighty degrees from one another so the thrust won't
upset the station's celestial alignment. We can point one of them at
the ship's course, even, making it easier for them."

"Speaking of direction," said Walt thoughtfully, "have you figured why
the solar beam is always pointing behind Sol?"

"I haven't given that much thought. I've always thought that it was
due to the alignment plates not being in linear perfection so that the
power beam bends. They can make the thing turn a perfect right angle,
you know."

"Well, I've been toying with the resurrected heap you dropped into Lake
Michigan a couple of months ago, and I've got a good one for you. You
know how the beam seems to lock into place when we've got it turned to
Sol, not enough to make it certain, but more than detectably directive?"

"Yep. We could toss out the motor control that keeps her face turned to
the sun."

"That's what I was hoping to gain--" started Walt, but he stopped as
the door opened and Arden entered, followed by a man and woman.

"Hello," said Walt in a tone of admiration.

"This is Jim Baler and his sister Christine," said Arden. "Baler, the
guy with the worried look on his face is my legally wedded souse--no,
spouse. And the guy with the boudoir gorilla gleam in his vulpine eyes
is that old vulture, Walt Franks."

Walt took the introduction in his stride and offered Christine his
chair. Arden stuck her tongue out at him, but Walt shrugged it off.
Channing shook hands with Jim Baler and then sought the "S" drawer of
his file cabinet. He found the Scotch and the soda, and then grinned:
"Should have the ice under 'I' but it's sort of perishable, and so we
keep it in the refrigerator. Arden, breach the 'G' drawer, please, and
haul out the glasses. I suppose we could refrigerate the whole cabinet,
but it wouldn't sound right if people heard that we kept their mail on
ice. Well--"

"Here's how, if we don't already know," said Walt, clinking glasses
with Christine.

"Walt earned that 'wolf' title honestly," laughed Arden, "he likes to
think. Frankly, he's a sheep in wolf's clothing!"

"What are his other attributes?" asked Christine.

"He invents. He scribbles a bit. He cuts doodles on tablecloths, and he
manages to get in the way all the time," said Don. "We keep him around
the place for his entertainment value."

"Why--"

"Quiet, Walter, or I shall explain the sordid details of the Walter
Franks Electron Gun."

"What was that one?" asked Christine.

"You really wouldn't want to know," Walt told her.

"Oh, but I would."

"Yeah," growled Franks, "you would!"

"Would you rather hear it from him or me?" Arden asked.

"He'll tell me," said Christine. Her voice was positive and assured.

"And that'll take care of that," said Arden. "But I think we
interrupted something. What were you saying about gaining, Walt?"

"Oh, I was saying that I was tinkering around with the _Anopheles_. We
hooked it up with the solar beam for power, and I got to wondering
about that discrepancy. The faster you go, the greater is the angular
displacement, and then with some measurements, I came up with a bugger
factor--"

"Whoa, goodness," laughed Christine. "What is a bugger factor?"

"You'll learn," said Arden, "that the boys out here have a language all
their own. I've heard them use that one before. The bugger factor is a
sort of multiplying, or dividing, or additive, or subtractive quantity.
You perform the mathematical operation with the bugger factor, and your
original wrong answer turns into the right answer."

"Is it accepted?"

"Oh, sure," answered Arden. "People don't realize it, but that string
of 4's in the derivation of Bode's law is a bugger factor."

"You," said Christine to Walt, "will also tell me what Bode's law
is--but later."

"O.K.," grinned Walt. "At any rate, I came up with a bugger factor
that gave me to think. The darned solar beam points to where Sol
actually is!"

"_Whoosh!_" exclaimed Channing. "You don't suppose we're tinkering with
the medium that propagates the law of gravity?"

"I don't know. I wouldn't know. Has anyone ever tried to measure the
velocity of propagation of the attraction of gravity?"

"No, and no one will until we find some way of modulating it."

Jim Baler smiled. "No wonder Barney was a little wacky when he got
home. I come out here to take a look around and maybe give a lift to
your gang on the transmission tube--and bump right into a discussion on
the possibility of modulating the law of gravity!"

"Not the law, Jim, just the force."

"Now he gets technical about it. You started out a couple of months
ago to detect driver radiation, and ended up by inventing a beam
that draws power out of the sun. Think you'll ever find the driver
radiation?"

"Probably."

"Yeah," drawled Arden. "And I'll bet a hat that when they do, they
won't have any use for it. I've seen 'em work before."

"Incidentally," said Christine, "you mentioned the _Anopheles_, and I
think that is the first ship I've ever heard of that hasn't a feminine
name. How come?"

"The mosquito that does the damage is the female," grinned Jim. "The
Mojave spaceyards owns a sort of tender craft. It has a couple of big
cranes on the top and a whole assortment of girders near the bottom.
It looks like, and is also called _The Praying Mantis_. Those are also
female: at least the ones that aren't afraid of their own shadow are."

Channing said suddenly: "Walt, have you tried the propagation-time of
the solar beam on the _Anopheles_?"

"No. How would we go about doing that?"

"By leaving the controls set for one G, and then starting the ship by
swapping the tube energizing voltages from test power to operating
power."

"Should that tell us?"

"Sure. As we know, the amount of energy radiated from the sun upon a
spot the size of our solar tube is a matter of peanuts compared to the
stuff we must get out of it. Ergo, our beam must go to Sol and collect
the power and draw it back down the beam. Measure the transit-time, and
we'll know."

"That's an idea. I've got a micro-clock in the lab. We can measure it
to a hundred-millionth of a second. Anyone like to get shook up?"

"How?" asked Jim.

"Snapping from zero to one G all to oncet-like isn't too gentle. She'll
knock your eyes out."

"Sounds like fun. I'm elected."

"So am I," insisted Christine.

"No," said Jim. "I know what he's talking about."

"So do I," said Arden. "Don't do it."

"Well, what better have you to offer?" asked Christine unhappily.

"You and I are going down to the Mall."

Channing groaned in mock anguish. "Here goes another closet full of
female haberdashery. I'm going to close that corridor some day, or put
a ceiling on the quantity of sales, or make it illegal to sell a woman
anything unless she can prove that 'she has nothing to wear!'"

"That, I'd like to see," said Walt.

"You would," snorted Arden. "Come on, Chris. Better than the best of
three worlds is available."

"That sort of leaves me all alone," said Don. "I'm going to look up Wes
Farrell and see if he's been able to make anything worth looking at for
a driver detector."

Don found Wes in the laboratory, poring over a complicated circuit.
Farrell was muttering under his breath, and probing deep into the maze
of haywire on the bench.

"Wes, when you get to talking to yourself, it's time to take a jaunt to
Joe's."

"Not right now," objected Wes. "I haven't got that hollow leg that your
gang seem to have developed. Besides, I'm on the trail of something."

"Yes?" Channing forgot about Joe's, and was all interest.

"I got a wiggle out of the meter there a few minutes ago. I'm trying to
get another one."

"What was it like?"

"Wavered up and down like fierce for about a minute after I turned it
on. Then it died quick, and has been dead ever since."

"Could it have been anything cockeyed with the instruments?"

"Nope. I've checked every part in this circuit, and everything is as
good as it ever will be. No, something external caused that response."

"You've tried the solar tube with a dynode of the same alloy as the
driver cathodes?"

"Uh-huh. Nothing at all. Oh, I'll take that back. I got a scratch.
With a pre-meter gain of about four hundred decibels, I read three
micro-microamperes. That was detected from a driver tube forty feet
across the room, running at full blast. I wondered for a minute whether
the opposing driver was doing any cancellation, and so I took a chance
and killed it for about a half second, but that wasn't it."

"Nuts. Does the stuff attenuate with distance?"

"As best as I could measure, it was something to the tune of inversely
proportional to the cube of the distance. That's not normal for
beams since it shows that the stuff isn't globularly radiated.
But the amplifier gain was hanging right on the limit of possible
amplification, and the meter was as sensitive as a meter can be made, I
think. You couldn't talk from one end of Venus Equilateral to the other
with a set like that."

"No, I guess you're right. Hey! Look!"

The meter took a sudden upswing, danced for a minute, and died once
more.

"What have you got in there? What did you change?"

"Oh, I got foolish and tried a tuned circuit across the output of one
of the miniature transmission tubes. It's far enough away from the big
beams and stuff at the north end so that none of the leakage can cause
trouble. Besides, I'm not getting anything like our beam transmissions."

Channing laughed. "Uh-huh, looks to me like you're not getting much of
anything at all."

Farrell smiled wryly. "Yeah, that's so," he agreed. "But look, Don,
Hertz himself didn't collect a transcontinental short-wave broadcast on
his first attempt."

"If Hertz had been forced to rely upon vacuum tubes, his theories
couldn't have been formulated, I think," said Channing. "At least, not
by him. The easier frequencies and wave lengths are too long; a five
hundred meter dipole can't be set up in a small room for laboratory
tinkering. The kind of frequencies that come of dipoles a couple of
feet long, such as Hertz used, are pretty hard to work with unless you
have special tubes."

"Hertz had rotten detectors, too. But he made his experiments with
spark-gap generators, which gave sufficient high-peak transients to
induce spark-magnitude voltages in his receiving dipole."

"I'm not too sure of that tuned-circuit idea of yours, Wes. Go ahead
and tinker to your heart's content, but remember that I'm skeptical of
the standard resonance idea."

"Why?"

"Because we've been tinkering with driver tubes for years and
years--and we have also been gadgeting up detectors, radio hootnannies,
and stuff of the electronic spectrum all the way from direct current
to hard X-rays, and we have yet to have anything react to driver
radiation. Ergo, I'm skeptical."

The call bell rang for Channing, and he answered. It was Walt Franks.

"Don," he said with a laugh in his voice, though it was apparent that
he felt slightly guilty about laughing, "got a 'gram from Addison, the
project engineer on the solar beam from Terran Electric. Says: 'Finally
got through Channing Layer. Power by the megawatt hour in great shape.
But the atmosphere from the Channing Layer right down to the snout of
the tube is a dull red scintillation. Like the driver tube trail--it
ionizes the atmosphere into ozone. Power by the megawatt, and ozone by
the megaton.'"

"Ozone, hey? Lots of it?"

"Plenty, according to the rest of this. It looks to me like a sort of
'denatured' power system. There it is, all nice and potent, cheap,
and unlicensed. But the second swallow going down meets the first one
on the way back. Power they got--but the ozone they can't take; it's
poisonous like a nice dose of chlorine. Poor Terran Electric!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Mark Kingman sat in the control room of a ship of space and worried.
Below the dome, Venus covered three-quarters of the sky, and it circled
slowly as the Terran Electric ship oscillated gently up and down.

Before Kingman, on the desk, were pages of stock market reports. On a
blackboard, a jagged line denoted the vacillation of Venus Equilateral
Preferred. This phase of his plan was working to perfection. Gradually,
he was buying share after share out of uninterested hands by his
depredations. Soon he would have enough stock to stage a grand show,
and then he could swing the thing his way.

His worry was not with this affair.

He gloated over that. His belief that he could beat this Venus
Equilateral crowd if he fought them on _his_ ground with _his_ weapon
was being corroborated. That, plus the fact that he was using some of
Venus Equilateral's own thunder to do the job, was giving him to think
that it was but a matter of time.

And the poor fools were not aware of their peril. Oh, some bird was
trying to buck him, but he was not prepared as Kingman was, nor had he
the source of information that Kingman had.

No, the thing that worried him was--

And there it came again! A wild, cacophonous wailing, like a whole
orchestra of instruments playing at random, in random keys. It shook
the very roots of the body, that terrible caterwauling, and not only
did it shake the body, and the mind, but it actually caused loose
plates to rattle in the bulkhead, and the cabinet doors followed in
unison. The diapason stop was out for noon, and the racket filled the
small control room and bounced back and forth, dinning at the ears of
Kingman as it went by. It penetrated to the upper reaches of the ship,
and the crew gritted their teeth and cursed the necessity of being able
to hear orders, for cotton plugs would have been a godsend and a curse
simultaneously. Anything that would blot that racket out would also
deafen them to the vital orders necessary to the operation of the ship
in this precarious poising maneuver.

Two hundred sheer watts of undistorted audio power boomed forth in that
tiny room--two hundred watts of pure, undistorted power to racket forth
something that probably started out as sheer distortion--

And yet--

Faintly striving against that fearful racket there came a piping,
flat-sounding human voice that said: "Kingman! V.E. Preferred just hit
eighty-nine!"

Kingman scowled and punched on the intership teletype machine. Using
the communicator set with that racket would have been impossible.

The radio man read the note that appeared on his 'type, and smiled
grimly. He saw to his helio-mirror and sighted through a fine telescope
at a spot on Venus, three thousand miles below. The helio began to send
its flashing signal to this isolated spot near the Boiling River, and
it was read, acknowledged, and repeated for safety's sake. The radio
man flashed "O.K." and went back to his forty-seventh game of chess
with the assistant pilot.

The helio man on the Boiling River read the message, grinned, and
stepped to the telephone. He called a number at Northern Landing, and a
tight beam sped across the northern quarter of Venus to a man connected
with the Venus Stock Market. The man nodded, and said to another: "Buy
fifteen hundred--use the name of Ralph Gantry this time."

The stock purchased under the name of Ralph Gantry was signed, sealed
and delivered exactly fifteen minutes before the ticker projection on
the grand wall of the Exchange showed the V.E. Preferred stock turn
the bottom curve and start upward by hitting eighty-nine!

Back in the Terran Electric spaceship Kingman's ears were still beset
by the roaring, alien music.

He was sitting in his chair with his head between his hands, and
did not see the man approaching the instrument panel with a pair
of side-cutters in one hand. The man reached the panel, lifted
it slightly, and reached forward. Then Kingman, hearing a slight
imperfection in the wail of the speaker, looked up, jumped from his
chair, and tackled the engineer.

"You blasted fool!" blazed Kingman. "You idiot!"

The music stopped at his third word, and the scream of his voice in the
silence of the room almost scared Kingman himself.

"Mark, I'm going nuts. I can't stand that racket."

"You're going to stand it. Unless you can get something to cut it out."

"I can't. I'm not brilliant enough to devise a circuit that will cut
that noise and still permit the entry of your fellow on Luna."

"Then you'll live with it."

"Mark, why can't we take that relay apart and work on it?"

"Ben, as far as I know, that relay is what Channing and his gang would
give their whole station for--and will, soon enough. I don't care how
it works--or why!"

"That's no way to make progress," objected Ben.

"Yeah, but we've got the only detector for driver radiation in this
part of the universe! I'm not going to have it wrecked by a screwball
engineer who doesn't give a care what's going on as long as he can
tinker with something new and different. What do we know about it?
Nothing. Therefore how can you learn anything about it? What would you
look for? What would you expect to find?"

"But where is that music coming from?"

"I don't know. As best as we can calculate, driver radiation propagates
at the square of the speed of light, and that gives us a twenty-four
minute edge on Venus Equilateral at the present time. For all I know,
that music may be coming from the other end of the galaxy. At the
square of the speed of light, you could talk to Centauri and get an
answer in not too long."

"But if we had a chance to tinker with that relay, we might be able to
find out what tunes it and then we can tune in the Lunar station and
tune out that cat-melody."

"I'm running this show--and this relay is going to stay right where
it is. I don't care a hoot about the control circuit it breaks; these
controls are set, somehow, so that we can detect driver radiations and
I'm not taking any chances of having it ruined."

"Can't you turn the gain down, at least?"

"Nope. We'd miss the gang at Luna."

The speaker spoke in that faint, flat-toned human voice again. It was
easy to see that all that gain was necessary to back up the obviously
faint response of Kingman's detector. The speaker said: "Kingman!
Addison got power through the Channing Layer!"

That was all for about an hour. Meanwhile, the mewling tones burst
forth again and again, assaulting the ears with intent to do damage.
The messages were terse and for the most part uninteresting. They gave
the market reports: they intercepted the beam transmissions through the
Terran Heaviside Layer before they got through the Lunar Relay Station,
inspected the swiftly-moving tape and transmitted the juicy morsels to
Kingman via the big driver tube that stood poised outside of the landed
spaceship.

Kingman enjoyed an hour of celebration at Addison's success, and then
the joy turned to bitter hate as the message came through telling of
the ozone that resulted in the passage of the solar beam through the
atmosphere. The success of the beam, and the utter impossibility of
using it were far worse than the original fact of the beam's failure
to pass the Channing Layer.

So Kingman went back to his stock market machinations and applied
himself diligently. And as the days wore on, Kingman's group
manipulated their watered stock and ran the price up and down at will,
and after each cycle Kingman's outfit owned just one more bit of Venus
Equilateral.

Terran Electric would emerge from this battle with Venus Equilateral as
a subsidiary--with Kingman at the helm!

Walt Franks entered Channing's office with a wild-eyed look on his
face. "Don! C²!"

"Huh! What are you driving about?"

"C². The speed of light, squared!"

"Fast--but what is it?"

"The solar beam! It propagates at C²!"

"Oh, now look. Nothing can travel that fast!"

"Maybe this isn't _something_!"

"It has energy, energy has mass, mass cannot travel faster than the
limiting speed of light."

"O.K. It can't do it. But unless my measurements are all haywire, the
beam gets to Sol and back at C². I can prove it."

"Yeah? How? You couldn't possibly measure an interval so small as two
times sixty-seven million miles--the radius of Venus' orbit--traversed
at the speed of light, squared."

"No. I admit that. But, Don, I got power out of Sirius!"

"You WHAT?" yelled Channing.

"Got power out of Sirius. And unless I've forgotten how to use a
micro-clock, it figured out from here to Sirius and back with the bacon
in just about ninety-three percent of the speed of light squared.
Seven percent is well within the experimental error, I think, since we
think of Sirius as being eight and one-half light years away. That's
probably not too accurate as a matter of fact, but it's the figure I
used. But here we are. Power from Sirius at C². Thirty-five billion
miles per second! This stuff doesn't care how many laws it breaks!"

"Hm-m-m. C², hey? Oh, lovely. Look, Walt, let's run up and take a whirl
at Wes Farrell's detector. I'm beginning to envision person-to-person,
ship-to-ship service, and possibly the first Interplanet Network.
Imagine hearing a play-by-play account of the Solar Series!"

"Wool gathering," snorted Walt. "We've gotta catch our detector first!"

"Wes has something. First glimmer we've had. I think this is the time
to rush into it with all eight feet and start pushing!"

"O.K. Who do we want?"

"Same gang as usual. Chuck and Freddie Thomas, Warren, Wes Farrell, of
course, and you can get Jim Baler into it, too. No, Walt, Christine
Baler is not the kind of people you haul into a screwdriver meeting."

"I was merely thinking."

"I know. But you're needed, and if she were around, you'd be a total
loss as far as cerebration."

"I like her."

"So does Barney Carroll."

"Um! But he isn't here. O.K., no Christine in our conference. I'll
have Jeanne call the screwballs on the communicator."

They dribbled into Farrell's laboratory one by one, and then Don said:

"We have a detector. It is about as efficient as a slab of marble; only
more so. We can get a tinkle of about ten micromicroamps at twenty feet
distance from a driver tube using eight KVA input, which if we rate
this in the usual spaceship efficiency, comes to about one-half G.
That's about standard, for driver tubes, since they run four to a ship
at two G total.

"Now, that is peanuts. We should be able to wind a megammeter around
the peg at twenty feet. Why, the red ionization comes out of the tube
and hits our so-called detector, and the amount of ozone it creates is
terrific. Yet we can't get a good reading out of it."

Walt asked: "Wes, what worked, finally?"

"A four-turn coil on a ceramic form, in series with a twenty
micromicrofarad tuning condenser. I've been using a circular plate as a
collector."

"Does it tune?"

"Nope. Funny thing, though, it won't work without a condenser in the
circuit. I can use anything at all there without tuning it. But, darn
it, the coil is the only one that works."

"That's slightly ridiculous. Have you reconstructed all factors?"

"Inductance, distributed capacity, and factor 'Q' are all right on the
button with two more I made. Nothing dioding."

"Hm-m-m. This takes the cake. Nothing works, you say?"

"Nothing in my mind. I've tried about three hundred similar coils, and
not a wiggle since. That's the only one."

Chuck Thomas said: "Wes, have you tried your tube-amplifier system
ahead of it?"

"Yes, and nothing at all happens then. I don't understand that one,
because we know that any kind of input power will be re-beamed as
similar power. I should think that the thing will amplify the same kind
of stuff. I've used a solar beam miniature with a driver-alloy dynode
in it, but that doesn't work either."

"Shucks," said Thomas.

Don stood up and picked up the coil. "Fellows, I'm going to make a
grand, old college try."

"Yes?" asked Walt.

"I've got a grand idea, here. One, I'm still remembering that business
of making the receptor dynode of the same alloy as the transmitter
cathode. I've a hunch that this thing is not so much an inductor, but
something sour in the way of alloy-selectivity. If I'm right, I may cut
this in half, and make two detectors, each of similar characteristics.
Shall I?"

"Go ahead. We've established the fact that it is not the
physico-electrical characteristics of that coil," said Wes. "I, too,
took my chances and rewound that same wire on a couple of other forms.
So it doesn't count as far as inductance goes. So we can't ruin
anything but the total make-up of the wire. I think we may be able to
re-establish the wire by self-welding if your idea doesn't work. Now,
unless we want to search the three planets for another hunk of wire to
work like this one did, without knowing what to look for and therefore
trying every foot of wire on three planets--"

"I'll cut it," said Channing with a smile. His cutters snipped, and
then fastened one end of the wire to the coil, stripping the other
portion off and handing it to Chuck Thomas, who rewound it on another
form.

"Now," said Don, "crank up your outfit and we'll try this hunk."

The beam tubes were fired up, and the smell of ozone began to make
itself prominent. Channing cranked up the air-vent capacity to remove
the ozone more swiftly. The men applied themselves to the detector
circuits, and Wes, who recognized the results, said: "This hunk works.
About as good as the whole coil."

Channing replaced the first coil with the second. Wes inspected the
results and said: "Not quite as good, but it does work."

Walt nodded, and said: "Maybe it should be incandescent."

"That's a thought. Our solar beam uses an incandescent dynode."
Channing removed the second coil and handed it to Freddie. "Take this
thing down to the metallurgical lab and tell 'em to analyze it right
down to the trace of sodium that seems to be in everything. I want
quantitative figures on every element in it. Also, cut off a hunk and
see if the crystallographic expert can detect anything peculiar, that
would make this hunk of copper wire different from any other hunk.
Follow?"

"Yup," said Freddie. "We'll also start making similar alloys with a few
percent variation on the composition metals. Right?"

"That's the ticket. Wes, can we evacuate a tube with this wire in it
and make it incandescent?"

"Let's evacuate the room, I like that stunt."

"You're the engineer on this trick. Do it your way."

"Thanks. I get the program, all right. Why not have Chuck build us a
modulator for the driver tube? Then when we get this thing perfected,
we'll have some way to test it."

"Can do, Chuck?"

"I think so. It's easy. We'll just modulate the cathode current of the
electron guns that bombard the big cathode. That is the way we adjust
for drive; it should work as a means of amplitude-modulation."

"O.K.," said Channing. "We're on the rails for this one. We'll get
together as soon as our various laboratories have their answers and
have something further to work with."

       *       *       *       *       *

Above Venus, Mark Kingman was listening to the wailing roar of alien
symphony and cursing because he could hardly hear the voice of his
Lunar accomplice saying: "V. E. Preferred just hit one hundred and two!"

Fifteen minutes before the peak hit Northern Landing, share after
share was being dumped, and in addition, a message was on its way back
to Terra. It went on the regular beam transmission through Venus
Equilateral, carefully coded. It said:

    "HAVE SUFFICIENT STOCK AND ADDITIONAL COLLATERAL TO APPLY THE FIRST
    PRESSURE. APPLY PHASE TWO OF PLAN.

    KINGMAN."

In the ten hours that followed, Venus Equilateral stock went down and
down, passed through a deep valley, and started up again. Kingman's
crowd was offering twice the market for the preferred stock, and there
was little to have. It took a short-time dip at three hundred, and the
few minutes of decline smoked a lot of stock out of the hands of people
who looked upon this chance as the right time to make their money and
get out.

Then the stock began to climb again, and those people who thought that
the price had been at its peak and passed were angrily trying to buy in
again. That accelerated the climb, but Kingman's crowd, operating on
Venus and on Mars and on Terra, were buying only, and selling not one
share of Venus Equilateral.

Terran Electric stock took a gradual slide, for Kingman's crowd
needed additional money. But the slide was slow, and controlled, and
manipulated only for the purpose of selling short. Terran Electric
stock eventually remained in the hands of Kingman's crowd, though its
value was lessened.

Venus Equilateral Preferred hit four hundred and sixty-eight, and
hovered. It vacillated around that point for another hour, and the
market closed at four hundred and sixty-nine and three-eighths.

Kingman looked at his watch and smiled. He reached forth and cut the
dinning sound of the cacophony with a vicious twist of the gain knob.
Silence reigned in the spaceship; grand, peaceful silence. Kingman,
his nerves frayed by the mental activity and the brain-addling
music-from-nowhere, took a hot shower and went to bed.

He locked the panel of the control room first, however. He wanted no
engineer tinkering with his pet relay.

       *       *       *       *       *

Cartwright came into Channing's living room with a long face. "It's
bad," he said. "Bad."

"What's bad?"

"Oh, I, like the rest of the fools, got caught in his trap."

"Whose trap?"

"The wild man who is trying to rock Venus Equilateral on its axis."

"Well, how?"

"They started to buy like mad, and I held out. Then the thing dropped a
few points, and I tried to make a bit of profit, so that we could go on
bolstering the market. They grabbed off my stock, and then, just like
_that!_ the market was on the way up again and I couldn't find more
than a few odd shares to buy back."

"Don't worry," said Channing, "I don't think anyone is big enough to
really damage us. Someone is playing fast and loose, making a killing.
When this is over, we'll still be in business."

"I know, Don, but whose business will it be? Ours, or theirs?"

"Is it that bad?"

"I'm afraid so. One more flurry like today, and they'll be able to tow
Venus Equilateral out and make Mars Equilateral out of it, and we won't
be able to say a word."

"H-m-m-m. You aren't beaten?"

"Not until the last drop. I'm not bragging when I say that I'm as good
an operator as the next. My trouble today was not being a mind reader.
I'd been doing all right, so far. I've been letting them ride it up and
down with little opposition, and taking off a few here and there as I
rode along. Guessing their purpose, I could count on their next move.
But this banging the market sky-high has me stumped, or had me stumped
for just long enough for me to throw our shirt into the ring. They took
that quick--our shirt, I mean."

"That's too bad. What are you leading up to?"

"There are a lot of unstable stocks that a guy could really play hob
with; therefore their only reason to pick on us is to gain control!"

"Pirates?"

"Something like that."

"Well," said Channing in a resigned voice, "about all we can do is
do our best and hope we are smart enough to outguess 'em. That's
your job, Cartwright. A long time ago Venus Equilateral made their
decision concerning the executive branch of this company, and they
elected to run the joint with technical men. The business aspects and
all are under the control of men who know what they are fighting. We
hire business men, just like business men hire engineers, and for the
opposite purpose. You're the best we could get, you know that. If those
guys get Venus Equilateral, they'll get you, too. But if you do your
best and fail, we can't shoot you in the back for it. We'll all go down
together. So keep pitching, and remember that we're behind you all the
way!"

"Can we float a bit of a loan?"

"Sure, if it's needed. I'd prefer Interplanetary Transport. Keg Johnson
will do business with us. We've been in the way of helping them out a
couple of million dollar losses; they might be anxious to reciprocate."

"O.K. I have your power of attorney, anyway. If I get in a real crack,
I'll scream for I. T. to help. Right?"

"Right!"

Cartwright left, and as he closed the door, Channing's face took on a
deep, long look. He was worried. He put his head between his hands and
thought himself into a tight circle from which he could not escape. He
did not hear Walt Franks enter behind Arden and Christine.

"Hey!" said Walt. "Why the gloom? I bear glad tidings!"

Channing looked up. "Spill," he said with a glum smile. "I could use
some glad tidings right now."

"The lab just reported that that hunk of copper wire was impure. Got a
couple of traces of other metals in it. They've been concocting other
samples with more and less of the impurities, and Wes has been trying
them as they were ready. We've got the detector working to the point
where Freddie has taken the _Relay Girl_ out for a run around the
station at about five hundred miles and Wes is still getting responses!"

"Is he? How can he know?"

"Chuck rigged the _Relay Girl's_ drivers with a voice modulator, and
Freddie is jerking his head off because the acceleration is directly
proportional to the amplitude of his voice, saying: 'One, two, three,
four, test.' Don, have you ever figured out why an engineer can't count
above four?"

"Walt, does it take a lot of soup to modulate a driver?" asked Arden.

"Peanuts," grinned Franks. "This stuff is not like the good old radio;
the power for driving the spaceship is derived mostly, from the total
disintegration of the cathode and the voltage applied to the various
electrodes is merely for the purpose of setting up the proper field
conditions. They draw quite a bit of current, but nothing like that
which would be required to lift a spaceship at two G for a hundred
hours flat."

He turned back to Channing. "What's the gloom?"

Don smiled in a thoughtful fashion. "It doesn't look so good right now.
Some gang of stock market cutthroats have been playing football with
Venus Equilateral, and Cartwright says he is sure they want control.
It's bad; he's been clipped a couple of hard licks, but we're still
pitching. The thing I'm wondering right now is this: Shall we toss this
possibility of person-to-person and ship-to-ship communication just at
the right turn of the market to bollix up their machinations, or shall
we keep it to ourselves and start up another company with this as our
basis?"

"Can we screw 'em up by announcing it?"

"Sure. If we drop this idea just at the time they're trying to run the
stock down, it'll cross over and take a run up, which will set 'em on
their ear."

"I don't know. Better keep it to ourselves for a bit. Something may
turn up. But come on down to Wes' lab and give a look at our new
set-up."

Channing stood up and stretched. "I'm on the way," he said.

Farrell was working furiously on the detector device, and as they
entered, he indicated the meter that was jumping up and down. Out of a
speaker there was coming the full, rich tones of Freddie Thomas' voice,
announcing solemnly: "One, two, three, four, test."

Wes said, "I'm getting better, Chuck has been bettering his modulator
now, and the detector is three notches closer to whatever this level of
energy uses for resonance. Evacuation and the subsequent incandescence
was the answer. Another thing I've found is this--" Farrell held up a
flat disk about six inches in diameter with one sawcut from edge to
center. "As you see, the color of this disk changes from this end of
the cut, varying all the way around the disk to the other side of the
cut. The darned disk is a varying alloy--I've discovered how to tune
the driver-radiation through a limited range. We hit resonance of the
_Relay Girl's_ driver system just off the end of this disk. But watch
while I turn the one in the set."

Farrell took a large knob and turned it, Freddie's voice faded, and
became toneless. Farrell returned the knob to its original position and
the reception cleared again. "Inside of that tube there," said Farrell,
"I have a selsyn turning the disk, and a small induction loop that
heats the whole disk to incandescence. A brush makes contact with the
edge of the disk and the axle makes the center connection. Apparently
this stuff passes on a direct line right through the metal, for it
works."

"Have you tried any kind of tube amplification?" asked Don.

"Not yet. Shall we?"

"Why not? I can still think that the relay tube will amplify if we hook
up the input and output loads correctly."

"I've got a tube already hooked up," said Walt. "It's mounted in a
panel with the proper voltage supplies and so on. If your resistance
calculation is correct, we should get about three thousand times
amplification out of it."

He left, and returned in a few minutes with the tube. They busied
themselves with the connections, and then Don applied the power.

Nothing happened.

"Run a line from the output back through a voltage-dividing circuit to
the in-phase anode," suggested Walt.

"How much?"

"Put a potentiometer in it so we can vary the amount of voltage. After
all, Barney Carroll said that the application of voltage in phase with
the transmitted power is necessary to the operation of the relay tube.
In transmission of D. C., it is necessary to jack up the in-phase anode
with a bit of D. C. That's in-phase with a vengeance!"

"What you're thinking is that whatever this sub-level energy is, some
of it should be applied to the in-phase anode?"

"Nothing but."

The cabinet provided a standard potentiometer, and as Don advanced the
amount of fed-back voltage, Freddie's voice came booming in louder
and louder. It overloaded the audio amplifier, and they turned the
gain down as Channing increased the in-phase voltage more and more.
It passed through a peak, and then Don left the potentiometer set for
maximum.

"Wes," he said, "call Freddie and tell him to take off for Terra, at
about four G. Have the gang upstairs hang a ship beam on him so we can
follow him with suggestions. Too bad we can't get there immediately."

"What I'm worrying about is the available gain," said Wes. "That thing
may have given us a gain of a couple of thousand, but that isn't going
to be enough. Not for planet-to-planet service."

"Later on we may be able to hang a couple of those things in cascade,"
suggested Walt.

"Or if not, I know a trick that will work--one that will enable us to
get a gain of several million."

"Yeah? Mirrors, or adding machines? You can't make an audio amplifier
of a three million gain."

"I know it--at least not a practical one. But, we can probably use
our audio modulator to modulate a radio frequency, and then modulate
the driver with the RF. Then we hang a receiver onto the detector
gadget here, and collect RF, modulated, just like a standard radio
transmission, and amplify it at RF, convert it to IF, and detect it to
AF. Catch?"

"Sure. And that gives me another thought. It might just be possible,
if your idea is possible, that we can insert several frequencies of RF
into the tube and hang a number of receivers on the detector, here."

Arden laughed. "From crystal detection to multiplex transmission in ten
easy lessons!"

"Call Chuck and have him begin to concoct an RF stage for
tube-modulation," said Don. "It'll have to be fairly low--not higher
than a couple of megacycles so that he can handle it with the stuff
he has available, but as long as we can hear his dulcet voice
chirping that 'one, two, three, four, test,' of his, we can also have
ship-to-station two-way. We squirt out on the ship beam, and he talks
back on the driver transmitter."

"That'll be a help," observed Wes. "I'd been thinking by habit that we
had no way to get word back from the _Relay Girl_."

"So had I," confessed Walt. "But we'll get over that."

"Meanwhile, I'm going to get this alloy-selectivity investigated right
down to the last nub," said Don. "Chuck's gang can take it from all
angles and record their findings. We'll ultimately be able to devise
a system of mathematics for it from their analysis. You won't mind
being bothered every fifteen minutes for the first week, will you, Wes?
They'll be running to you in your sleep with questions until they catch
up with your present level of ability in this job. Eventually they'll
pass you up, and then you'll have to study their results in order to
keep up."

"Suits me. That sounds like my job, anyway."

"It is. O.K., Arden, I'm coming now."

"It's about time," smiled Arden. "I wouldn't haul you away from your
first love excepting that I know you haven't eaten in eight or nine
hours. I've got roast knolla."

"S'long, fellows," grinned Channing. "I'm one of the few guys in the
inner system who can forget that the knolla is the North Venus brother
to a pussy cat."

"I could feed you pussy cat and you'd eat it if I called it knolla,"
said Arden. "But you wouldn't eat knolla if I called it pussy cat."

"You can't tell the difference," said Walt.

"Tell me," asked Wes, "what does pussy cat taste like?"

"I mean by visual inspection. Unfortunately, there can be no comparison
drawn. The Venusians will eat pussy cat, but they look upon the knolla
as a household pet, not fit for Venusian consumption. So unless we
revive one of the ancient Martians, who may have the intestinal
fortitude--better known as guts--to eat both and describe the
difference, we may never know," offered Walt.

"Stop it," said Arden, "or you'll have my dinner spoiled for me."

"All the more for me," said Don. "Now, when I was in college, we cooked
the dean's cat and offered it to some pledges under the name of knolla.
They said--"

"We'll have macaroni for dinner," said Arden firmly. "I'll never be
able to look a fried knolla in the pan again without wondering whether
it caterwauled on some back fence in Chicago, or a Palanortis Whitewood
on Venus."

She left, and Channing went with her, arguing with her to the effect
that she should develop a disregard for things like their discussion.
As a matter of interest, Channing had his roast knolla that evening, so
he must have convinced Arden.

Walt said: "And then there were three. Christine, has our little
pre-dinner talk disturbed your appetite?"

"Not in the least," said the girl stoutly. "I wouldn't care whether it
was knolla or pussy cat. I've been on Mars so long that either one of
the little felines is alien to me. What have you to offer?"

"We'll hit Joe's for dinner, which is the best bar in sixty million
miles today. Later we may take in the latest celluloid epic, then there
will be a bit of mixed wrestling in the ballroom."

"Mixed wres--Oh, you mean dancing. Sounds interesting. Now?"

"Now, Wes, what are you heading for?"

"Oh, I've got on a cockeyed schedule," said Wes. "I've been catching my
sleep at more and more out-of-phase hours until this is not too long
after breakfast for me. You birds all speak of 'Tomorrow,' 'Today,' and
'Yesterday' out here, but this business of having no sun to come up in
the morning, and the electric lights running all the time has me all
bollixed up."

"That daily nomenclature is purely from habit," said Walt. "As you
know, we run three equal shifts of eight hours each, and therefore what
may be 'Morning' to Bill is 'Noon' to James and 'Night' to Harry. It is
meaningless, but habitual to speak of 'Morning' when you mean 'Just
after I get up'! Follow me?"

"Yup. This, then, is morning to me. Run along and have fun."

"We'll try," said Walt.

"We will," said Christine.

Farrell grinned as they left. He looked at Walt and said: "You will!"

Walt wondered whether he should have questioned Wes about that remark,
but he did not. Several hours later, he wondered how Wes could have
been so right.

       *       *       *       *       *

Venus Equilateral, Preferred, started in its long climb as soon as
the markets opened on the following day. Cartwright, following his
orders and his experience, held onto whatever stock he had, and bought
whatever stock was tossed his way. Several times he was on the verge of
asking Interplanetary Transport for monetary assistance, but the real
need never materialized.

Kingman alternately cursed the whining music and cheered the pyramiding
stock. About the only thing that kept Kingman from going completely mad
was the fact that the alien music was not continuous, but it came and
went in stretches of anything from five to fifty minutes, with varied
periods for silence in between selections.

Up and up it went, and Kingman was seeing the final, victorious coup
in the offing. A week more, and Venus Equilateral would belong to
Terran Electric. The beam from Terra was silent, save for a few items
of interest not connected with the market. Kingman's men were given
the latest news, baseball scores, and so forth, among which items was
another message to Channing from the solar beam project engineer,
Addison. They had about given up. Nothing they could do would prevent
the formation of ozone by the ton as they drew power by the kilowatt
from Sol.

On Venus Equilateral, Channing said: "Ask Freddie what his radio
frequency is."

Ten minutes later, at the speed of light, the ship beam reached the
_Relay Girl_ and the message clicked out. Freddie read it and spoke
into the microphone. The _Relay Girl_ bucked unmercifully, as the voice
amplitude made the acceleration change. Then at the speed of light,
squared, the answer came back in less than a twinkle.

"Seventeen hundred kilocycles."

Channing began to turn the tuner of the radio receiver. The band
was dead, and he laughed. "This is going to be tricky, what with
the necessity of aligning both the driver-alloy disk and the radio
receiver. Takes time."

He changed the alloy disk in minute increments, and waved the tuner
across that portion of the band that would most likely cover the
experimental error of Freddie Thomas' frequency measurement. A burst
of sound caught his ear, was lost for a moment, and then swelled into
perfect tune as Don worked over the double tuning system.

"Whoa, Tillie," said Walt. "That sounds like--"

"Like hell."

"Right. Just what I was going to say. Is it music?"

"Could be. I've got a slightly tin ear, you know."

"Mine is fair," said Walt, "but it might as well be solid brass as far
as this mess is concerned. It's music of some kind, you can tell it by
the rhythm. But the scale isn't like anything I've ever heard before."

"Might be a phonograph record played backward," suggested Wes.

"I doubt it," said Channing seriously. "The swell of that orchestra
indicates a number of instruments--of some cockeyed kind or other--the
point I'm making is that anything of a classical or semi-classical
nature played backwards on a phonograph actually sounds passable. I
can't say the same for jamstead music, but it holds for most of the
classics, believe it or not. This sounds strictly from hunger."

"Or hatred. Maybe the musicians do not like one another."

"Then they should lambaste one another with their instruments, not
paste the sub-ether with them."

Channing lit a cigarette. "Mark the dial," he said. "Both of 'em. I've
got to get in touch with the Thomas Boys."

Walt marked the dials and tuned for the _Relay Girl_. He found it
coming in not far from the other setting. Chuck was speaking, and they
tuned in near the middle of his speech.

"--this thing so that it will not buck like a scenic railway
finding the fourth derivative of space with respect to time. For my
non-technical listeners, that is none other than the better known term:
Jerkiness. We applied the modulation to the first driver anode--the
little circular one right above the cathode. I don't know whether this
is getting out as it should, so I'm going to talk along for the next
fifteen minutes straight until I hear from you. Then we're switching
over and repeating. Can you hear me?"

Channing cut the gain down to a whisper and put a message on the beam,
confirming his reception. Ten minutes later, Chuck changed his set
speech, and said: "Good! Too bad we haven't got one of those receivers
here, or we could make this a two-way with some action. Now listen,
Don. My idiot brother says that he can make the beam transmit without
the drive. Unfortunately, I am not a drive expert like he is and so I
can not remonstrate with the half-wit. So, and right now, we're cutting
the supply voltage to the final focussing anode. Whoops! I just floated
off the floor and the mike cable is all tangled up in my feet. This
free stuff is not as simple as the old fiction writers claimed it was.
Things are floating all over the place like mad. The accelerometer says
exactly zero, and so you tell me if we are getting out. We're going
back on one G so that we can sit down again. That's better! Though the
idiot--it's a shame to be forced to admit that one of your family is
half-witted--didn't wait until we were in position to fall. I almost
landed on my head--which is where he was dropped as an infant. How was
it? Did you hear my manly voice whilst we were going free? Say 'No' so
that my idiot brother will not have anything to say about his brilliant
mind. I'm out of breath and we're going back home on that home
recording of Freddie saying, and I will let him quote, via acetate."

The sound of a phonograph pick-up being dropped on a record preceded
Freddie's voice saying: "One, two, three, four, test, one--"

Channing cut the gain again. "That red-hot. I thought he was talking
all this time."

"Not the Thomas Boys. That comes under the classification of 'Work'
which they shun unless they cannot get any kind of machine to do it for
them," laughed Walt.

Walt turned the dials back to the unearthly symphony. "At C², that
might come from Sirius," he said, listening carefully. "Sounds like
Chinese."

"Oh, now look," objected Don. "What on earth would a Chinese Symphony
be doing with a driver modulator system?"

"Broadcasting--"

"Nope. The idea of detecting driver radiation is as old as the hills.
If any culture had uncovered driver-beam transmission we'd all have
been aware of it. So far as I know, we and the Terran Electric crowd
are the only ones who have had any kind of an opportunity of working
with this sub-etheric energy. Wes, have you another miniature of the
relay tube handy?"

"Sure. Why?"

"I'm going to see if this stuff can be made directional. You're
bringing whatever it is into the place on a collector plate and
slamming it into an input-terminal power transmission tube. It goes
across the table to the relay tube, and is amplified, and then is
tossed across more table to the load-terminal tube, where the output is
impressed across your alloy-disk. Right?"

"Right."

"I want another relay tube. I'm going to use it for a directional
input-beam, aligning it in the same way that Jim Baler and Barney
Carroll did their first find. The one that sucked power out of the
electric light, turned off the city hall, and so on. Follow?"

"Perfectly. Yes, I've got a couple of them. But they're not connected
like Walt's set-up was."

"Well, that three-tube system was built on sheer guesswork some time
ago. We can tap in the relay tube and haul out a set of cables that
will energize the first relay tube. Hang her on gimbals, and we'll go
hunting."

"Shall I have Freddie return?"

"Yes. We'll have Warren's gang build us up about six of these things
just as we have here."

"That won't take long," said Walt. "They're working on the tuning disks
now, and we should have 'em by the time that Freddie gets back here."

"But this wild and wooly music. It's alien."

Wes turned from the teletype and dug in the cabinet for the extra
relay tube. He up-ended the chassis containing Walt's set-up and began
to attach leads to the voltage supply, cabling them neatly and in
accordance with the restrictions on lead-capacities that some of the
anodes needed.

"It's alien," said Wes in agreement. "I'm going to shut it off now
whilst I tinker with the tube."

"Wait a minute," said Don. "Here comes Jim. Maybe he'd like to hear it."

"Hear what?" asked Jim Baler entering the door.

"We've a Sirian Symphony," explained Don, giving Jim the background all
the way to the present time. Jim listened, and then said:

"As an engineer, I've never heard anything like that in my life
before. But, as a student of ancient languages and arts and sciences, I
have. That's Chinese."

"Oh, no!"

"Oh, yes, but definitely."

"Ye gods!"

"I agree."

"But how--where?"

"And/or when?"

Channing sat down hard. He stared at the wall for minutes. "Chinese.
Oh, great, slippery, green, howling catfish!" He picked up the phone
and called the decoupler room where the messages were sorted as to
destination upon their entry into the station.

"Ben? Look, have we a ship beam on anything of Chinese registry?"

Ben said wait a minute while he checked. He returned and said: "Four.
_The Lady of Cathay_, _The Mandarin's Daughter_, _The Dragoness_, and
_The Mongol Maid_. Why?"

"Put a message on each of 'em, asking whether they have any Chinese
music on board."

"And then what? They can't answer."

"Make this an experimental request. If any of them are using any
recordings of Chinese music, tell them to have their electronics chief
replace the phonograph pick-up with a microphone--disturbing absolutely
nothing--and to reply as if we could hear them: Get me?"

"Can you? Hear 'em I mean."

"We hear something, and Jim says it's Chinese."

"It's worth a try, then. See you later."

"Will they?" asked Jim, interested in the workings of this idea.

"Sure. Ever since we steered the _Empress of Kolain_ out of the grease
with the first station-to-ship beam, all three of the interplanetary
companies have been more than willing to co-operate with any of our
requests as long as we precede the message with the explanation that
it's experimental. They'll do anything we ask 'em to, short of
scuttling the ship."

"Nice hookup. Hope it works."

"So do I," said Wes. "This, I mean. I've got our directional gadget
hooked up."

"Turn it on."

The wailing of the music came in strong and clear. Wes turned the input
tube on its support, and the music passed through a loud peak and died
off on the far side to almost zero. Wes adjusted the mobile tube for
maximum response and tightened a small set-screw. "It's a shame we
haven't got a nice set of protractors and gimbals," said Wes. "I had to
tear into the desk lamp to get that flexible pipe."

"Small loss. She's directional, all right. We'll get the gimbals later.
Right now I don't want this turned off because we may hear something
interesting--whoops, it went off by itself!"

"Could we dare to hope?" asked Walt.

"Let's wait. They'll have to hitch the microphone on."

"Give 'em a half hour at least."

Twenty minutes later, a strange voice came through the speaker.
"Dr. Channing, of Venus Equilateral? We have been contacted by your
organization with respect to the possibility of your being able to hear
the intership communicator system. This seems impossible, but we are
not ones to question. The fact that you are in possession of the facts
concerning our love of the music of our ancestors is proof enough that
you must have heard something. I presume that further information is
desired, and I shall wait for your return. This is Ling Kai Chaing,
Captain of the _Lady of Cathay_."

"We got it!" chortled Don. He did a war dance in the lab, and the rest
followed suit. Bits of wire and oddments of one sort or another filled
the air as the big, grown-up men did a spring dance and strewed the
floor with daintily thrown junk. At the height of the racket, Arden
and Christine entered--no, they were literally hauled in, completely
surrounded, and almost smothered.

Arden fought herself free and said: "What's going on?"

"We've just contacted a ship in space!"

"So what? Haven't we been doing that for months?"

"They've just contacted us, too!"

"Huh?" asked Arden, her eyes widening.

"None other. Wait, I'll get an answer." Don contacted Ben, in the
decoupler room and said: "Ben, hang this line on the _Lady of Cathay_
beam, will you?"

"Is that her?"

"None other."

"Go ahead. She's coupled."

Don pecked out a message, "Please describe the inter-communication
system used by your ship in detail. We have heard you, and you are,
therefore, the first ship to contact Venus Equilateral from space
flight. Congratulations."

Eight minutes later, the voice of Captain Chaing returned.

"Dr. Channing, I am handing the microphone over to Ling Wey, our
electronics engineer, who knows the system in and out. He'll work with
you on this problem."

Ling Wey said: "Hello. This is great. But I'm not certain how it's
done. The output of the phono system is very small, and certainly not
capable of putting out the power necessary to reach Venus Equilateral
from here. However, we are using a wired-radio system at seventeen
hundred and ninety kilocycles in lieu of the usual cable system. The
crew all like music, and, therefore, we play the recordings of our
ancestral musicians almost incessantly."

He paused for breath, and Channing said: "Walt, tap out a message
concerning the lead-length of the cables that supply the driver anodes.
Have him check them for radio frequency pick-up."

"I get it." The 'type began to click.

       *       *       *       *       *

The communication was carried on for hour after hour. Don's guess
was right; the lead that connected the first driver anode was tuned
in wave length to almost perfect resonance with the frequency of the
wired-radio communicator system. Channing thanked them profusely, and
they rang off. Soon afterward the wailing, moaning music returned to
the air.

"Wonder if we could get that without the radio?" said Don.

"Don't know. We can pack the juice on in the amplifier and see, now
that we have it tuned on the button," said Walt.

"It won't," said Wes. "I've been all across the dial of the alloy disk.
Nothing at all."

"O.K. Well, so what if it doesn't? We've still got us a ship-to-ship
communications system. Hey! What was that?"

_That_ was a pale, flat-sounding human voice saying: "Kingman! V.E.
Pfd. has been at six hundred and nine for two days, now. What's our
next move?"

"Kingman!" exploded Channing. "Why, the ... the--"

"Careful," warned Arden. "There's a lady present."

"Huh?"

"Her," said Arden pointing at Christine.

"Wait," said Walt. "Maybe he'll answer."

Don fiddled with the dials for a full fifteen minutes, keeping them
very close to the spot marked, hoping that Kingman's answer might not
be too far out of tune. He gave up as the answer was not to be found,
and returned to the original setting. Ten minutes later the voice said:
"Kingman, where in the devil is my answer? I want to know what our next
move is. There isn't a bit of V. E. stock available. Why don't you
answer?"

Then, dimly in the background, a voice spoke to the operator of the
instrument. "Kingman's probably asleep. That terrible moaning-stuff
he's been complaining about makes him turn the thing off as soon as
the day's market is off. He--and the rest of that crew--can't stand
it. You'll have to wait until tomorrow's market opens before he'll be
listening."

"O.K.," said the operator, and then went silent.

"Kingman!" said Don Channing. "So he's the bright guy behind this. I
get it now. Somehow he discovered a detector, and he's been playing the
market by getting the quotations by sub-etheric transmission at C² and
beating the Northern Landing market. And did you get the latest bit of
luck? Kingman still is unaware of the fact that we are onto him--and
have perfected this C² transmission. Here's where he gets caught in his
own trap!"

"How?"

"We're not in too bad shape for making good, honest two-ways out of
this sub-ether stuff. Kingman is still behind because he hasn't got a
return line back to Terra--he must be using our beams, which gives us a
return edge."

"Why not get him tossed into the clink?" asked Walt.

"That's practical. Besides, we're sitting in a great big pile of gravy
right now. We can prove Kingman has been violating the law to embezzle,
mulct, steal, commit grand larceny, and so on. We're going to take a
swing at Mr. Kingman and Terran Electric that they won't forget. We
can't lose, because I'm not a good sportsman when I find that I've been
tricked. We're going after Kingman in our own fashion--and if we lose,
we're going to go tinhorn and cry for the gendarmes. I'm not proud."

"What do you plan?"

"We'll put a horde of folks on the decoupler files with the code of
Terran Electric filed with the government offices. We can get the code,
and I'm of the opinion that Kingman wouldn't take time to figure out a
new code, so he'll be using the old one. As soon as we find a message
in that code that is either addressed Terran Electric or pertains to V.
E. Preferred stock, we'll start to intercept all such messages and use
them for our own good."

"That's illegal."

"Yup. But who's gonna holler? Kingman can't."

"But suppose we lose--?"

"Kingman will not know we've been tricking him. Besides, we can't lose
with two ways to get ahead of his one. Come on, fellows, we've got to
help get the extra receivers together."

"How are we going to cut through the Channing Layer?"

"Easy. That's where we'll use the relay stations at Luna, Deimos, and
the six portables that circle Venus."

"I get it. O.K., Don, let's get to work."

"Right. And we'd better leave a guy here to collect any more
interesting messages from Kingman's crowd. We can tune it right on to
Kingman's alloy, and that'll make that music take a back seat. We need
narrower selectivity."

"Chuck's gang will find that if it is to be found," smiled Walt. "We're
really on the track this time."

       *       *       *       *       *

A dead-black spaceship drifted across the face of Luna slowly, and
its course, though apparently aimless, was the course of a ship or a
man hunting something. It darted swiftly, poised, and then zigzagged
forward, each straight-side of the jagged course shorter than the one
before. It passed over a small crater and stopped short.

Below, there was a spaceship parked beside a driver tube anchored in
the pumice.

The black ship hovered above the parked ship, and then dropped sharply,
ramming the observation dome on top with its harder, smaller bottom.
The two ships tilted and fell, crushing the ground near the poised
driver tube. Space-suited men assaulted the damaged ship, broke into
the bent and battered plates and emerged with three men who were still
struggling to get their suits adjusted properly.

Channing's men took over the poised driver tube, and in their own ship,
Walt spoke over a sub-ether radio of a different type.

"Don, we got him."

Don answered from Venus Equilateral, and his voice had no more delay
than if he had been within a hundred yards of the crater on Luna.

"Good. Stay where you are; you can contact the Lunar Relay Station from
there. Wes is all ready on Station 3 above Northern Landing with his
set, and Jim Baler is at the Deimos station."

"Hi, Walt," came Wes' voice.

"Hi," said Jim Baler.

"Hello, fellows," said Walt. "Well, what cooks?"

"Kingman," said Channing, with a tone of finality. "You've got your
orders, Walt. When Kingman expects the market to go down, tell him it's
still going up. We'll figure this out as we go along, but he won't like
it at all."

There was silence for a few minutes, and then Don said: "Walt,
Kingman's sent a message through to Northern Landing Station now. He
says: 'Dump a block to shake the suckers loose. This is pyramided so
high that they should all climb on the sell-wagon; running the market
down of their own weight. When it hits a new low, we'll buy, and this
time end up by having control.' When he starts to run the market down,
you buy at Terra."

Minutes later, the message hit the Terra market, and Kingman's agent
started to unload. The stock started off at six hundred and nine, and
it soon dropped to five-forty. It hovered there, and then took another
gradual slide to four-seventy. Then a message came through the regular
beam station which Walt intercepted, decoded with Terran Electric's own
code book, and read as follows:

"V. E. Preferred coming in fast. Shall we wait?"

Walt chuckled and spoke into the driver modulator. "Kingman," he
said, "some wiseacre is still buying. V. E. Preferred is running at
seven-ninety! What now?"

In the Venus Equilateral radio, he said: "Don, I just fixed him."

From Venus, Wes said: "You sure did. He's giving orders to drop more
stock. This is too dirty to be funny, but Kingman asked for it. I know
him. He's got this set up so that no one can do a thing on this market
program without orders from him. Too bad we can't withhold the Northern
Landing quotations from him."

The Lunar beam brought forth another message intended for Kingman's
interceptor at Luna. "V. E. Preferred is dropping like a plummet. When
can we buy?"

Walt smiled and said into Kingman's set-up: "Kingman! V. E. Preferred
is now at eight hundred and seventy!"

Not many minutes later, Wes said: "That was foul, Walt. He's just given
orders to run the market down at any cost."

"O.K.," said Walt. "But he's going to go nuts when the Northern
Landing Exchange starts down without ever getting to that mythical nine
hundred."

"Let him wonder. Meanwhile, fellows, let's run ourselves a slide on
Terran Electric. Sell the works!"

Terran Electric started down just as V. E. Preferred took its third
drop. It passed three hundred, and started down the two hundred
numbers. Walt shook his head and said to Kingman: "Kingman, we're
getting results now. She's dropped back again--to six hundred and
three." Then he said: "Kingman, someone is playing hob with T. E.
Preferred. She's up to two hundred and fifty-one."

To Don, Walt said: "Good thing that Kingman has that Chinese Symphony
for a bit of mood music, or he'd recognize my voice."

"Which way will he jump?" laughed Don. "That was a slick bit of
Kingman-baiting, Walt, in spite of your voice."

"Kingman's taking it hard," said Wes. "He says to drop some of his own
stock so that they can use the money to manipulate the V. E. stuff."

"O.K.," said Jim Baler. "This looks like a good time to think about
buying some of Kingman's stuff. Right?"

"Wait until sales hit bottom," said Don. "Walt, tip us off."

"O.K. What now?"

"Wait a bit and see."

Terran Electric went down some more, and then Jim said: "Now?"

"Now," answered Don. "You, too, Wes."

"Me too?" asked Walt.

"You continue to sell!"

"Oh-oh," said Wes. "Kingman is wild. He wants to know what's the matter
with the market."

"Tell him that your end is all right, and that V. E. Preferred is still
going down, but steady."

"O.K.," said Walt.

The hours went by, and Kingman became more and more frantic. V. E.
Preferred would be reported at five hundred, but the Northern Landing
Exchange said two-ten. Meanwhile, Terran Electric--

"Oh, lovely!" said Don. "Beautiful. We've got us a reciprocating market
now, better than Kingman's. When she's up at Terra, they're down at
Canalopsis and Northern Landing--and vice versa. Keep it pumping, boys,
and we'll get enough money to buy Kingman out."

The vacillating market went on, and Don's gang continued to rock the
Terran Electric stock. Then as the market was about to close for the
day, Don said: "Sell 'em short!"

Terran Electric stock appeared on the market in great quantities. Its
value dropped down and down and down, and Kingman, appraised of the
fall by Walt, who magnified it by not less than two to one, apparently
got frantic again, for he said:

"We're running short. Drop your Terran stock to bolster the V. E. job!"

"Oh, lovely!" said Don.

"You said that."

"I repeat it. Look, fellows, gather all the T. E. Preferred and V. E.
Preferred you can. Walt, tell them that Terran Electric is dropping
fast, so he'll scuttle more of his stuff, and we'll pick it up slowly
enough so that we won't raise the market. How're we fixed for V. E.
Preferred?"

"Not too bad. Can we hit him once more?"

"Go ahead," said Don.

"Kingman," said Walt. "Kingman! Hell's loose! The Interplanetary Bureau
of Criminal Investigations has just decided to look into the matter of
this stock juggling. They want to know who's trying to grab control of
a public carrier!"

Minutes later, Wes said: "Oh, Brother Myrtle! That did it. He just gave
orders to drop the whole thing short!"

"Wait until V. E. Preferred hits a new low and then we'll buy," said
Don.

The flurry dropped V. E. Preferred to forty-seven, and then the agents
of Venus Equilateral stepped forth and offered to buy, at the market,
all offered stock.

They did.

Then, as no more stock was offered, Venus Equilateral Preferred rose
sharply to ninety-four and stabilized at that figure. Terran Electric
stock went through a valley, made by Kingman's sales, and then headed
up, made by purchases on Terra, on Mars, and on Venus.

Don said: "Look, fellows, this has gone far enough. We have control
again, and a goodly hunk of Terran Electric as well. Enough, I think,
to force them to behave like a good little company and stay out of
other people's hair. Let's all get together and celebrate."

"Right," echoed the men.

A month later, Joe's was the scene of a big banquet. Barney Carroll got
up and said:

"Ladies and gentlemen, we all know why we're here and what we're
celebrating. So I won't have to recount the whole affair. We all think
Don Channing is a great guy, and Walt Franks isn't far behind, if any.
I'm pretty likeable myself, and my lifelong sparring partner, Jim
Baler, is no smelt either. And so on, ad nauseum.

"But, ladies and gentlemen, Don Channing has a deep, dark, dire,
desperate phase of his life, one that he will be remembered and cursed
for; one that will weigh about his neck like a milestone--or is it
millstone?--for all of his life.

"Benefactor though he is, this much you shall know; I still say there
is no place in the inner system for a man who has made this possible.
Listen!"

Barney raised his hand, and an attendant turned on a standard, living
room model radio receiver. It burst into sound immediately.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the Interplanetary Network now brings to you the
Whitewood Nutsies Program. Karven and Norwhal, the Venusian Songbirds;
Thalla; and Lillas, in person, coming to you from the jungles of
Palanortis, on Venus, by courtesy of the Interplanet Foods Co. of
Battle Creek, Michigan!

"Ladies and gentlemen, Whitewood Nutsies are GOOD for you--"

Walt Franks said to Christine: "Let's get out of here."

Christine inspected Walt carefully. Then nodded. "Yup," she grinned.
"Even you sound better than the Interplanetary Network!"

For once, Walt did not argue, having gained his point.




                             _Interlude:_


_When the final problem of communicating with a ship in space was
solved, the laboratories on Venus Equilateral returned to their
original trends. These lines of research and study were wide and
varied. Men dabbled brilliantly with insane, complex gadgets that
measured the work-functions of metals in electron emission and they
made conclusive measurements on the electrical conductivity under
extremes of heat and cold. From the uranium pile that powered Venus
Equilateral there came metals that had been under neutron bombardment
long enough to have their crystal structure altered in unfathomable
ways. These were investigated by men who toyed with them to ascertain
whether or not they possessed any new properties that might make them
useful. Many were the fields studied, too, because it is often that a
chemist may be baffled by a problem that could be solved by a thorough
education in electronics, for instance._

_And from the diversified studies and researches there often
came strange by-products. The quick leap of the physicist from a
hare-brained theory to a foregone conclusion has been the subject of
laughter, but it is no less related than the chain of events that led
from an exposed photographic plate to Hiroshima._

_Or the chain of events that led Wes Farrell from his observation of
a technician cleaning up a current-sputtered knife switch to a minor
space war...._




                              FIRING LINE


Mark Kingman was surprised by the tapping on his window pane. He
thought that the window was unreachable from the outside--and then
he realized that it was probably someone throwing bits of dirt or
small stones. But who would do that when the doorway was free for any
bell-ringer?

He shrugged, and went to the window to look out--and became crosseyed
as his eyes tried to cope with a single circle not more than ten
inches distant. He could see the circle--and the lands on the inside
spiralling into the depths of the barrel--and a cold shiver ran up his
spine from there to here. Behind the heavy automatic, a dark complected
man with a hawklike face grinned mirthlessly.

Kingman stepped back and the stranger swung in and sat upon the
windowsill.

"Well?" asked the lawyer.

"Is it well?" asked the stranger. "You know me?"

"No. Never saw you before in my life. Is this a burglary?"

"Nope. If it were, I'd have drilled you first so you couldn't describe
me."

Kingman shuddered. The stranger looked as though he meant it.

"In case you require an introduction," said the hard-faced man. "I'm
Allison Murdoch."

"Hellion?"

"None other."

"You were in jail--"

"I know, I've been there before."

"But how did you escape?"

"I'm a doctor of some repute," said Hellion. "Or was, until my darker
reputation exceeded my reputation for neural surgery. It was simple.
I slit my arm and deposited therein the contents of a cigarette. It
swelled up like gangrene and they removed me to the hospital. I removed
a few guards and lit out in the ambulance. And I am here."

"Why?" Kingman then became thoughtful. "You're not telling me this for
mutual friendship, Murdoch. What's on your mind?"

"You were in the clink, too. How did you get out?"

"The court proceedings were under question for procedure. It was
further ruled that--"

"I see. You bought your way out."

"I did not--"

"Kingman, you're a lawyer. A smart one, too."

"Thank you--"

"But you're capable of buying your freedom, which you did.
Fundamentally, it makes no difference whether you bribe a guard to look
the other way or bribe a jury to vote the other way. It's bribery in
either case."

Kingman smiled in a superior way. "With the very important difference
that the latter means results in absolute freedom. Bribing a guard is
freedom only so long as the law may be avoided."

"So you did bribe the jury?"

"I did nothing of the sort. It was a ruling over a technicality that
did me the favor."

"You created the technicality."

"Look," said Kingman sharply. "You didn't come here to steal by your
own admission and your excellent logic. You never saw me before, and
I do not know of you save what I've heard. Revenge for something
real or fancied is obviously no reason for this visit. I was charged
with several kinds of larceny, which charges fell through and I
was acquitted of them--which means that I did not commit them. I,
therefore, am no criminal. On the other hand, you have a record. You
were in jail, convicted, and you escaped by some means that may have
included first-degree murder. You came here for some reason, Murdoch.
But let me tell you this: I am in no way required to explain the
workings of my mind. If you expect me to reveal some legal machination
by which I gained my freedom, you are mistaken. As far as the solar
system is concerned, everything was legal and above board."

"I get it," smiled Murdoch. "You're untouchable."

"Precisely. And rightfully so."

"You're the man I want, then."

"It isn't mutual. I have no desire to be identified with a criminal of
your caliber."

"What's wrong with it?" asked Murdoch.

"It is fundamentally futile. You are not a brilliant criminal. You've
been caught."

"I didn't have the proper assistance. I shall not be caught again.
Look," he said suddenly, "how is your relationship with Venus
Equilateral?"

Kingman gritted his teeth and made an animal noise.

"I thought so. I have a score of my own to settle. But I need your
help. Do I get it?"

"I don't see how one of your caliber is capable--"

"Are you or aren't you? Your answer may decide the duration of your
life."

"You needn't threaten. I'm willing to go to any lengths to get even
with Channing and his crowd. But it must be good."

"I was beaten by a technical error," explained Murdoch. "The coating on
my ship did it."

"How?"

"They fired at me with a super-electron gun. A betatron. It hit me and
disrupted the ship's apparatus. The thing couldn't have happened if the
standard space-finish hadn't been applied to the _Hippocrates_."

"I'm not a technical man," said Kingman. "Explain, please."

"The average ship is coated with a complex metallic oxide which among
other things inhibits secondary emission. Had we been running a ship
without this coating, the secondary emission would have left the
_Hippocrates_ in fair condition electrically, but Venus Equilateral
would have received several times the electronic charge. But the
coating accepted the terrific charge and prevented the normal urge of
electrons to leave by secondary emission--"

"What is secondary emission?"

"When an electron hits at any velocity, it drives from one to as high
as fifty electrons from the substance it hits. The quantity depends
upon the velocity of the original electron, the charges on cathode and
anode, the material from which the target is made, and so on. We soaked
'em in like a sponge and took it bad. But the next time, we'll coat the
ship with the opposite stuff. We'll take a bit of Venus Equilateral for
ourselves."

"I like the idea. But how?"

"We'll try no frontal attack. Storming a citadel like Venus Equilateral
is no child's play, Kingman. As you know, they're prepared for anything
either legal or technical. I have a great respect for the combined
abilities of Channing and Franks. I made my first mistake by giving
them three days to make up their minds. In that time, they devised,
tested, and approved an electron weapon of some power. Their use of it
was as dangerous to them as it was to me--or would have been if I'd
been prepared with a metallic-oxide coating of the proper type."

"Just what are you proposing?" asked Kingman. "I do not understand what
you are getting at."

"You are still one of the officials of Terran Electric?"

"Naturally."

"You will be surprised to know that I handle considerable stock in that
company."

"How, may I ask?"

"The last time you bucked them, you did it on the market. You lost,"
grinned Murdoch. "Proving that you haven't a hundred percent record,
either. Well, while Terran Electric was dragging its par value down
around the twos and threes, I took a few shares."

"How do you stand?"

"I rather imagine that I hold fifteen or twenty percent."

"That took money."

"I have money," said Murdoch modestly. "Plenty of it. I should have
grabbed more stock, but I figured that between us we have enough to do
as we please. What's your holdings?"

"I once held forty-one percent. They bilked me out of some of that. I
have less than thirty percent."

"So we'll run the market crazy again, and between us we'll take off
control. Then, Kingman, we'll use Terran Electric to ruin Venus
Equilateral."

"Terran Electric isn't too good a company now," admitted Kingman. "The
public stays away in huge droves since we bucked Venus Equilateral.
That bunch of electronic screwballs has the public acclaim. They're
now in solid since they opened person-to-person service on the driver
frequencies. You can talk to some one in the Palanortis Country of
Venus with the same quality and speakability that you get in making a
call from here to the house across the street."

"Terran Electric is about finished," said Murdoch flatly. "They shot
their wad and lost. You'll be bankrupt in a year and you know it."

"That includes you, doesn't it?"

"Terran Electric is not the mainstay of my holdings," smiled Murdoch.
"Under assumed names, I have picked up quite a few bits. Look, Kingman,
I'm advocating piracy!"

"Piracy?" asked Kingman, aghast.

"Illegal piracy. But I'm intelligent. I realize that a pirate hasn't
a chance against civilization unless he is as smart as they are. We
need a research and construction organization, and that's where Terran
Electric comes in. Its an old company, well established. It's now on
the rocks. We can build it up again. We'll use it for a base, and set
the research boys to figuring out the answers we need. Eventually we'll
control Venus Equilateral, and half of the enterprises throughout the
system."

"And your main plan?"

"You run Terran Electric, and I'll run the space piracy. Between us
we'll have the system over a barrel. Space craft are still run without
weapons because no weapons are suited for space fighting. But the new
field opened up by the driver radiation energy may exhibit something
new in weapons. That's what I want Terran Electric to work on."

"We'll have to plan a bit more," said Kingman thoughtfully. "I'll cover
you up, and eventually we'll buy you out. Meanwhile we'll go to work
on the market and get control of Terran Electric. And plan, too. It'll
have to be foolproof."

"It will be," said Murdoch. "We'll plan it that way."

"We'll drink on it," said Kingman.

"_You'll_ drink on it," said Murdoch. "I never touch the stuff. I still
pride myself on my skill with a scalpel, and I do not care to lose it.
Frankly, I hope to keep it long enough to uncover the metatarsal bones
of one Donald A. Channing, Director of Communications."

Kingman shuddered. At times, murder had passed through his mind when
thinking of Channing. But this cruel idea of vivisecting an enemy
indicated a sadism that was far beyond Kingman's idea of revenge.
Of course, Kingman never considered that ruining a man financially,
reducing him to absolute dependency upon friends or government, when
the man had spent his life in freedom and plenty--the latter gained by
his ability under freedom--was cruel and inhuman.

And yet it would take a completely dispassionate observer to tell which
was worse; to ruin a man's body or to ruin a man's life.

       *       *       *       *       *

The man in question was oblivious to these plans on his future. He
was standing before a complicated maze of laboratory glassware and a
haywire tangle of electronic origin. He looked it over in puzzlement,
and his lack of enthusiasm bothered the other man. Wesley Farrell
thought that his boss would have been volubly glad to see the fruits of
his labor.

"No doubt it's wonderful," smiled Channing. "But what is it, Wes?"

"Why, I've been working on an alloy that will not sustain an arc."

"Go on. I'm interested even though I do not climb the chandelier and
scream, beating my manly chest."

"Oil switches are cumbersome. Any other means of breaking contact
is equally cumbersome if it is to handle much power. My alloy is
non-arcing. It will not sustain an arc, even though the highest current
and voltage are broken."

"Now I am really interested," admitted Channing. "Oil switches in a
spaceship are a definite drawback."

"I know. So--here we are."

"What's the rest of this stuff?" asked Channing, laying a hand on the
glassware.

"Be careful!" said Farrell in concern. "That's hot stuff."

"Oh?"

"In order to get some real voltages and currents to break without
running the main station bus through here, I cooked this stuff up. The
plate-grilleworks in the large tubes exhibit a capacity between them
of one microfarad. Empty, that is, or I should say precisely point
nine eight microfarads in vacuuo. The fluid is of my own devising,
concocted for the occasion, and has a dielectric constant of thirteen
times ten to the sixth power. It--"

"Great Howling Rockets!" exploded Channing. "That makes the overall
capacity equal to thirteen _farads_!"

"Just about. Well, I have the condenser charged to three kilovolts, and
then I discharge it through this switch made of the non-arcing alloy.
Watch! No, Don, from back there, please, behind this safety glass."

Channing made some discomforting calculations about thirteen farads at
three thousand volts and decided that there was definitely something
unlucky about the number thirteen.

"The switch, now," continued Farrell, as though thirteen farads was
just a mere drop in the bucket, "is opened four milliseconds after it
is closed. The time-constant of the discharging resistance is such that
the voltage is zero point eight three of its peak three thousand volts,
giving a good check of the alloy."

"I should think so," groused Channing. "Eighty-three percent of three
thousand volts is just shy of twenty-five hundred volts. The current
of discharge passing through a circuit that will drop the charge in a
thirteen farad condenser eighty-three percent in four milliseconds will
be something fierce, believe me."

"That is why I use the heavy busbars from the condenser bank through
the switch."

"I get it. Go ahead, Wes. I want to see this non-arcing switch of yours
perform."

Farrell checked the meters, and then said: "Now!" and punched the
switch at his side. Across the room a solenoid drove the special
alloy bar between two clamps of similar metal. Almost immediately,
four-thousandths of a second later, to be exact, the solenoid reacted
automatically and the no-arc alloy was withdrawn. A minute spark
flashed briefly between the contacts.

"And that is that," said Channing, dazed by the magnitude of it all,
and the utter simplicity of the effects. "But look, Wes, may I ask
you a favor? Please discharge that infernal machine and drain that
electrolyte out. Then make the thing up in a tool-steel case and seal
it. Also hang on busbars right at the plates themselves, and slap a
peak-voltage fuse across the terminals. One that will open at anything
above three thousand volts. Follow me?"

"I think so. But that is not the main point of interest--"

"I know," grinned Channing mopping his forehead. "The non-arc is. But
that fragile glassware makes me as jittery as a Mexican jumping bean."

"But why?"

"Wes, if that glassware fractures somewhere, and that electrolyte
drools out, you'll have a condenser of one microfarad--charged to
thirteen million times three thousand volts. Or, in nice, hollow,
round numbers, forty billion volts! Of course, it won't get that far.
It'll arc across the contacts before it gets that high, but it might
raise particular hell on the way out. Take it easy, Wes. We're seventy
million-odd miles from the nearest large body of dirt, all collected in
a little steel bottle about three miles long and a mile in diameter.
I'd hate to stop all interplanetary communications while we scraped
ourselves off of the various walls and treated ourselves for electric
shock. It would--the discharge itself, I mean--raise hell with the
equipment anyway. So play it easy, Wes. We do not permit certain
experiments out here because of the slow neutrons that sort of wander
through here at fair density. Likewise, we cannot permit dangerous
experiments. And anything that includes a dangerous experiment must be
out, too."

"Oh," said Wes. His voice and attitude were altogether crestfallen.

"Don't take it so hard, fella," grinned Channing. "Any time we
have to indulge in dangerous experiments, we always do it with an
assistant--and in one of the blister-laboratories. But take that
fragile glassware out of the picture, and I'll buy it," he finished.

Walt Franks entered and asked what was going on.

"Wes was just demonstrating the latest equipment in concentrated
deviltry," smiled Channing.

"That's my department," said Walt.

"Oh, it's not as bad as your stuff," said Channing. "What he's got here
is an alloy that will break several million watts without an arc. Great
stuff, Walt."

"Sounds swell," said Walt. "Better scribble it up and we'll get a
patent. It sounds useful."

"I think it may bring us a bit of change," said Channing. "It's great
stuff, Wes."

"Thanks. It annoyed me to see those terrific oil-breakers we have here.
All I wanted to do was to replace 'em with something smaller and more
efficient."

"You did, Wes. And that isn't all. How did you dream up that
high-dielectric?"

"Applied several of the physical phenomena."

"That's a good bet, too. We can use several fluids of various
dielectric constants. Can you make solids as well?"

"Not as easily. But I can try--?"

"Go ahead and note anything you find above the present, listed
compounds and their values."

"I'll list everything, as I always do."

"Good. And the first thing to do is to can that stuff in a steel case."

"It'll have to be plastalloy."

"That's as strong as steel and non-conducting. Go ahead."

Channing led Franks from the laboratory, and once outside Channing gave
way to a session of the shakes. "Walt," he said plaintively, "take me
by the hand and lead me to Joe's. I need some vitamins."

"Bad?"

"Did you see that glassblower's nightmare?"

"You mean that collection of cut glass?" grinned Walt. "Uh-huh. It
looked as though it were about to collapse of its own dead weight!"

"That held an electrolyte of dielectric constant thirteen times ten to
the sixth. He had it charged to a mere three thousand volts. Ye gods,
Walt. Thirteen farads at three KV. _Whew!_ and when he discharged it,
the confounded leads that went through the glass sidewalls to the
condenser plates positively glowed in the cherry red. I swear it!"

"He's like that," said Walt. "You shouldn't worry about him. He'll
have built that condenser out of good stuff--the leads will be alloys
like those we use in the bigger tubes. They wouldn't fracture the
glass seals no matter what the temperature difference between them
and the glass was. Having that alloy around the place--up in the tube
maintenance department they have a half ton of quarter-inch rod--he'd
use it naturally."

"Could be, Walt. Maybe I'm a worry wart."

"You're not used to working with his kind."

"I quote: 'Requiring a high voltage source of considerable current
capacity, I hit upon the scheme of making a super-high capacity
condenser and discharging it through my no-arc alloy. To do this it
was necessary that I invent a dielectric material of K equals thirteen
times ten to the sixth.' Unquote."

"Wes is a pure scientist," reminded Walt. "If he were investigating the
electrical properties of zinc, and required solar power magnitudes to
complete his investigation, he'd invent it and then include it as an
incidental to the investigation on zinc. He's never really understood
our recent divergence in purpose over the power tube. That we should
make it soak up power from Sol was purely incidental and useful only
as a lever or means to make Terran Electric give us our way. He'd have
forgotten it, I'll bet, since it was not the ultimate goal of the
investigation."

"He knows his stuff, though."

"Granted. Wes is brilliant. He is a physicist, though, and neither
engineer nor inventor. I doubt that he is really interested in the
physical aspects of anything that is not directly concerned with his
eating and sleeping."

"What are we going to do about him?"

"Absolutely nothing. You aren't like him--"

"I hope not!"

"And conversely, why should we try to make him like you?"

"That I'm against," chimed in a new voice. Arden Channing took each man
by the arm and looked up on either side of her, into one face and then
the other. "No matter how, why, when, who, or what, one like him is all
that the solar system can stand."

"Walt and I are pretty much alike."

"Uh-huh. You are. That's as it should be. You balance one another
nicely. You couldn't use another like you. You're speaking of Wes
Farrell?"

"Right."

"Leave him alone," said Arden sagely. "He's good as he is. To make him
similar to you would be to spoil a good man. He'd then be neither fish,
flesh, nor fowl. He doesn't think as you do, but instead proceeds in a
straight line from remote possibility to foregone conclusion. Anything
that gets needed en route is used, or gadgeteered, and forgotten.
That's where you come in, fellows. Inspect his by-products. They may be
darned useful."

"O.K. Anybody care for a drink?"

"Yup. All of us," said Arden.

"Don, how did you rate such a good-looking wife?"

"I hired her," grinned Channing. "She used to make all of my
stenographic mistakes, remember?"

"And gave up numerous small errors for one large one? Uh-huh, I recall.
Some luck."

"It was my charm."

"Baloney. Arden, tell the truth. Didn't he threaten you with something
terrible if you didn't marry him?"

"You tell him," grinned Channing. "I've got work to do."

       *       *       *       *       *

Channing left the establishment known as Joe's; advertised as the "Best
bar in twenty-seven million miles, minimum," and made his way to his
office, slowly. He didn't reach it. Not right away. He was intercepted
by Chuck Thomas, who invited him to view a small experiment. Channing
smiled and said that he'd prefer to see an experiment of any kind to
going to his office, and followed Chuck.

"You recall the gadget we used to get perfect tuning with the
alloy-selectivity transmitter?"

"You mean that variable alloy disk all bottled up and rotated with a
selsyn?" asked Don, wondering what came next. "Naturally I remember it.
Why?"

"Well, we've found that certain sub-microscopic effects occur with
inert objects. What I mean is this: Given a chunk of cold steel of
goodly mass and tune your alloy disk to pure steel, and you can get a
few micro-microamperes output if the tube is pointed at the object."

"Sounds interesting. How much amplification do you need to get this
reading and how do you make it tick?"

"We run the amplifier up to the limit and then sweep the tube across
the object sought, and the output meter leaps skyward by just enough to
make us certain of our results. Watch!"

Chuck set the tube in operation and checked it briefly. Then he took
Don's hand and put it on the handle that swung the tube on its gimbals.
"Sort of paint the wall with it," he said. "You'll see the deflection
as you pass the slab of tool steel that's standing there."

Channing did, and watched the minute flicker of the ultra-sensitive
meter. "Wonderful," he grinned, as the door opened and Walt Franks
entered.

"Hi, Don. Is it true that you bombarded her with flowers?"

"Nope. She's just building up some other woman's chances. Have you seen
this effect?"

"Yeah--it's wonderful, isn't it?"

"That's what I like about this place," said Chuck with a huge
smile. "That's approximately seven micro-microamperes output after
amplification on the order of two hundred million times. We're either
working on something so small we can't see it, or something so big we
can't count it. It's either fifteen decimal places to the left or to
the right. Every night when I go home I say a little prayer. I say:
'Dear God, please let me find something today that is based upon unity,
or at least no more than two decimal places,' but it is no good. If He
hears me at all He's too busy to bother with things that the human race
classifies as 'One.'"

"How do you classify resistance, current, and voltage?" asked Channing,
manipulating the tube on its gimbals and watching the effect.

"One million volts across ten megohms equals one hundred thousand
microamperes. That's according to Ohm's Law."

"He's got the zero-madness, too," chuckled Walt. "It obtains from
thinking in astronomical distances, with interplanetary coverages in
watts, and celestial input, and stuff like that. Don, this thing may be
handy some day. I'd like to develop it."

"I suggest that couple of stages of tube-amplification might help.
Amplify it before transduction into electronic propagation."

"We can get four or five stages of sub-electronic amplification, I
think. It'll take some working."

"O.K., Chuck. Cook ahead. We do not know whither we are heading, but
it looks darned interesting."

"Yeah," added Walt, "it's a darned rare scientific fact that can't be
used for something, somewhere. Well, Don, now what?"

"I guess we now progress to the office and run through a few reams of
paper work. Then we may relax."

"O.K. Sounds good to me. Let's go."

       *       *       *       *       *

Hellion Murdoch pointed to the luminous speck in the celestial globe.
His finger stabbed at the marker button, and a series of faint
concentric spheres marked the distance from the center of the globe to
the object, which Murdoch read and mentioned: "Twelve thousand miles."

"Asteroid?" asked Kingman.

"What else?" asked Murdoch. "We're lying next to the Asteroid Belt."

"What are you going to do?"

"Burn it," said Murdoch. His fingers danced upon the keyboard, and
high above him, in the dome of the _Black Widow_, a power intake
tube swiveled and pointed at Sol. Coupled to the output of the power
intake tube, a power output tube turned to point at the asteroid. And
Murdoch's poised finger came down on the last switch, closing the final
circuit.

Meters leaped up across their scales as the intangible beam of solar
energy came silently in and went as silently out. It passed across
the intervening miles with the velocity of light squared, and hit the
asteroid. A second later the asteroid glowed and melted under the
terrific bombardment of solar energy directed in a tight beam.

"It's O.K.," said Hellion. "But have the gang build us three larger
tubes to be mounted turretwise. Then we can cope with society."

"What do you hope to gain by that? Surely piracy and grand larceny are
not profitable in the light of what we have and know."

"I intend to institute a reign of terror."

"You mean to go through with your plan?"

"I am a man of my word. I shall levy a tax against any and every ship
leaving any spaceport. We shall demand one dollar solarian for every
gross ton that lifts from any planet and reaches the planetary limit."

"How do you establish that limit?" asked Kingman interestedly.

"Ironically, we'll use the Channing Layer," said Murdoch with dark
humor. "Since the Channing Layer describes the boundary below which
our solar beam will not work. Our reign of terror will be identified
with Channing because of that; it will take some of the praise out of
people's minds when they think of Channing and Venus Equilateral."

"That's pretty deep psychology," said Kingman.

"You should recognize it," smiled Murdoch. "That's the kind of stuff
you legal lights pull. Mention the accused in the same sentence with
one of the honored people; mention the defendant in the same breath
with one of the hated people--it's the same stunt. Build them up or
tear them down by reference."

"You're pretty shrewd."

"I am," agreed Murdoch placidly.

"Mind telling me how you found yourself in the fix you're in?"

"Not at all. I've been interested for years in neurosurgery. My
researches passed beyond the realm of rabbits and monkeys, and I found
it necessary to investigate the more delicate, more organized, the
higher-strung. That means human beings--though some of them are less
sensitive than a rabbit and less delicate than a monkey." Murdoch's
eyes took on a cynical expression at this. Then it passed and he
continued: "I became famous, as you know. Or do you?"

Kingman shook his head.

"I suppose not. I became famous in my own circle. Lesser neuro-surgeons
sent their complex cases to me; unless you were complex, you would
never hear of Allison Murdoch. Well, anyway, some of them offered
exciting opportunities. I--frankly, experimented. Some of them died. It
was quite a bit of cut and try because not too much has been written
on the finer points of the nervous system. But there were too few
people who were complex enough to require my services, and I turned to
clinical work, and experimented freely."

"And there you made your mistake?"

"Do you know how?"

"No. I imagine that with many patients you exceeded your rights once
too often."

"Wrong. It is a funny factor in human relationship. Something that
makes no sense. When people were paying me three thousand dollars an
hour for operations, I could experiment without fear. Some died, some
regained their health under my ministrations. But when I experimented
on charity patients, I could not experiment because of the 'Protection'
given the poor. The masses were not to be guinea pigs. Ha!" laughed
Murdoch, "only the rich are permitted to be subjects of an experiment.
Touch not the poor, who offer nothing. Experiment upon those of
intellect, wealth, fame, or anything that sets them above the mob.
Yes, even genius came under my knife. But I couldn't give a poor man
a fifty-fifty chance at his life, when the chances of his life were
less than one in ten. From a brilliant man, operating under fifty-fifty
chances for life, I became an inhuman monster that cut without fear. I
was imprisoned, and later escaped with some friends."

"And that's when you stole the _Hippocrates_ and decided that the solar
system should pay you revenge money?"

"I would have done better if I had not made that one mistake. I
forgot that in the years of imprisonment I fell behind in scientific
knowledge. I know now that no one can establish anything at all without
technical minds behind him."

Kingman's lips curled. "I wouldn't agree to that."

"You should. Your last defeat at the hands of the technicians you scorn
should have taught you a lesson. If you had been sharp, you would have
outguessed them; out-engineered them. They, Kingman, were not afraid to
rip into their detector to see what made it tick."

"But I had only the one--"

"They knew one simple thing about the universe. That rule is that if
anything works once, it may be made to work again." He held up his
hand as Kingman started to speak. "You'll bring all sorts of cases
to hand and try to disprove me. You can't. Oh, you couldn't cause a
quick return of the diplodocus, or re-enact the founding of the solar
government, or even re-burn a ton of coal. But there is other carbon,
there will be other governmental introductions and reforms, and there
may be some day the rebirth of the dinosaur--on some planet there may
be carboniferous ages now. Any phenomena that is a true phenomena--and
your detector was definite, not a misinterpretation of effect--can be
repeated. But, Kingman, we'll not be out-engineered again."

"That I do believe."

"And so we will have our revenge on Venus Equilateral and upon the
system itself."

"We're heading home now?"

"Right. We want this ship fitted with the triple turret I mentioned
before. Also I want the interconnecting links between the solar intake
and the power-projectors beefed up. When you're passing several hundred
megawatts through any system, losses of the nature of .000,000,1% cause
heating to a dangerous degree. We've got to cut the I²R losses. I gave
orders that the turret be started, by the way. It'll be almost ready
when we return."

"_You_ gave orders?" said Kingman.

"Oh, yes," said Hellion Murdoch with a laugh. "Remember our _last_ bout
with the stock market? I seem to have accumulated about forty-seven
percent. That's sufficient to give me control of our company."

"But ... but--" spluttered Kingman. "That took money--"

"I still have enough left," said Murdoch quietly. "After all, I
spent years in the Melanortis Country of Venus. I was working on the
_Hippocrates_ when I wasn't doing a bit of mining. There's a large vein
of platiniridium there. You may answer the rest."

"I still do not get this piracy."

Murdoch's eyes blazed.

"That's my interest. That's my revenge! I intend to ruin Don Channing
and Venus Equilateral. With the super turret they'll never be able to
catch us, and we'll run the entire system."

Kingman considered. As a lawyer, he was finished. His last try at the
ruination of the Venus Equilateral crowd by means of pirating the
interplanetary communications beam was strictly a violation of the
Communications Code. The latter absolutely prevented any man or group
of men from diverting communications not intended for them and using
these communications for their own purpose. His defense that Venus
Equilateral had also broken the law went unheard. It was pointed out to
him that Venus Equilateral tapped his own line, and the tapping of an
illegal line was the act of a communications agent in the interest of
the government. He was no longer a lawyer, and, in fact, he had escaped
a long jail term by sheer bribery.

He was barred from legal practice, and he was barred from any business
transactions. The stock market could be manipulated, but only through a
blind, which was neither profitable nor safe.

His holdings in Terran Electric were all that stood between him and
ruin. He was no better off than Murdoch, save that he was not wanted.

But--

"I'm going to remain on Terra and run Terran Electric like a model
company," he said. "That'll be our base."

"Right. Except for a bit of research along specified lines, you will
do nothing. Your job will be to act apologetic for your misdeeds. You
will grovel on the floor before any authority, and beseech the legal
profession to accept you once more. I will need your help, there. You
are to establish yourself in the good graces of the Interplanetary
Patent Office, and report to me any applications that may be of
interest. The research that Terran Electric will conduct will be along
innocuous lines. The real research will be in a secret laboratory. The
one in the Melanortis Country. Selected men will work there, and the
Terran Electric fleet of cargo-carriers will carry the material needed.
My main failure was not to have provided a means of knowing what the
worlds were doing. I'll have that now, and I shall not be defeated
again."

"We'll say that one together!" said Kingman. He flipped open a large
book and set the autopilot from a set of figures. The _Black Widow_
turned gently and started to run for Terra at two G.

       *       *       *       *       *

Walt Franks frowned at the memorandum in his hand. "Look, Don, are we
ever going to get to work on that deal with Keg Johnson?"

"Uh-huh," answered Don, without looking up.

"He's serious. Transplanet is getting the edge, and he doesn't like it."

"Frankly, I don't like dabbling in stuff like that either. But Keg's
an old friend, and I suppose that's how a guy gets all glommed up on
projects, big business deals, and so forth. We'll be going in directly.
Why the rush?"

"A bit of personal business on Mars which can best be done at the same
time, thus saving an additional trip."

"O.K.," said Don idly. "Might as well get it over with. Date with
Christine Baler?"

"Sure," grinned Franks.

Actually, it was less than an hour before the _Relay Girl_ went out of
the South End Landing Stage, turned, and headed for Mars. Packing to
the Channings was a matter of persuading Arden not to take everything
but the drapes in the apartment along with her, while for Walt Franks
it was a matter of grabbing a trunkful of instruments and spare parts.
Space travel is a matter of waiting for days in the confines of a small
bubble of steel. Just waiting. For the scenery is unchanging all the
way from Sol to Pluto--and is the same scenery that can be seen from
the viewports of Venus Equilateral. Walt enjoyed his waiting time by
tinkering; having nothing to do would have bored him, and so he took
with him enough to keep him busy during the trip.

At two Terran gravities, the velocity of the _Relay Girl_ built up bit
by bit and mile by mile until they were going just shy of one thousand
miles per second. This occurred an hour before turnover, which would
take place at the twenty-third hour of flight.

And at that time there occurred a rarity. Not an impossibility like the
chances of collision with a meteor--those things happen only once in a
lifetime, and Channing had had his collision. Nor was it as remote as
getting a royal flush on the deal. It happened, not often, but it did
happen to ships occasionally.

Another ship passed within detector range.

The celestial globe shimmered faintly and showed a minute point at
extreme range. Automatic marker spheres appeared concentrically within
the celestial globe and colures and diameters marked the globe off into
octants.

Bells rang briefly, and the automatic meteor circuits decided that
that object was not approaching the _Relay Girl_. Then they relaxed.
Their work was done until another object came within range for them to
inspect. They were no longer interested, and they forgot about the
object with the same powers of complete oblivion that they would have
exerted on a meteor of nickel and iron.

They were mechanically incapable of original thought. So the object, to
them, was harmless.

Channing looked up at the luminescent spot, sought the calibration
spheres, made a casual observation, and forgot about it. To him it was
a harmless meteor.

Even the fact that his own velocity was a thousand miles per second,
and the object's velocity was the same, coming to them on a one hundred
and seventy degree course and due to pass within five thousand miles
did not register. Their total velocity of two thousand miles did not
register just because of that rarity with which ships pass within
detector range, while meteors are encountered often.

Had Channing been thinking about the subject in earnest, he would have
known--for it is only man, with all too little time, who uses such
velocities. The universe, with eternity in which to work her miracle,
seldom moves in velocities greater than forty or fifty miles per second.

Channing forgot it, and as the marker-spheres switched to accommodate
the object, he turned to more important things.

In the other ship, Hellion Murdoch frowned. He brightened, then, and
depressed the plunger that energized his solar beam and projector.
He did not recognize the oncoming object for anything but a meteor,
either; and _his_ desire was to find out how his invention worked at
top speeds.

Kingman asked: "Another one?"

"Uh-huh," said Murdoch idly. "I want to check my finders."

"But they can't miss."

"No? Look, lawyer, you're not running a job that may be given a stay
or reprieve. The finders run on light velocities. The solar beam runs
on the speed of light squared. We'll pass that thing at five thousand
miles' distance and at two thousand miles per second velocity. A
microsecond of misalignment, and we're missing, see? I think we're
going to be forced to put correction circuits in so that the vector
sums and velocities and distances will all come out with a true hit. It
will not be like sighting down a searchlight beam at high velocity."

"I see. You'll need compensation?"

"Plenty, at this velocity and distance. This is the first time I've had
a chance to try it out."

The latter fact saved the _Relay Girl_. By a mere matter of feet and
inches; by the difference between the speed of light and the speed
of light squared at a distance of five thousand miles, plus a slight
miscompensation. The intolerably hot umbra of Murdoch's beam followed
below the pilot's greenhouse of the _Relay Girl_ all the way past, a
matter of several seconds. The spill-over was tangible enough to warm
the _Relay Girl_ to uncomfortable temperatures.

Then with no real damage done, the contact with ships in space was
over, but not without a certain minimum of recognition.

"Hell!" said Kingman. "That was a space craft!"

"Who?"

"I don't know. You missed."

"I'd rather have hit," said Murdoch coldly. "I hope I missed by plenty."

"Why?"

"If we scorched their tails any, there'll be embarrassing questions
asked."

"So--?"

"So nothing until we're asked. Even then you know nothing."

       *       *       *       *       *

In the _Relay Girl_, Channing mopped his forehead. "That was hell
itself," he said.

Arden laughed uncertainly. "I thought that it would wait until we got
there; I didn't expect hell to come after us."

"What--exactly--happened?" asked Walt, coming into the scanning room.

"That--was a spaceship."

"One of this system's?"

"I wonder," said Don honestly. "It makes a guy wonder. It was gone too
fast to make certain. It probably was Solarian, but they tried to burn
us with something ..."

"That makes it sound like something alien," admitted Walt. "But that
doesn't make good sense."

"It makes good reading," laughed Channing. "Walt, you're the Boy
Edison. Have you been tinkering with anything of lethal leanings?"

"You think there may be something powerful afloat?"

"Could be. We don't know everything."

"I've toyed with the idea of coupling a solar intake beam with one of
those tubes that Baler and Carroll found. Recall, they smashed up quite
a bit of Lincoln Head before they uncovered the secret of how to handle
it. Now that we have unlimited power--or are limited only by the losses
in our own system--we could, or should be able to, make something
raw-ther tough."

"You've toyed with the idea, hey?"

"Uh-huh."

"Of course, you haven't really tried it?"

"Of course not."

"How did it work?"

"Fair," grinned Walt. "I did it with miniatures only, of course, since
I couldn't get my hooks on a full grown tube."

"Say," asked Arden, "how did you birds arrive at this idea so suddenly?
I got lost at the first premise."

"We passed a strange ship. We heated up to uncomfortable temperatures
in a matter of nine seconds flat. They didn't warm us with thought
waves or vector-invectives. Sheer dislike wouldn't do it alone. I
guess that someone is trying to do the trick started by our esteemed
Mr. Franks here a year or so ago. Only with something practical instead
of an electron beam. Honest-to-goodness energy, right from Sol himself,
funnelled through some tricky inventions. What about that experiment of
yours? Did you bring it along?"

Walt looked downcast. "No," he said. "It was another one."

"Let's see."

"It's not too good."

"Same idea?"

Walt went to get his experiment. He returned with a tray full of
laboratory glassware, all wired into a maze of electronic equipment.

Channing went white. "You, too?" he yelled.

"Take it easy, sport. This charges only to a hundred volts. We get
thirteen hundred microfarads at one hundred volts. Then we drain off
the dielectric fluid, and get one billion three hundred million volts'
charge into a condenser of only one hundred micro-microfarads. It's
an idea for the nuclear physics boys. I think it may tend to solidify
some of the uncontrollables in the present system of developing high
electron velocities."

"That thirteen million dielectric constant stuff is strictly
electrodynamic, I think," said Channing. "Farrell may have developed
it as a by-product, but I have a hunch that it will replace some
heretofore valuable equipment. The Franks-Farrell generator will out-do
Van Der Graf's little job, I think."

"Franks-Farrell?"

"Sure. He thunk up the dielectric. You thunk up the application. He
won't care, and you couldn't have done it without. Follow?"

"Oh, sure. I was just trying to figure out a more generic term for it."

"Don't. Let it go as it is for now. It's slick, Walt, but there's no
weapon in it."

"You're looking for a weapon?"

"Uh-huh. Ever since Murdoch took a swing at Venus Equilateral, I've
been sort of wishing that we could concoct something big enough and
dangerous enough to keep us free from any other wiseacres. Remember,
we stand out there like a sore thumb. We are as vulnerable as a
half pound of butter at a banquet for starving Armenians. The next
screwball that wants to control the system will have to control Venus
Equilateral first. And the best things we can concoct to date include
projectile-tossing guns at velocities less than the speed of our ships,
and an electron-shooter that can be overcome by coating the ship with
any of the metal-salts that enhance secondary transmission."

"Remind me to requisition a set of full-sized tubes when we return.
Might as well have some fun."

"O.K., you can have 'em. Which brings us back to the present.
Question: Was that an abortive attempt upon our ship, or was that a
mistaken try at melting a meteor?"

"I know how to find out. Let's call Chuck Thomas and have him get on
the rails. We can have him request Terran Electric to give us any
information they may have on energy beams to date."

"They'd tell you?" scorned Arden.

"If they write _no!_ and we find out that they did, we'll sue 'em dead.
They're too shaky to try anything deep right now."

"Going to make it an official request, hey?"

"Right. From the station, it'll go out in print, and their answer will
be on the 'type, too, since business etiquette requires it. They'll get
the implication if they're on the losing end. That'll make them try
something slick. If they're honest, they'll tell all."

"That'll do it all right," said Walt. "They're too shaky to buck us
any more. And if they are trying anything, it'll show."

       *       *       *       *       *

The rest of the trip was without incident. They put in at Canalopsis
and found Keg Johnson with an official 'gram waiting for them. Don
Channing ripped it open and read:

    VENUS EQUILATERAL

    ATTENTION DR. CHANNING:

    NO PROJECT FOR ENERGY BEAM CAPABLE OF REMOVING METEORS UNDER WAY
    AT TERRAN ELECTRIC, OR AT ANY OF THE SUBSIDIARY COMPANIES. IDEAS
    SUGGESTED ALONG THESE LINES HAVE BEEN DISPROVEN BY YOUR ABORTIVE
    ATTEMPT OF A YEAR AGO, AND WILL NOT BE CONSIDERED UNLESS THEORY IS
    SUBSTANTIATED IN EVERY WAY BY PRACTICAL EVIDENCE.

    IF YOU ARE INTERESTED, WE WILL DELVE INTO THE SUBJECT FROM ALL
    ANGLES. PLEASE ADVISE.

    TERRAN ELECTRIC CO.
    BOARD OF LEGAL OPERATIONS
    MARK KINGMAN, LL.D.

Channing smiled wryly at Keg Johnson and told him of their trouble.

"Oh?" said Keg with a frown. "Then you haven't heard?"

"Heard what?"

"Hellion Murdoch has been on the loose for weeks."

"Weeks!" yelled Channing.

"Uh-huh. He feigned gangrene, was taken to the base hospital, where he
raised hob in his own inimitable way. He blasted the communications
set-up completely, ruined three spaceships, and made off with the
fourth. The contact ship just touched there recently and found hell
brewing. If they hadn't had a load of supplies and prisoners for the
place, they wouldn't have known about it for months, perhaps."

"So! Brother Murdoch is loose again. Well! The story dovetails in
nicely."

"You think that was Hellion himself?"

"I'd bet money on it. The official report on Hellion Murdoch said that
he was suffering from a persecution complex, and that he was capable of
making something of it if he got the chance. He's slightly whacky, and
dangerously so."

"He's a brilliant man, isn't he?"

"Quite. His name is well known in the circles of neurosurgery. He is
also known to be an excellent research worker in applied physics."

"Nuts, hey?" asked Walt.

"Yeah, he's nuts. But only in one way, Walt. He's nuts to think that he
is smarter than the entire solar system all put together. Well, what do
we do now?"

"Butter ourselves well and start scratching for the answer. That
betatron trick will not work twice. There must be something."

"O.K., Walt, we'll all help you think. I'm wondering how much research
he had to do to develop that beam. After all, we were five thousand
miles away, and he heated us up. He must've thought that we were a
meteor--and another thing, too--he must've thought that his beam was
capable of doing something at five thousand miles' distance or he
wouldn't have tried. Ergo he must have beaten that two hundred mile
bugaboo."

"We don't know that the two hundred mile bugaboo is still
bugging in space," said Walt, slowly. "That's set up so that the
ionization-by-products are not dangerous. Also, he's not transmitting
power from station to station, et cetera. He's ramming power into some
sort of beam and to the devil with losses external to his equipment.
The trouble is, darn it, that we'll have to spend a month just building
a large copy of my miniature set-up."

"A month is not too much time," agreed Channing. "And Murdoch will take
a swing at us as soon as he gets ready to reach. We can have Chuck
start building the big tubes immediately, can't we?"

"Just one will be needed. We'll use one of the standard solar intake
tubes that we're running the station from. There's spare equipment
aplenty. But the transmitter-terminal tube will take some building."

"Can we buy one from Terran Electric?"

"Why not? Get the highest rating we can. That should be plenty. Terran
probably has them in stock, and it'll save us building one."

"What is their highest rating?"

"Two hundred megawatts."

"O.K. I'll send 'em a coded requisition with my answer to their
letter."

"What are you going to tell 'em?"

"Tell 'em not to investigate the energy-gun idea unless they want to
for their own reasons," Channing grinned. "They'll probably assume--and
correctly--that we're going to tinker ourselves."

"And?"

"Will do nothing since it is an extra-planetary proposition. Unless it
becomes suitable for digging tunnels, or melting the Martian ice cap,"
laughed Channing.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mark Kingman took the letter to Murdoch, who was hidden in the depths
of the _Black Widow_. Hellion read it twice, and then growled.

"They smell something sure," he snarled. "Why didn't we make that a
perfect hit!"

"What are we going to do now?"

"Step up our plans. They'll have this thing in a few weeks. Hm-m-m.
They order a transmitter terminal tube. Have you got any in stock?"

"Naturally. Not in stock, but available for the Northern Landing
power-line order."

"You have none, then. You will have some available within a few days.
That half-promise will stall them from making their own, and every day
that they wait for your shipment is a day in our favor. To keep your
own nose clean, I'll tell you when to ship the tube. It'll be a few
days before I strike."

"Why bother?" asked Kingman. "They won't be around to call names."

"No, but their friends will, and we want to keep them guessing."

"I see. Those tubes are huge enough to cause comment, and there will
be squibs in all papers telling of the giant tube going to Venus
Equilateral, and the Sunday supplements will all break out in wild
guesses as to the reason why Venus Equilateral wants a two-hundred
megawatt tube. Too bad you couldn't keep your escape a secret a while
longer."

"I suppose so. It was bound to be out sooner or later anyway. A good
general, Kingman, is one whose plans may be changed on a moment's
notice without sacrificing. We'll win through."

The days wore on, and the big turret on the top of the _Black Widow_
took shape. The super-tubes were installed, and Murdoch worked
in the bowels of the ship to increase the effectiveness of the
course-integrators and to accommodate high velocities and to correct
for the minute discrepancies that would crop up due to the difference
in velocities between light and sub-electronic radiation.

And on Venus Equilateral, the losing end of a war of nerves was taking
place. The correspondence by 'type was growing into a reasonable
pile, while the telephone conversations between Terran Electric and
Venus Equilateral became a daily proposition. The big tubes were
not finished. The big tubes were finished, but rejected because of
electrode misalignments. The big tubes were in the rework department.
The big tubes were on Luna for their testing. And again they were
rejected because the maximum power requirements were not met. They
were returned to Evanston and were once more in the rework department.
You have no idea how difficult the manufacture of two-hundred megawatt
tubes really is.

So the days passed, and no tubes were available. The date passed which
marked the mythical date of 'if'--_If_ Venus Equilateral had started
their own manufacturing on the day they were first ordered from Terran
Electric, they would have been finished and available.

Then, one day, word was passed along that the big tubes were shipped.
They were on their way, tested and approved, and would be at Venus
Equilateral within two days. In the due course of time, they arrived,
and the gang at the relay station went to work on them.

But Walt Franks shook his head. "Don, we'll be caught like a sitting
rabbit."

"I know. But--?" answered Channing.

There was no answer to that question, so they went to work again.

The news of Murdoch's first blow came that day. It was a news report
from the Interplanetary Network that the Titan Penal Colony had been
attacked by a huge black ship of space that carried a dome-shaped
turret on the top. Beams of invisible energy burned furrows in the
frozen ground, and the official buildings melted and exploded from the
air pressure within them. The Titan station went off the ether with a
roar, and the theorists believed that Murdoch's gang had been augmented
by four hundred and nineteen of the Solar System's most vicious
criminals.

"That rips it wide open," said Channing. "Better get the folks to
withstand a siege. I don't think they can take us."

"That devil might turn his beams on the station itself, though," said
Walt.

"He wants to control communications."

"With the sub-electron beams we now have, he could do it on a mere
piece of the station. Not perfectly, but he'd get along."

"Fine future," gritted Channing. "This is a good time to let this
project coast, Walt. We've got to start in from the beginning and walk
down another track."

"It's easy to say, chum."

"I know it. So far, all we've been able to do is take energy from the
solar intake beams and spray it out into space. It goes like the arrow
that went--we know not where."

"So?"

"Forget these gadgets. Have Chuck hook up the solar intake tubes to the
spotter and replace the cathodes with pure thorium. I've got another
idea."

"O.K., but it sounds foolish to me."

Channing laughed. "We'll stalemate him," he said bitterly, and
explained to Walt. "I wonder when Murdoch will come this way?"

"It's but a matter of time," said Walt. "My bet is as soon as he can
get here with that batch of fresh rats he's collected."

       *       *       *       *       *

Walt's bet would have collected. Two days later, Hellion Murdoch
flashed a signal into Venus Equilateral and asked for Channing.

"Hello, Hellion," answered Channing. "Haven't you learned to keep out
of our way?"

"Not at all," answered Murdoch. "You won't try that betatron on me
again. This ship is coated with four-tenths of an inch of lithium
metal, which according to the books will produce the maximum quantity
of electrons under secondary emission. If not the absolute maximum, it
is high enough to prevent your action."

"No," agreed Channing. "We won't try the betatron again. But, Murdoch,
there are other things."

"Can they withstand these," asked Murdoch. The turret swiveled until
the triple-mount of tubes looked at Venus Equilateral.

"Might try," said Channing.

"Any particular place?" countered Murdoch.

"Hit the south end. We can best afford to lose that," answered Channing.

"You're either guessing, or hoping I won't fire, or perhaps praying
that whatever you have for protection will work," said Murdoch flatly.
"Otherwise you wouldn't talk so smooth."

"You black-hearted baby-killing rotter," snarled Don Channing. "I'm not
chinning with you for the fun of it. You'll shoot anyway, and I want to
see how good you are. Get it over with, Murdoch."

"What I have here is plenty good," said Murdoch. "Good enough. Do you
know about it?"

"I can guess, but you tell me."

"Naturally," said Hellion. He explained in detail. "Can you beat that?"

"We may not be able to outfire you," gritted Channing, "but we may be
able to nullify your beam."

"Nonsense!" roared Murdoch. "Look, Channing, you'd best surrender."

"Never!"

"You'd rather die?"

"We'd rather fight it out. Come in and get us."

"Oh, no. We'll just shoot your little station full of holes. Like the
average spaceship, your station will be quite capable of handling
communications even though the air is all gone. Filling us full of
holes wouldn't do a thing; you see, we're wearing spacesuits."

"I guessed that. No, Murdoch, we have nothing to shoot at you this
time. All we can do is hold you off until you get hungry. You'll get
hungry first, since we're self-sufficient."

"And in the meantime?"

"In the meantime we're going to try a few things out on your hull.
I rather guess that you'll try out a few things on the station. But
at the present, you can't harm us and we can't harm you. Stalemate,
Murdoch!"

"You're bluffing!" stormed Murdoch.

"Are you afraid to squirt that beam this way?" asked Channing
tauntingly. "Or do you know it will not work?"

"Why are you so anxious to get killed?"

"We're very practical, out here on Venus Equilateral," said Don.
"There's no use in our working further if you have something that is
really good. We'd like to know our chances before we expend more effort
along another line."

"That's not all--?"

"No. Frankly, I'm almost certain that your beam won't do a thing to
Venus Equilateral."

"We'll see. Listen! Turretman! Are you ready?"

Faintly, the reply came, and Channing could hear it. "Ready!"

"Then fire all three. Pick your targets at will. One blast!"

The lights in Venus Equilateral brightened. The thousands of
line-voltage meters went from one hundred and twenty-five to one
hundred and forty volts, and the line-frequency struggled with the
crystal-control and succeeded in making a ragged increase from sixty
to sixty point one five cycles per second. The power-output meters on
the transmitting equipment went up briefly, and in the few remaining
battery-supply rooms, the overload and overcharge alarms clanged until
the automatic adjusters justified the input against the constant load.
One of the ten-kilowatt modulator tubes flashed over in the audio-room
and was immediately cut from the operating circuit; the recording
meters indicated that the tube had gone west forty-seven hours prior to
its expiration date due to filament overload. A series of fluorescent
lighting fixtures in a corridor of the station that should have been
dark because of the working hours of that section flickered into life
and woke several of the workers, and down in the laboratory, Wes
Farrell swore because the fluctuating line had disrupted one of his
experiments, giving him reason to doubt the result. He tore the thing
down, and began once more; seventy days' work had been ruined.

"Well," said Channing cockily, "is that the best you can do?"

"You--!"

"You forgot," reminded Channing, "that we have been working with solar
power, too. In fact, we discovered the means to get it. Go ahead and
shoot at us, Murdoch. You're just giving us more power."

"Cease firing!" exploded Murdoch.

"Oh, don't," cheered Don. "You forgot that those tubes, if aligned
properly, will actually cause bending of the energy-beam. We've got
load-terminal tubes pointing at you, and your power beam is bending to
enter them. You did well, though. You were running the whole station
with plenty to spare. We had to squirt some excess into space. Your
beams aren't worth the glass that's in them!"

"Stalemate, then," snarled Murdoch. "Now _you_ come and get _us_. We'll
leave. But we'll be back. Meanwhile, we can have our way with the
shipping. Pilot! Course for Mars! Start when ready!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Black Widow_ turned and streaked from Venus Equilateral as Don
Channing mopped his forehead. "Walt," he said, "that's once I was
scared to death."

"Me, too. Well, we got a respite. Now what?"

"We start thinking."

"Right. But of what?"

"Ways and--Hello, Wes. What's the matter?"

Farrell entered and said: "They broke up my job. I had to set it up
again, and I'm temporarily free. Anything I can do to help?"

"Can you dream up a space-gun?"

Farrell laughed. "That's problematical. Energy guns are something
strange. Their output can be trapped and used to good advantage. What
you need is some sort of projectile, I think."

"But what kind of projectile would do damage to a spaceship?"

"Obviously the normal kinds are useless. Fragmentation shells would
pelt the exterior of the hull with metallic rain--if and providing you
could get them that close. Armor-piercing would work, possibly, but
their damage would be negligible since hitting a spacecraft with a
shell is impossible if the ship is moving at anything at all like the
usual velocities. Detonation shells are a waste of energy, since there
is no atmosphere to expand and contract. They'd blossom like roses and
do as much damage as a tossed rose."

"No projectiles, then."

"If you could build a super-heavy fragmentation and detonation shell,
and combine it with armor-piercing qualities, and could hit the ship,
you might be able to stop them. You'd have to pierce the ship, and
have the thing explode with a terrific blast. It would crack the
ship because of the atmosphere trapped in the hull--and should be
fast enough to exceed the compressibility of air. Also it should
happen so fast that the air leaving the hole made would not have
a chance to decrease the pressure. The detonation would crack the
ship, and the fragmentation would mess up the insides to boot, giving
two possibilities. But if both failed and the ship became airless,
they would fear no more detonation shells. Fragments would always be
dangerous, however."

"So now we must devise some sort of shell--"

"More than that. The meteor-circuits would intercept the incoming shell
and it would never get there. What you'd need is a few hundred pounds
of 'window.' You know, strips of tin foil cut to roughly a quarter-wave
length of the meteor detecting radar. That'll completely foul up his
directors and drive-couplers. Then the big one, coming in at terrific
velocity."

"And speaking of velocity," said Walt Franks, "the projectile and the
rifle are out. We can get better velocity with a constant-acceleration
drive. I say torpedoes!"

"Naturally. But the aiming? Remember, even though we crank up the drive
to fifty G, it takes time to get to several thousand miles per second.
The integration of a course would be hard enough, but add to it the
desire of men to evade torpedoes--and the aiming job is impossible."

"We may be able to aim them with a device similar to the one Chuck
Thomas is working with. Murdoch said his hull was made with lithium?"

"Coated with," said Channing.

"Well. Set the alloy-selectivity disk to pure lithium, and use the
output to steer the torpedo right down to the bitter end."

"Fine. Now the armor-piercing qualities."

"Can we drill?"

"Nope. At those velocities, impact would cause detonation, the combined
velocities would look like a detonation wave to the explosive. After
all, darned few explosives can stand shock waves that propagate through
them at a few thousand miles per second."

"O.K. How do we drill?"

"We might drill electrically," suggested Farrell, "Put a beam in front?"

"Not a chance," grinned Channing. "The next time we meet up with
Hellion Murdoch, he'll have absorbers ready for use. We taught him
that one, and Murdoch is not slow to learn."

"So how do we drill?"

"Wes, is that non-arcing alloy of yours very conductive?"

"Slightly better than aluminum."

"Then I've got it! We mount two electrodes of the non-arcing alloy
in front. Make 'em heavy and of monstrous current carrying capacity.
Then we connect them to a condenser made of Farrell's super-dooper
dielectric."

"You bet," said Walt grinning. "We put a ten microfarad condenser in
front, only it'll be one hundred and thirty farads when we soak it in
Farrell's super-dielectric. We charge it to ten thousand volts, and let
it go."

"We've got a few experimental jobs," said Channing. "Those inerts.
The drones we were using for experimental purposes. They were radio
controlled, and can be easily converted to the aiming circuits."

"Explosives?"

"We'll get the chemistry boys to brew us a batch."

"Hm-m-m. Remind me to quit Saturday," said Walt. "I wonder how a ten
farad condenser would drive one of those miniatures...."

"Pretty well, I should imagine. Why?"

"Why not mount one of the miniatures on a gunstock and put a ten farad
condenser in the handle. Make a nice side arm."

"Good for one shot, and not permanently charged. You'd have to cut your
leakage down plenty."

"Could be. Well, we'll work on that one afterwards. Let's get that
drone fixed."

"Let's fix up all the drones we have. And we'll have the boys load up
as many as they can of the little message canisters with the windows.
The whole works go at once with the same acceleration, with the little
ones running interference for the big boy."

"Murdoch invited us to 'come and get him'," said Channing in a hard
voice. "That, I think we'll do!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Four smouldering derelicts lay in absolute wreckage on or near the four
great spaceports of the solar system. Shipping was at an unequalled
standstill, and the communications beams were loaded with argument
and recriminations and pleas as needed material did not arrive as per
agreement. Three ships paid out one dollar each gross ton in order to
take vital merchandise to needy parties, but the mine-run of shipping
was unable to justify the terrific cost.

And then Don Channing had a long talk with Keg Johnson of
Interplanetary Transport.

One day later, one of Interplanetary's larger ships took off
from Canalopsis without having paid tribute to Murdoch. It went
free--completely automatic--into the Martian sky and right into
Murdoch's hands. The pirate gunned it into a molten mass and hurled his
demands at the system once more, and left for Venus, since another ship
would be taking off from there.

In the _Relay Girl_, Don Channing smiled. "That finds Murdoch," he told
Walt. "He's on the standard course for Venus from Mars."

"Bright thinking," commented Walt. "Bait him on Mars and then offer him
a bite at Venus. When'll we catch him?"

"He's running, or will be, at about three G, I guess. We're roaring
along at five and will pass Mars at better than four thousand miles
per second. I think we'll catch and pass the _Black Widow_ at the
quarter-point, and Murdoch will be going at about nine hundred miles
per. We'll zoom past, and set the finder on him, and then continue
until we're safely away. If he gets tough, we'll absorb his output,
though he's stepped it up to the point where a spacecraft can't take
too much concentrated input."

"That's how he's been able to blast those who went out with absorbers?"

"Right. The stuff on the station was adequate to protect but an
ordinary ship couldn't handle it unless the ship were designed to
absorb and dissipate that energy. The beam-tubes would occupy the
entire ship, leaving no place for cargo. Result: A toss-up between
paying off and not carrying enough to make up the difference."

"This is Freddie," spoke the communicator. "The celestial globe has
just come up with a target at eight hundred thousand miles."

"O.K., Freddie. That must be the _Black Widow_. How'll we pass her?"

"About thirty thousand miles."

"Then get the finders set on that lithium-coated hull as we pass."

"Hold it," said Walt. "Our velocity with respect to his is about three
thousand. We can be certain of the ship by checking the finder-response
on the lithium coating. If so, she's the _Black Widow_. Right from
here, we can be assured. Jim! Check the finders in the torpedoes on
that target!"

"Did," said Jim. "They're on and it is."

"Launch 'em all!" yelled Franks.

"Are you nuts?" asked Channing.

"Why give him a chance to guess what's happening? Launch 'em!"

"Freddie, drop two of the torpedoes and half the 'window.' Send 'em out
at ten G. We'll not put all our eggs in one basket," Channing said to
Walt. "There might be a slip-up."

"It'll sort of spoil the effect," said Don. "But we're not here for
effect."

"What effect?"

"That explosive will be as useless as a slab of soap," said Don.
"Explosive depends for its action upon velocity--brother, there ain't
no explosive built that will propagate at the velocity of our torpedo
against Murdoch."

"I know," said Franks smiling.

"Shall I yell 'Bombs away' in a dramatic voice?" asked Freddie Thomas.

"Are they?"

"Yup."

"Then yell," grinned Walt. "Look, Don, this should be pretty.
Let's hike to the star-camera above and watch. We can use the
double-telescope finder and take pix, too."

"It won't be long," said Channing grimly. "And we'll be safe, since the
interferers will keep Murdoch's gadget so busy he won't have time to
worry us. Let's go."

       *       *       *       *       *

The sky above became filled with a myriad of flashing spots as the
rapidly-working meteor spotters coupled to the big turret and began to
punch at the interferers.

The clangor of the alarm made Murdoch curse. He looked at the celestial
globe and his heart knew real fear for the first time. This was no
meteor shower, he knew from the random pattern. Something was after
him, and Murdoch knew who and what it was. He cursed Channing and Venus
Equilateral in a loud voice.

It did no good, that cursing. Above his head, the triply mounted turret
danced back and forth, freeing a triple-needle of Sol's energy. At
each pause another bit of tinfoil went out in a blaze of fire. And as
the turret destroyed the little dancing motes, more came speeding into
range to replace them, ten to one.

And then it happened. The finder-circuit fell into mechanical
indecision as two of the canisters of window burst at angles, each with
the same intensity. The integrators ground together, and the forces
they loosed struggled for control.

Beset by opposing impulses, the amplidyne in the turret stuttered,
smoked, and then went out in a pungent stream of yellowish smoke that
poured from its dust-cover in a high-velocity stream. The dancing of
the turret stopped, and the flashing motes in the sky stopped with the
turret's death.

One hundred and thirty farads, charged to ten thousand volts, touched
the lithium-coated, aluminum side of Murdoch's _Black Widow_. Thirteen
billion joules of electrical energy; thirty-six hundred kilowatt hours
went against two inches of aluminum. At the three thousand miles per
second relative velocity of the torpedo, contact was immediate and
perfect. The aluminum hull vaporized under the million upon million of
kilovolt-amperes of the discharge. The vaporized hull tried to explode,
but was hit by the unthinkable velocity of the torpedo's warhead.

The torpedo itself crushed in front. It mushroomed under the millions
of degrees Kelvin developed by the energy-release caused by the
cessation of velocity. For at this velocity the atmosphere within the
_Black Widow_ was as immobile and as hard as tungsten steel at its best.

The very molecules themselves could not move fast enough. They crushed
together and in compressing brought incandescence.

The energy of the incoming torpedo raced through the _Black Widow_
in a velocity wave that blasted the ship itself into incandescence.
In a steep wave-front, the vaporized ship exploded in space like a
super-nova.

It blinded the eyes of those who watched. It overexposed the camera
film and the expected pictures came out with one single frame a pure,
seared black. The piffling, comparatively ladylike detonation of the
System's best and most terrible explosive was completely covered in the
blast.

Seconds later, the _Relay Girl_ hurtled through the sky three thousand
miles to one side of the blast. The driven gases caught the _Girl_ and
stove in the upper observation tower like an eggshell. The _Relay
Girl_ strained at her girders, and sprung leaks all through the rigid
ship, and after rescuing Don Channing and Walt Franks from the wreckage
of the observation dome, the men spent their time welding cracks until
the _Relay Girl_ landed.

It was Walt who put his finger on the trouble. "That was period for
Murdoch," he said. "But Don, the stooge still runs loose. We're going
to be forced to take over Mark Kingman before we're a foot taller.
He includes Terran Electric, you know. That's where Murdoch got his
machine work done."

"Without Murdoch, Kingman is fairly harmless," said Don, objecting.
"We'll have no more trouble from him."

"You're a sucker, Don. Kingman will still be after your scalp. You mark
my words."

"Well, what are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing for the present. I've still got that date with Christine at
Lincoln Head. Mind?"




                             _Interlude:_


_Not all inventions and discoveries need be deadly. Yet if the matter
is considered deeply enough, inventions and discoveries are, in a
sense, deadly to something. The automobile sounded the knell of the
blacksmith. Gutenberg stopped the widespread trade of the official
scribes, who spent their working day writing books by hand._

_It is also quite safe to assume that inventors themselves seldom
realize the effect their contributions will have upon the future. Did
the Wright brothers ever stand upon that hill near Dayton, Ohio, where
they flew box kites, and believe that within the span of a lifetime
that hill would be surrounded on all sides by the solid acres of land
that now bears their name: Wright Field? Did James Clerk Maxwell, in
postulating his Electromagnetic Equations, ever conceive of the massive
industry that was to grow around the art of radio transmission? Did
Thomas Alva Edison contemplate Times Square when he was seeking a more
efficient means of illumination?_

_Yes, inventions are all deadly in one sense or another. They are
openly considered so when their effect kills human beings. Few
inventions are conceived with the intent of producing murder, the
atomic bomb notwithstanding._

_THAT little fiendish device was the accumulation of knowledges and
sciences gathered by men who were seeking knowledge for the sake of
knowledge and it was not until the need arose and the facts became
clear that the idea of Atomic Power for Military Purposes became fact._

_Similarly, Walt Franks didn't really know what he was starting when he
began to think about the next big project for Venus Equilateral._

_You see, by reasoning, Walt assumed that if men could send
intelligence and energy by beam transmission, there was no reason why
men couldn't send--THINGS._




                           SPECIAL DELIVERY


Don Channing grinned at his wife knowingly. Arden caught his glance and
then laughed. Walt Franks leaned back and looked highly superior. "Go
ahead and laugh, darn you. I tell you it can be done."

"Walt, ever since you tried that stunt of aerating soap with hydrogen
to make a floating soap for shower baths, I've been wondering about
your kind of genius."

"Oh, no," objected Arden.

"Well, he wondered about it after nearly breaking his neck one morning."

"That I did," grinned Walt. "It's still a good idea."

"But the idea of transmitting matter is fantastic."

"Agreed," admitted Walt. "But so is the idea of transmitting power."

"It would come in handy if possible," remarked Don. "At slightly under
two G, it takes only four hours to make Luna from Terra. On the other
hand, shipping stuff from Melbourne, Australia, to New York City, or
to the Mojave spaceport takes considerably longer. Spacecraft as super
stratosphere carriers aren't too good, because you've got to run in a
circle. In space you run at constant acceleration to mid-point and then
decelerate the rest of the way. Fine for mile-eating, but not too hot
for cutting circles."

"Well, having established the need of a matter transmitter, now what?"

"Go on, Walt. You're telling us."

"Well," said Walt, pencilling some notes on the tablecloth, "it's like
this. The Carroll-Baler power-transmission tube will carry energy.
According to their initial experiments, they had some trouble."

"They had one large amount, if I recall."

"Specifically, I recall the incident of the hammer. Remember?"

"Barney Carroll got mad and swung a hammer at the tube, didn't he?"

"It was one of them. I don't recall which."

"No matter of importance," said Don. "I think I know what you mean.
He hit the intake end--or tried to. The hammer was cut neatly and
precisely off, and the energy of the blow was transmitted, somehow, to
the wall."

"Through the wall," corrected Walt. "It cracked the plaster, but it
went through so fast that it merely cracked it. The main blow succeeded
in breaking the marble facade of the city hall."

"Um. Now bring us up to date. What have you in mind?"

"A tube which scans matter, atom by atom, line by line and plane by
plane. The matter is removed, atom by atom, and transmitted by a sort
of matter bank in the instrument."

"A what?"

"Matter bank," said Walt. "We can't transmit the stuff itself. That's
out. We can't dissipate the atomic energy or whatever effect we might
get. We can establish a balance locally by using the energy release to
drive the restorer. According to some initial experiments, it can be
done. We take something fairly complex and break it down. We use the
energy of destruction to re-create the matter in the bank, or solid
block of local stuff. Let it be a mass of stuff if it wants to, at
any rate, the signal impulses from the breakdown will be transmitted,
scanned if you will, and transmitted to a receiver which reverses the
process. It scans, and the matter bank is broken down and the object is
reconstructed."

"I hope we can get free and unrestricted transmutation," offered Don.
"You can't send a steel spring out and get one back made of copper."

"I get your point."

"The space lines will hate you," said Arden.

"Too bad. I wonder if it'll carry people."

"Darling," drawled Arden, "don't you think you'd better catch your
rabbit first?"

"Not too bad a thought," agreed Don. "Walt, have you got any rabbit
traps out?"

"A couple. I've been tinkering a bit. I know we can disintegrate matter
through a power-tube of slight modification, and reintegrate it with
another. At the present state of the art, it is a mess."

"A nice mess," laughed Don. "Go ahead, though. We'll pitch in when the
going gets hard."

"That's where I stand now. The going is tough."

"What's the trouble?"

"Getting a perfect focus. I want it good enough so that we can scan a
polished sheet of steel--and it'll come out as slick as the original."

"Naturally. We'd better get Wes Farrell on the job."

"I wonder what by-product he'll get this time?"

"Look, Walt. Quit hoping. If you get this thing running right, it'll
put your name in history."

"After all," grinned Walt, "I've got to do something good enough to
make up for that Channing Layer."

"Kingman is still fuming over the Channing Layer. Sometimes I feel
sorry that I did it to him like that."

"Wasn't your fault, Don. You didn't hand him the thing knowing that the
Channing Layer would inhibit the transmission of energy. It happened.
We get power out of Sol--why shouldn't they? They would, except for the
Channing Layer."

"Wonder what your idea will do."

"About the Channing Layer? Maybe your spaceline competition is not as
good as it sounds."

"Well, they use the power-transmission tubes all over the face of the
Solar System. I can't see any reason why they couldn't ship stuff from
Sydney to Mojave and then space it out from there."

"What an itinerary! By Franks' matter transmitter to Mojave.
Spacecraft to Luna. More matter transmission from Luna to Phobos.
Then trans-shipped down to Lincoln Head, and by matter transmitter to
Canalopsis. _Whoosh!_"

"Do we have time to go into the old yarn about the guy who listened in
and got replicas?" asked Arden.

"That's a woman's mind for you," grinned Channing. "Always making
things complicated. Arden, my lovely but devious-minded woman, let's
wait until we have the spry beastie by the ears before we start to make
rabbit pie."

"It's not as simple as it sounds," warned Walt. "But it's there to
worry about."

"But later. I doubt that we can reason that angle out."

"I can," said Arden. "Can we tap the power beams?"

"Wonderful is the mind of woman," praised Don. "Positively wonderful!
Arden, you have earned your next fur coat. Here I've been thinking of
radio transmission all this time. No, Arden, when you're set up for
sheer energy transmission, it's strictly no dice. The crimped up jobs
we use for communications can be tapped--but not the power transmission
beams. If you can keep the gadget working on that line, Walt, we're in
and solid."

"I predict there'll be a battle. Are we shipping energy or
communications?"

"Let Kingman try and find a precedent for that. Brother Blackstone
himself would be stumped to make a ruling. We'll have to go to work
with the evidence as soon as we get a glimmer of the possibilities. But
I think we have a good chance. We can diddle up the focus, I'm certain."

Arden glowered. "Go ahead--have your fun. I see another couple of weeks
of being a gadgeteer's widow." She looked at Walt Franks. "I could
stand it if the big lug only didn't call every tool, every part, and
every effect either _she_ or _baby_!"

Walt grinned. "I'd try to keep you from being lonely, but I'm in this,
too, and besides, you're my friend's best wife."

"Shall we drag that around a bit? I think we could kill a couple of
hours with it sometime."

"Let it lie there and rot," snorted Channing cheerfully. "We'll pick it
up later. Come on, Walt. We've got work to do."

       *       *       *       *       *

Mark Kingman glowered at the 'gram and swore under his breath. He
wondered whether he might be developing a persecution complex; it
seemed as though every time he turned around, Venus Equilateral was in
his hair, asking for something or other. And he was not in any position
to quibble about it. Kingman was smart enough to carry his tray very
level. Knowing that they were waiting for a chance to prove that he had
been connected with the late Hellion Murdoch made him very cautious.
There was no doubt in any mind that Murdoch was written off the books,
but whether Murdoch had made a sufficiently large impression on the
books of Terran Electric to have the connection become evident--that
worried Kingman.

So he swore at each telegram that came in, but quietly, and followed
each request to the letter. Compared to his former attitude toward
Venus Equilateral, Mark Kingman was behaving like an honor student in a
Sunday school.

Furthermore, behaving himself did not make him feel good.

He punched the buzzer, told his secretary to call in the shop foreman,
and then sat back and wondered about the 'gram.

He was still wondering when the man entered. Kingman looked up and
fixed his superintendent with a fishy glance. "Horman, can you guess
why the Venus Equilateral crowd would want two dozen gauge blocks?"

"Sure. We use Johannson blocks all the time."

"Channing wants twenty-four blocks. All three inches on a side--cubes.
Square to within thirty seconds of angle, and each of the six faces
optically flat to one-quarter wave length of cadmium light."

"_Whoosh!_" said Horman. "I presume the three-inch dimension must be
within a half wave length?"

"They're quite lenient," said Kingman bitterly. "A full wave length!"

"White of them," grunted Horman. "I suppose the same thing applies?"

"We're running over thin ice," said Kingman reflectively. "I can't
afford to play rough. We'll make up their blocks."

"I wonder what they want 'em for?"

"Something tricky, I'll bet."

"But what could you use two dozen gauge blocks for? All the same size."

"Inspection standards?" asked Kingman.

"Not unless they're just being difficult. You don't put primary blocks
on any production line. You make secondary gauges for production
line use and keep a couple of primaries in the check room to try the
secondaries on. In fact, you usually have a whole set of gauge blocks
to build up to any desired dimension so that you don't have to stock a
half-million of different sizes."

"It's possible that they may be doing something extremely delicate?"

"Possible," said Horman slowly. "But not too probable. On the other
hand, I may be one hundred percent wrong. I don't know all the
different stuff a man can make, by far. My own experience indicates
that nothing like that would be needed. But that's just one man's
experience."

"Channing and that gang of roughneck scientists have been known to make
some fancy gadgets," said Kingman grudgingly.

"If you'll pardon my mentioning the subject," said Horman in a
scathing tone, "you'd have been far better off to tag along with 'em
instead of fighting 'em."

"I'll get 'em yet."

"What's it got you so far?"

"I'm not too bad off. I've come up from the Chief Legal Counsel of
Terran Electric to controlling the company."

"And Terran Electric has slid down from the topmost outfit in the
system to a seventh rater."

"We'll climb back. At any rate, I'm better off personally. You're
better off personally. In fact, everybody that had enough guts to stay
with us is better off."

"Yeah--I know. It sounds good on paper. But make a bum move again,
Kingman, and we'll all be in jail. You'd better forget that hatred
against Venus Equilateral and come down to earth."

"Well, I've been a good boy for them once. After all, I did point out
the error in their patent on the solar beam."

"That isn't all. Don't forget that Terran Electric's patent was at
error, too."

"Frankly, it was a minor error. It's one of those things that is easy
to get caught on. You know how it came about?"

"Nope. I accepted it just like everybody else. It took some outsider to
laugh at me and tell me why."

Kingman smiled. "It's easy to get into easy thinking. They took power
from Sirius--believe it or not--and then made some there-and-back time
measurements and came up with a figure that was about the square of one
hundred eighty-six thousand miles per second. But you know that you
can't square a velocity and come up with anything that looks sensible.
The square of a velocity must be some concept like an expanding area."

"Or would it be two spots diverging along the sides of a right angle?"
queried Horman idly. "What was their final answer?"

"The velocity of light is a concept. It is based on the flexibility
of space--its physical constants, so to speak. Channing claims that
the sub-etheric radiation bands of what we have learned to call the
driver radiation propagates along some other medium than space itself.
I think they were trying to establish some mathematical relation--which
might be all right, but you can't establish that kind of relation
and hope to hold it. The square of C in meters comes out differently
than the square of C in miles, inches, or a little-used standard, the
light-second, in which the velocity of light is unity, or One. Follow?
Anyway, they made modulation equipment of some sort and measured the
velocity and came up with a finite figure which is slightly less than
the square of one hundred eighty-six thousand miles per second. Their
original idea was wrong. It was just coincidence that the two figures
came out that way. Anyway," smiled Kingman, "I pointed it out to them
and they quick changed their patent letters. So, you see, I've been of
some help."

"Nice going. Well, I'm going to make those gauges. It'll take us one
long time, too. Johannson Blocks aren't the easiest things in the world
to make."

"What would you make secondary standards out of?"

"We use glass gauges, mostly. They don't dinge or bend when
dropped--they go to pieces or not at all. We can't have a bent gauge
rejecting production parts, you know, and steel gauges can be bent.
Besides, you can grind glass to a half wave length of light with ease,
but polishing steel is another item entirely."

"I'm going to call Channing and ask him about glass blocks. It may
be that he might use them. Plus the fact that I may get an inkling
of the ultimate use. They have no production lines running on Venus
Equilateral, have they?"

"Nope. Not at all. They're not a manufacturing company."

"Well, I'm going to call."

Kingman's voice raced across Terra to Hawaii, went on the
communications beams of the sky-pointing reflectors, and rammed through
the Heaviside Layer to Luna. At the Lunar Station, his voice was
mingled in multiplex with a thousand others and placed on the sub-ether
beams to Venus Equilateral.

Don Channing answered the 'phone. "Yes?"

"Kingman, Dr. Channing."

Don grunted. He did not like to be addressed by title when someone who
disliked him did it. His friends did not; Kingman's use of the title
made it an insult.

"Look," said Kingman, "what do you want to use those blocks for?"

"We've got a job of checking dimensions."

"Nothing more? Do you need the metal for electrical reasons?"

"No," said Don, "what have you in mind?"

"Our tool shop is nicely equipped to grind glass gauges. We can do that
better than grinding Jo-blocks. Can you use glass ones?"

"Hang on a minute." Channing turned to Walt. "Kingman says his outfit
uses glass gauges. Any reason why we can't?"

"See no reason why not. I've heard of using glass gauges, and they've
got some good reasons, too. Tell him to go ahead."

"Kingman? How soon can we get glass ones?"

"Horman, how soon on the glass blocks?"

"Two dozen? About a week."

"We'll have your blocks on the way within four days, Channing. Four
days minimum, plus whatever wait is necessary to get 'em aboard a
spacer."

"We'll check from this end on schedules. We need the blocks, and if the
wait is too long, we'll send the _Relay Girl_ in for 'em."

Don hung up and then said: "Glass ones might be a good idea. We can
check the transmission characteristics optically. I think we can check
more, quicker, than by running analysis on steel."

"Plus the fact that you can get the blocks back after test," grinned
Walt. "Once you tear into a steel block to check its insides, you've
lost your sample. I don't know any better way to check homogeneity than
by optical tests."

"O.K. Well, four days for glass blocks will do better than a couple of
months on steel blocks."

"Right. Now let's look up Wes and see what he's come up with."

They found Farrell in one of the blister laboratories, working on a
small edition of the power transmission tubes. He was not dressed in
spacesuit, and so they entered the blister and watched him work.

"Have a little trouble getting the focus to stay sharp through the
trace," complained Wes. "I can get focus of atomic proportions--the
circle of confusion is about the size of the atom nucleus, I mean--at
the axis of the tube. But the deflection of the cone of energy produces
aberration, which causes coma at the edges. The corners of an area look
fierce."

"I wonder if mechanical scanning wouldn't work better."

"Undoubtedly. You don't hope to send life, do you?"

"It would be nice--but no more fantastic than this thing is now. What's
your opinion?"

Wes loosened a set screw on the main tube anode and set the anode
forward a barely perceptible distance. He checked it with a vernier
rule and tightened the screw. He made other adjustments on the works
of the tube itself, and then motioned outside. They left the blister,
Wes closed the air-tight, and cracked the valve that let the air out of
the blister. He snapped the switch on the outside panel and then leaned
back in his chair while the cathode heated.

"With electrical scanning, you'll have curvature of field with this
gadget. That isn't too bad, I suppose, because the restorer will have
the same curvature. But you're going to scan three ways, which means
correction for the linear distance from the tube as well as the other
side deflections and their aberrations. Now if we could scan the gadget
mechanically, we'd have absolute flatness of field, perfect focus, and
so forth."

Walt grinned. "Thinking of television again? Look, bright fellows, how
do you move an assembly of mechanical parts in quanta of one atomic
diameter? They've been looking for that kind of a gadget for centuries.
Dr. Rowland and his gratings would turn over in their graves with a
contrivance that could rule lines one atom apart."

"On what?" asked Don.

"If it would rule one atom lines, brother, you could put a million
lines per inch on anything rulable with perfection, ease, eclat, and
savoir faire. You follow my argument? Or would you rather take up this
slip of my tongue and make something out of it?"

"O.K., fella, I see your point. How about that one, Wes?"

Wes Farrell grinned. "Looks like I'd better be getting perfect focus
with the electrical system here. I hadn't considered the other angle at
all, but it looks a lot tougher than I thought."

He squinted through a wall-mounted telescope at the set-up on the
inside of the blister. "She's hot," he remarked quietly, and then set
to checking the experiment. Fifteen minutes of checking, and making
notes, and he turned to the others with a smile. "Not too bad that
way," he said.

"What are you doing?"

"I've established a rather complex field. In order to correct the
aberrations, I've got non-linear focussing fields in the places where
they tend to correct for the off-axis aberrations. To correct for the
height-effect, I'm putting a variable corrector to control the whole
cone of energy, stretching it or shortening it according to the needs.
I think if I use a longer focal length I'll be able to get the thing
running right.

"That'll lessen the need for correction, too," he added, cracking the
blister-intake valve and letting the air hiss into the blister. He
opened the door and went inside, and began to adjust the electrodes.
"You know," he added over his shoulder, "we've got something here that
might bring a few dollars on the side. This matter-bank affair produces
clean, clear, and practically pure metal. You might be able to sell
some metal that was rated 'pure' and mean it."

"You mean absolutely, positively, guaranteed, uncontaminated,
unadulterated, perfectly chemically pure?" grinned Don.

"Compared to what 'chemically pure' really means, your selection of
adjectives is a masterpiece of understatement," laughed Walt.

"I'm about to make one more try," announced Wes. "Then I'm going to
drop this for the time being. I've got to get up to the machine shop
and see what they're doing with the rest of the thing."

"We'll take that over if you wish," said Don.

"Will you? I'll appreciate it. I sort of hate to let this thing go when
I feel that I'm near an answer."

"We'll do it," said Walt, definitely.

They left the laboratory and made their way to the elevator that would
lift them high into the relay station where the machine shop was
located. As they entered the elevator Don shook his head.

"What's the matter?"

"Well, friend Wes is on the beam again. If he feels that we're close to
the answer, I'll bet a hat that we're hanging right on the edge. Also,
that kind of work would kill me dead. He likes to stick on one thing
till the bitter end, no matter how long it takes. I couldn't do it."

"I know. About three days of this and you're wanting another job to
clear your mind. Then you could tackle that one for about three hours
and take back on the first."

"Trying to do that to Farrell would kill both him and the jobs," said
Don. "But you and I can keep two or three projects going strong. Oh,
well, Wes is worth a million."

"He's the best we've got," agreed Walt. "Just because he has a peculiar
slant on life is no sign he's not brilliant."

"It's you and I that have the cockeyed slant on life," grinned Don.
"And frankly, I'm proud of it." He swung the elevator door aside and
they walked down the corridor. "This isn't going to be much to see, but
we'll take a look."

The machine shop, to the man, was clustered around the one cabinet
under construction. They moved aside to permit the entry of Channing
and Franks.

"Hm-m-m," said Don. "Looks like a refrigerator and incinerator
combined."

It did. It stood five feet tall, three feet square, and was sealed in
front by a heavy door. There was a place intended for the tube that
Farrell was tinkering in the blister, and the lines to supply the power
were coiled behind the cabinet.

"Partly wired?" asked Don.

"Just the power circuits," answered Warren, "We'll have this finished
in a couple of days now. The other one is completed except for Wes
Farrell's section."

Channing nodded, and said: "Keep it going." He turned to Walt and after
the passage of a knowing glance the pair left. "Walt, this is getting
on my nerves. I want to go down to Joe's and drink myself into a stupor
which will last until they get something cogent to work on."

"I'm with you, but what will Arden say?"

"I'm going to get Arden. Self-protection. She'd cut my feet off at the
knees if I went off on a tear without her."

"I have gathered that," grinned Walt. "You're afraid of her."

"Yeah," drawled Don. "After all--she's the cook."

"I'm waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"If and when. If you two go on as you have for another year without one
of you turning up with a black eye, I may be tempted to go forth and
track me down a babe of my own."

       *       *       *       *       *

The cabinet stood in the north end of Venus Equilateral but it was not
alone. It may even be the record for all times; certainly no other
cabinet three by three by five ever had twenty-seven men all standing
in a circle awaiting developments. The cabinet at the south end of
Venus Equilateral was no less popular, though the number of watchers
was less by one. Here, then, were winner and runner-up of inanimate
popularity for the ages. The communicator system set in the walls
of the two rooms carried sounds from the north room to the south,
and those sounds in the south room could be heard in the north room.
Channing grinned boyishly at Arden.

"This, my love, is a device which may make it quite possible for me to
send you back to mother."

Arden smiled serenely. "No dice," she said. "Mother went back to
grandmother last week. When is this thing going to cook?"

"Directly."

"What are we waiting for?"

"Walt."

"I'm ready," came Walt's voice through the speaker.

"About time, slowpoke."

"Really, it was not his fault," objected Wes. "I wanted to check the
scanner-synchronization."

"He's precious," chortled Arden in Don's ear. "He wouldn't think of
letting Walt, the big bum, take the blame for anything that wasn't
Walt's fault."

"That's a good line," grinned Don. "Walt's faults. After we set this
thing aside as a finished project, we'll set that 'Walt's Faults' to
music. Ready, Walt?"

"Right. I am now slipping the block into the cabinet. The door is
closed. Have you got the preliminary synchronizing signal in tick?"

Channing called: "Wait a minute, I'm lagging a whole cycle."

"Cut your synchronization input and let the thing catch up."

"O.K. Um-m-m--Now, Walt."

"Has anyone any last words to say?" asked Walt.

No answer.

"Then since no one has any objections at this time, I assume that
everything may be run off. Silence, people, we are going on the air!"

"There was a very faint odor of corn in Walt's last remark," said Don.

"I think the corn was on his breath," said Arden.

"Done!" announced Walt. "Don, crack the door so that the rest of us can
laugh if it don't work."

Channing swaggered over and opened the door. He reached inside and took
out the--object.

He held it up.

"Walt," said he, "what are you giving me?"

"Huh?"

"I presume that you shipped me one of the cubes?"

"Right."

"Well, what we got at this end would positively scare the right arm off
of a surrealist sculptor."

"Hang onto it. I'll be right up."

"Hang on to it?" laughed Don. "I'm afraid to touch it."

It was three miles from one end of Venus Equilateral to the other and
Walt made it in six minutes from the time he stepped into the little
runway car to the time he came into the north-end laboratory and looked
over Channing's shoulder at the--thing--that stood on the table.

"Um," he said. "Sort of distorted, isn't it?"

"Quite," said Don. "This is glass. It was once a three-inch cube of
precision, polish, and beauty. It is now a combination of a circular
stairway with round corners and a sort of accordion pleat. Hell's
bells!"

"Be not discouraged," gurgled Walt. "No matter what it looks like, we
did transmit matter."

Arden tapped Don on the shoulder. "May I say it now?"

"You do--!"

"Then I won't say it doesn't matter."

"I'm ignoring your crude remark. Walt, we did accomplish something. It
wasn't too good. Now let's figure out why this thing seems to have been
run over with a fourth dimensional caterpillar-tread truck."

"Well, I can hazard a guess. The synchronizing circuits were not
clamped perfectly. That gives the accordion-pleat effect. The starting
of the trace was not made at the same place each time due to slippage.
We'll have to beef up the synchronization impulse. The circular
staircase effect was probably due to phase distortion."

"Could be," said Don. "That means we have to beef up the transmission
band so it'll carry a higher frequency."

"A lower impedance with corrective elements?"

"Might work. Those will have to be matched closely. We're not
transmitting on a line, you know. It's sheer transmission-tube stuff
from here to there. Well, gang, we've had our fun. Now let's widen the
transmission band and beef up the sync. Then we'll try number two."

Number two was tried the following afternoon. Again, everybody stood
around and watched over Don's shoulder as he removed the cube from the
cabinet.

"Nice," he said, doing a little war dance.

Franks came in puffing, took the cube from Don's fingers and inspected
it. "Not too bad," he said.

"Perfect."

"Not by a jug full. The index of refraction is higher at this edge than
at the other. See?" Walt held the cube before a newspaper and they
squinted through the glass block.

"Seems to be. Now why?"

"Second harmonic distortion, if present, would tend to thin out one
side and thicken up the other side. A sine-wave transmission would
result in even thickness, but if second harmonic distortion is present,
the broad loops at the top create a condition where the average from
zero to top is higher than the average from zero to the other peak.
Follow?"

"That would indicate that the distortion was coming in at this end. If
both were even, they would cancel."

"Right. Your scanning at one end is regular--at the other end it is
irregular, resulting in non-homogeneity."

"The corners aren't sharp," objected Arden.

"That's an easy one. The wave-front isn't sharp either. Instead of
clipping sharply at the end of the trace, the signal tapers off. That
means higher frequency response is needed."

"We need a term. Audio for sonics; radio for electronics; video for
television signals--"

"Mateo," said Arden.

"Um--sounds sort of silly," grinned Walt.

"That's because it's strange. Mateo it is," said Don. "Our mateo
amplifier needs higher frequency response in order to follow the square
wave-front. Might put a clipper circuit in there, too."

"I think a clipper and a sharpener will do more than the higher
frequency," said Farrell. He was plying a vernier caliper, and he
added: "I'm certain of that second harmonic stuff now. The dimension is
cockeyed on this side. Tell you what, Don. I'm going to have the index
of refraction measured within an inch of its life. Then we'll check the
thing and apply some high-powered math and see if we can come up with
the percentage of distortion."

"Go ahead. Meanwhile, _we'll_ apply the harmonic analyzer to this
thing and see what we find. If we square up the edges and make her
homogeneous, we'll be in business."

"The space lines will hate you to pieces," said Arden.

"Nope. I doubt that we could send anything very large. It might be more
bother to run a huge job than the money it costs to send it by spacer.
But we have a market for small stuff that is hard to handle in space
because of its size."

"I see no reason why Keg Johnson wouldn't go for a hunk of it," offered
Wes Farrell.

"I've mentioned it to Keg; the last time I was in Canalopsis," said
Walt. "He wasn't too worried--provided he could buy a hunk."

"Interplanet is pretty progressive," mused Don. "There'll be no reason
why we can't make some real handy loose change out of this. Well, let's
try it again tomorrow."

"O.K. Let's break this up. Will we need any more blocks from Terran
Electric?"

       *       *       *       *       *

It was less than a month later that a newspaper reporter caught the
advance patent notice and swallowed hard. He did a double take, shook
his head, and then read the names on the patent application and decided
that someone was not fooling. He took leave and made the run to Venus
Equilateral to interview the officials. He returned not only with a
story, but with a sample glass block that he had seen run through the
machine.

The news pushed one hatchet murder, a bank robbery, a football upset,
and three political harangues all the way back to page seven. In terms
more glowing than scientifically accurate, the matter transmitter
screamed in three-inch headlines, trailed down across the page in
smaller type, and was embellished with pictures, diagrams, and a
description of the apparatus. The latter had been furnished by
Walt Franks, and had been rewritten by the reporter because Walt's
description was too dry.

The following morning Venus Equilateral had nine rush telegrams. Three
were from cranks who wanted to go to Sirius and set up a restorer there
to take people; four were from superstitious nuts who called Channing's
attention to the fact that he was overstepping the rights given to him
by his Creator; one was from a gentleman who had a number of ideas, all
of which were based on the idea of getting something for nothing and
none of which were legal; and the last one was a rather curt note from
Terran Electric, pointing out that this device came under the realm of
the power-transmission tube and its developments and that they wanted a
legal discussion.

"Have they got a leg to stand on?" asked Walt.

"I doubt it."

"Then to the devil with them," snapped Walt. "We'll tell 'em to go jump
in the lake."

"Nope. We're going to Terra and slip them the slug. If we clip them
now, they'll have nothing to go on. If we wait till they get started,
they'll have a fighting chance. Besides, I think that all they want to
do is to have the facts brought out. Are we or are we not under the
terms of that contract?"

"Are we?"

"We're as safe as Sol. And I know it. That contract pertained to the
use of the solar beam only, plus certain other concessions pertaining
to the use of the power-transmission tubes and other basic effects as
utilized in communications."

"Why can't we tell them that?"

"It's got to be told in a court of law," said Don. "Kingman's mind runs
to legal procedure like Blackstone."

"We'll take the gadgets?"

"Right. What are you using for power?"

"What other? Solar beams, of course. We don't bother about running
stuff around any more. We plug it in the 115-volt line, it energizes
the little fellows just long enough to make them self-sustaining from
Sol. All the 115-volt line does is to act as a starting circuit."

"You and Farrell had better dream up a couple of power supplies then.
We can't use the solar beam on Terra."

"I know. We're a little ahead of you on that. Wes and one of the Thomas
boys cooked up a beam-transducer power supply that will get its juice
from any standard 115-volt, sixty-cycle line socket. We've got two of
them--and they run the things easily."

"Good. I'll 'gram Terran Electric and let 'em know we're on our way for
the legal tangle. You load up the _Relay Girl_ and we'll be on our way.
Stock up the usual supply of bars, blocks, gadgets, and traps. Might
include a bar magnet. When we show that it is still magnetized, we'll
gain a point for sure."

"If we take a magnet, we'd better take the fluxmeter to show that the
magnetic field hasn't dropped."

"Right. Take anything you can think of for a good show. We can knock
them dead!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Mark Kingman put his assistant legal counsel on the witness stand. "You
will state the intent of the contract signed between Terran Electric
and Venus Equilateral."

"The contract holds the following intent: 'Use of the
power-transmission tubes for communications purposes shall fall under
the jurisdiction of Venus Equilateral. For power transmission, the
tubes and associated equipment shall be under the control of Terran
Electric. In the matter of the solar beam tubes, the contract is as
follows: Venus Equilateral holds the control of the solar beam in
space, on man-made bodies in space, and upon those natural bodies in
space where Venus Equilateral requires the solar power to maintain
subsidiary relay stations.'"

"Please clarify the latter," said Kingman. "Unless it is your intent to
imply that Terra, Mars, and Mercury fall under the classification of
'places where Venus Equilateral requires power.'"

"Their control on natural celestial objects extends only to their
own installations and requirements. Basically, aside from their own
power requirements, Venus Equilateral is not authorized to sell
power. In short, the contract implies that the use of the sub-etheric
phenomena is divided so that Venus Equilateral may use this region for
communications, while Terran Electric uses the sub-ether for power. In
space, however, Venus Equilateral holds the rights to the power beam."

Frank Tinken, head legal man of Venus Equilateral, turned to Don and
said: "We should have this in a technical court."

Don turned his attention from the long discussion of the contract and
asked: "Why not change?"

"Judges hate people who ask for changes of court. It is bad for the
requestee--and is only done when the judge's disinterest is open to
question--and also when the suspicion of dislike is less dangerous than
the judge himself."

"Well, this should be in a technical court."

"Want to chance it?"

"I think so. This is more than likely to turn up with differential
equations, physics experts, and perhaps a demonstration of atom
smashing."

Kingman finished his examination and turned away. The judge nodded
sourly at Tinken. "Cross-examination?"

Tinken faced the witness, nodded, and then faced the court.

"The witness' statements regarding the contract are true. However,
Judge Hamilton, I will attempt to show that this case is highly
technical in nature and as such falls under the jurisdiction of the
Technical Court. May I proceed?"

"Counsel for the plaintiff assures me that this is not truly a
technical case," snapped Hamilton. "However, if you can definitely
prove that the case in point hinges on purely technical matters, what
you say may be instrumental in having this hearing changed. Proceed."

"Thank you." Tinken turned to the witness. "Exactly what is the point
in question?"

"The point in question," said the witness, "is whether or not the
matter transmitter falls under Terran Electric's contract or Venus
Equilateral's contract."

"Isn't the question really a matter of whether the basic effect is
technically communication or power transmission?"

"Objection!" barked Kingman. "The counsel is leading the witness."

"Objection permitted--strike the question from the record."

"I was merely trying to bring out the technical aspect of the case,"
explained Tinken, "I'll rephrase the question. Is it not true that the
contract between Terran Electric and Venus Equilateral is based upon a
certain technology?"

"Certainly."

"Then if the case is based upon technical aspects--"

"Objection!" marked Kingman. "More than half of all manufacturing
contracts are based upon technical background. I quote the case of
Hines versus Ingall in which the subject matter was the development of
a new type of calculating machine. This case was heard in a legal court
and disposed of in the same."

"Objection permitted."

"No further examination," said Tinken. He sat down and turned to Don,
"We're in trouble. Hamilton does not like us."

"Well, we still have the whip hand."

"Right, but before we get done we'll have trouble with Hamilton."

"Before we get done, Kingman will have trouble with us," said Don.

Terran Electric's lawyer called Wes Farrell to the stand. "Mr. Farrell,
you are employed by Venus Equilateral?"

"Yes."

"In what capacity?"

"As an experimental physicist."

"And as such, you were involved in some phases of the device under
discussion?"

"I was," said Farrell.

"Does the device make use of the solar beam?"

"It does but--"

"Thank you," interrupted Kingman.

"I'm not through," snapped Farrell, "The solar beam is not integral."

"It is used, though."

"It may be removed. If necessary, we can have hand-generators supplied
to generate the operating power."

"I see," said Kingman sourly. "The device itself is entirely new and
basic?"

"Not entirely. The main components are developments of existing parts,
specialized to fit the requirements."

"They are based on specifically what?"

"Certain effects noted in the power-transmission tubes plus certain
effects noted in the solar beam tubes."

"And which of these effects is more contributory?"

"Both are about equally responsible. One will be useless without the
other."

Kingman turned to the judge. "I intend to show that the use of these
effects is stated in the contract."

"Proceed."

"Was there any time during the development of the device any question
of jurisdiction?"

"None whatever," said Farrell. "We knew how we stood."

"The statement is hearsay and prejudiced," stated Kingman.

"Strike it from the record," snapped Hamilton.

"It stands at 'none whatever,'" said Kingman.

The secretary nodded.

"Since absolutely no attention was paid to the terms of the contract,
doesn't that imply that a certain ignorance of the terms might prevail?"

"Objection!" shouted Tinken. "Counsel's question implies legal
carelessness on the part of his opponent."

"How can you be aware of the ramifications of a contract that you do
not read?" stormed Kingman.

"Objection overruled."

"May I take exception?" requested Tinken.

"Exception noted. Counsel, will you rephrase your question so that no
lack of foresight is implied?"

"Certainly," smiled Kingman. "How were you certain that you were within
your rights?"

"If this plan had been open to any question, my superiors would not
have permitted me--"

"That will not serve!" snapped Kingman. "You are making an
implication--your testimony is biased."

"Naturally," barked Farrell. "No one but an idiot would claim to have
no opinion."

"Does that include the court?" asked Kingman suavely.

"Naturally not," retorted Farrell. "I was speaking of interested
parties."

"Let it pass. In other words, Dr. Farrell, you were never sure that you
were within your rights?"

"I object!" exploded Tinken. "Counsel is questioning a witness whose
business is not legal matters on a subject which is legal in every
phase."

"Objection sustained," said Hamilton wearily. The matter was dropped,
but Kingman had gained his point. The item might never appear in the
records, but it was present in the judge's mind.

"Dr. Farrell," said Kingman, "since you have no legal training,
precisely what has been your education and background?"

"I hold a few degrees in physics, one in mathematics, and also in
physical chemistry." Farrell turned to the judge. "Judge Hamilton, may
I explain my position here?"

"You may."

"I have spent thirteen years studying physics and allied sciences. I
believe that I stand fairly high among my fellows. Since no man may be
capable in many arts, I believe that I have not been lax in not seeking
degrees in law."

"No objection," said Kingman. "Dr. Farrell, in order that the process
be properly outlined in the record, I am going to ask you to explain it
in brief. How does your matter transmitter work?"

Farrell nodded and took time to think. Tinken whispered in Don's ear:
"The stinker! He knows Hamilton hates anything more complex than a can
opener!"

"What can we do?"

"Hope that our demonstration blasts them loose. That's our best bet,
plus fighting for every inch."

Farrell moistened his lips and said: "Utilizing certain effects noted
with earlier experimentation, we have achieved the following effects:
The matter to be transmitted is placed in situ, where it is scanned by
an atom-scanner. This removes the substance, atom by atom, converting
the atoms to energy. This energy is then re-converted into atoms and
stored in a matter bank as matter again. The energy of disintegration
is utilized in reintegration at the matter bank with but small losses.
Since some atoms have higher energy than others, the matter bank's
composition will depend upon the scanned substance."

"The matter bank is composed of the same elements as the matter for
transmission?" asked Kingman.

"No. Some elements release more energy than others. It is desirable
that the energy-transfer be slightly negative. That is to say, that
additional energy must be used in order to make the thing work."

"Why?"

"All power lines and other devices are developed for delivering
energy, not receiving it. It is less disastrous to take energy from a
power line than to try and drive it back in--and the energy must be
dissipated somehow."

"Then the matter bank is not the same material."

"No," said Farrell. "The substance of the matter bank is
nonhomogeneous. Simultaneously, it will be whatever element is
necessary to maintain the fine balance of energy--and it is in constant
change."

"Proceed," said Kingman.

"In passing from the disintegrator tube to the reintegrator tube, the
energy impresses its characteristic signal on a sub-ether transmission
system. Radio might work, except that the signal is unbelievably
complex. Wired communications--"

"Objection to the term," said Kingman.

"Sustained."

"Wired--transfer--might work, but probably would not, due to this same
high complexity in transmitted signal. At any rate, upon reception,
the signal is used to influence, or modulate the energy passing from a
disintegrator tube in the receiver. But this time the tube is tearing
down the matter bank and restoring the object. Follow?"

"I believe so. Does the court understand?"

"This court can follow the technical terms."

"Now, Dr. Farrell, the matter transmitter does actually transmit over a
power-transmission tube?"

"Yes. Of the type developed by us for communications."

"But it is a power tube?"

"Yes."

"Then are you certain that you are sending no energy?"

"I object!" shouted Tinken. "The question has no answer."

"Hasn't it?" queried Kingman. "My worthy opponent, all questions have
an answer."

"Objection overruled," snapped Hamilton sourly. "Let the witness
answer."

"It is impossible to send communications without sending some energy.
It is the intent to which the energy is put that determines the
classification."

"Explain further."

"You must send energy when you communicate with a light-blinker,"
grinned Farrell. "The receiving party receives the energy, but couldn't
possibly read a newspaper with it. The beams at Venus Equilateral send
out several million watts--and by the time they get to Luna, they
require amplifications bordering on the million-times before they are
usable. The intent is clear--we are not supplying power, we are sending
intelligence."

"I contend," said Kingman to the judge, "that the contract states
clearly that developments of this device are to be used for
communications only when operated by Venus Equilateral. I further
contend that the transmission of matter does not constitute a
communication, but rather a transfer of energy."

"I object," said Tinken. "If this statement was objectionable to the
learned counsel before, it is equally objectionable to me now."

"Previously," said Kingman suavely, "counsel was trying to influence a
witness. I am merely trying to explain my point."

Hamilton cleared his throat. "Counsel is merely trying to influence
the court; the same privilege will be available to his opponent at the
proper time. That is why we have courts."

Tinken sat down.

"I maintain that the concept of communication precludes matter
transmission," stormed Kingman. "Matter transmission becomes a problem
for the transportation companies and the power companies. _Matter, your
honor, is energy._ They are transmitting energy!"

He stalked over to Tinken and smiled affably, "Cross-examination?" he
offered.

"No questions," said Tinken.

Hamilton rapped on the-bench. "Court is adjourned for ten minutes."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Looking for something?" asked Don. Arden turned from the window and
faced him.

"I was trying to see Niagara Falls," she smiled. "I've heard that you
could see 'em from Buffalo."

"What do you want to see Niagara Falls for, anyway? Just a lot of water
falling over a cliff at two pints to the quart."

"If you recall, chum, we went to Mars, not Niagara. There wasn't two
pints of water on the whole planet, let alone a thing like Niagara."

Don nodded. "At the risk of offending a lot of Buffalonians, I'm
beginning to dislike the place."

"It isn't the people," said Arden. "It's the position we're in. Bad,
huh?"

"Not going too good at all. Kingman slips in a sly dig every now and
then. Frankly, I am getting worried. He's got a few points that really
hit close to home. If he can sell the judge on a couple more of them,
we'll be under the sod."

"You won't be out entirely, will you?"

"Not entirely. He'll have to use the beams of Venus Equilateral to
operate, but he'll be collecting all the real gravy. We'll just be
leasing our beams to him."

"Well, don't go down without a fight, chum."

"I won't. I really hate to see Kingman get ahead of this, though."
Don stretched, took another look out across the city of Buffalo, and
then said: "We'd best be getting back. We'll be late.... He said ten
minutes."

They went down the staircase slowly, and at the courtroom door they met
Keg Johnson. The latter smiled wearily. "Not too good?"

"Nope."

"Don, if you lose, then what?"

"Appeal, I guess."

"That isn't too good. Judges do not reverse lower courts unless a real
miscarriage of justice takes place."

"I know, but that's our only chance."

"What would you advise me to do?"

"Meaning?" asked Don.

"Interplanet. We'll be run right out of business if this thing goes
over to Kingman and that bunch."

"I know."

"Look, Don, have you tried living matter?"

"Plants go through with no ill effects. Microscopic life does, too.
Animals we have tried died because of internal disorders--they move
while being scanned, and their bodies come out looking rather ugly. An
anaesthetized mouse went through all right--lived for several hours.
Died because the breathing-function made a microscopic rift in the
lungs, and the beating heart didn't quite meet true. We must speed up
the scanning-time to a matter of microseconds and then we can send
living bodies with no harm."

"That would clean out the space lines," said Keg. "I think I'll offer
that bird a slice of Interplanet for an interest if he wins. We've got
to have it, Don."

"I know, Keg. No hard feelings."

"Of course," said Keg wistfully. "We'll be across a barrel if you win,
too. But the barrel will be less painful with you holding the handles
than if Terran Electric holds them. The same offer goes for you, too."

"O.K.," nodded Channing. He turned and entered the courtroom.

Tinken called Don Channing to the stand as his first witness. Don
explained the function of Venus Equilateral, the job of interplanetary
communications, and their work along other lines of endeavor. Then
Tinken said to the judge:

"I have here a glass cube, three inches on a side. This cube was
transmitted from Venus Equilateral to the Lunar Station. I offer it as
exhibit A. It was a test-sample, and as you see, it emerged from the
test absolutely perfect."

The judge took the cube, examined it with some interest, and then set
it down on the desk.

"Now," said Tinken, "if you do not object, I should like to present a
demonstration of the matter transmitter. May I?"

Hamilton brightened slightly. "Permission is granted."

"Thank you." Tinken made motions and technicians came in with the two
cabinets.

"This isn't good," said Kingman's assistant to the lawyer. "The old
goat looks interested."

"Don't worry," said Kingman. "This'll take a long time, and by the time
they get done, Hamilton will be ready to throw them out. Besides, it
will make a good arguing point for my final blast. And, brother, I've
got a talking-point that will scream for itself."

"But suppose they convince--"

"Look," smiled Kingman, "this is really an argument as to whether
matter or intelligence is carried. Believe me, that has everything to
do with it. I'm keeping one idea under the wraps until shooting-time so
they won't be able to get an argument against it. We're a cinch. That's
why I kept it in a legal court instead of a technical court. The Techs
would award it to Channing on a technical basis, but the legal boys
have got to follow my argument."

"How about an appeal?"

"The record of this court is still a very heavy argument. Look, they're
about to start."

The racket and hubbub died, and Tinken faced the judge. "These are
plainly labeled. They are matter transmitter and matter receiver.
We have here a set of metal bars. They are made of copper, steel,
aluminum, some complex alloys, and the brother to that glass cube you
have before you. We will transmit this set of objects from here to
there. Have you any suggestions?"

"A matter of control and identity. What have you for control?"

"Nothing that is outside of our hands," smiled Tinken. "Would you
care to send something of your own? Your gavel? Inkwell? Marked coin?
Anything?"

"I'd offer my glasses except for the fact that I cannot see without
them," said Judge Hamilton.

"We wouldn't break them or damage them a bit."

"I know--that much faith I do have--but I'd not see the experiment."

"A good point. Anything else?"

"My watch. It is unique enough for me." He handed over the watch, which
was quite sizable.

Tinken inspected the watch and smiled. "Very old, isn't it? A real
collector's item, I dare say."

Hamilton beamed. "There are nine of them in the Solar System," he said.
"And I know where the other eight are."

"O.K., we'll put it on the top. I'll have to stop it, because the
movement of the balance wheel would cause a rift during transmission."

"How about the spring tension?"

"No need to worry about that. We've sent loaded springs before. Now,
people, stand back and we'll go on the air."

Don Channing himself inspected the machinery to see that nothing was
wrong. He nodded at Walt Franks at the receiver, and then started the
initial operations. "We are synchronizing the two machines," he said.
"Absolute synchronization is necessary. Ready, Walt?"

"Right!"

Channing pushed a button. There was a minute, whirring hum, a crackle
of ozone, very faint, and an almost-imperceptible wave of heat from
both machines. "Now," said Walt Franks, "we'll see."

He opened the cabinet and reached in with a flourish.

His face fell. It turned rosy. He opened his mouth to speak, but
nothing but choking sounds came forth. He spluttered, took a deep
breath, and then shook his head in slow negation. Slowly, like a boy
coming in for a whipping, Walt took out the judge's watch. He handed it
to Don.

Don, knowing from Walt's expression that something was very, very
wrong, took the watch gingerly, but quickly. He hated to look and yet
was burning with worried curiosity at the same time.

In all three dimensions the watch had lost its shape. It was no longer
a lenticular object, but had a very faint sine wave in its structure.
The round case was distorted in this wave, and the face went through
the same long swell and ebb as the case. The hands maintained their
distance from this wavy face by conforming to the sine-wave contour
of the watch. And Channing knew without opening the watch that the
insides were all on the sine-wave principle, too. The case wouldn't
have opened, Don knew, because it was a screw-on case, and the threads
were rippling up and down along with the case and cover. The knurled
stem wouldn't have turned, and as Channing shook the watch gently, it
gave forth with one--and only one--tick as the slack in the distorted
balance wheel went out.

He faced the judge. "We seem--"

"You blasted fools and idiots!" roared the judge. "Nine of them--!"

He turned and stiffly went to his seat, Channing returned to the
witness chair.

"How do you explain that?" roared Judge Hamilton.

"I can only think of one answer," offered Channing in a low voice.
"We made the power supplies out of power and voltage transducers
and filtered the output for sixty cycles. Buffalo is still using
twenty-five-cycle current. Since the reactances of both capacity and
inductance vary according to the--"

"Enough of this!" roared Hamilton. "I--No, I may not say it. I am on
the bench and what I am thinking would bring impeachment. Proceed,
Attorney Kingman."

Kingman took the cue, and before anyone realized that it was still
Tinken's floor, he opened.

"Dr. Channing, you can send a gallon of gasoline through this, ah,
so-called matter transmitter?"

"Naturally."

"Then, your honor, it is my contention that no matter what the means
or the intent, this instrument utilizes the sub-etheric effects
to transmit energy! It is seldom possible to transmit power over
the same carriers that carry communications--only very specialized
cases prevail, and they are converted to the job. But this thing is
universal. Perhaps it does transmit intelligence. It will and can be
used to transmit energy! _Matter, your honor, is energy!_ That, even
the learned opponent will admit. We have our own means of transmitting
power--this is another--and no matter what is intended, power and
energy will be transmitted over its instruments.

"Since this machine transmits energy, I ask that you rule that it fall
under that classification. I rest my case."

Hamilton nodded glumly. Then he fixed Tinken with an ice-cold stare.
"Have you anything to offer that may possibly be of any interest to me?"

Tinken shook his head. He was still stunned.

"I shall deliver my ruling in the morning. I am overwrought and must
rest. Adjourned until tomorrow morning."

The only sounds in the room were the tinkle of glassware and the
occasional moan of utter self-dislike. Channing sat with his glass in
his hand and made faces as he lifted it. Franks matched his mood. Both
of them were of the type that drinks only when feeling good because
it makes them feel better. When they drank while feeling low, it made
them feel lower, and at the present time they were about as far down
as they could get. They knew it; they took the liquor more as a local
anaesthetic than anything else. Arden, whose disappointment was not
quite as personal as theirs, was not following them drink for drink,
but she knew how they felt and was busying herself with glass, ice, and
bottle as they needed it.

It was hours since the final letdown in the court. They knew that they
could appeal the case, and probably after a hard fight they would win.
It might be a year or so before they did, and in the meantime they
would lose the initial control over the matter transmitter. They both
felt that having the initial introduction in their hands would mean
less headache than having Terran Electric exploit the thing to the
bitter end as quickly as possible.

The fact of sunrise--something they never saw on Venus Equilateral--did
not interest them one bit. It grew light outside, and as the first
glimmerings of sunrise came, a knock on their door came also.

"Mice," hissed Walt.

"S'nock on door."

"Mice knocking on door?"

"Naw!"

"Mice gnawing on door?"

"It's Wes Farrell," announced Arden, opening the door.

"Let'm in. S'all right, Wes. Anyone c'n make mishtake."

"He's sober."

"Gettum drink," said Don. "Gettum drink--gettum drunk."

"Look, fellows, I'm sorry about that fool mistake. I've been working on
the judge's ticker. I've fixed it."

"Fitched it?" asked Walt, opening his eyes wide.

"Close 'em--y'll bleed t'death," gurgled Don.

Farrell dangled the judge's watch before them. It was perfect. It
ticked, it ran, and though they couldn't possibly have seen the hands
from a distance of more than nine inches, it was keeping perfect time.

Don shook his head, moaned at the result of the shaking, put both hands
on his head to hold it down, and looked again. "How'ja do it?"

"Made a recording of the transmitted signal. Fixed the power supply
filters first. Then took the recording--"

"On whut?" spluttered Walt.

"On a disk like the alloy-tuners in the communications beams. Worked
fine. Anyway, I recorded the signal, and then started to buck out the
ripple by adding some out-of-phase hum to cancel the ripple."

"Shounds reas'n'ble."

"Worked. I had a couple of messes, though."

"Messessessesss?" hissed Walt, losing control over his tongue.

"Yes. Had a bit of trouble making the ripple match." Farrell pulled
several watches from his pocket. "This one added ripple. It's quite
cockeyed. This one had cross-ripple and it's really a mess. It sort of
looks like you feel, Walt. I've got 'em with double ripples, triple
ripples, phase distortion, over-correction, and one that reminds me of
a pancake run through a frilling machine."

Channing looked at the collection of scrambled watches and shuddered,
"Take 'em away--_brrrrr_."

Arden covered the uninspiring things with a tablecloth.

"Thanks," said Don.

"Do you think the judge'll forgive us?" asked Farrell.

"Don't say it," said Walt bursting with laughter.

"I don't have to," chortled Don.

"They're both hysterical," explained Arden.

"Carbogen and Turkish bath," roared Don. "And quick! Arden, call us a
taxi."

"You're a taxi," giggled Arden. "O.K., fellows. Can do." She went to
the phone and started to call.

Farrell looked uncomprehendingly at Walt and then at Don, and shook his
head. "Mind telling me?" he pleaded.

"Wes, you're a million!" roared Channing, rolling on the floor.

Farrell turned to Arden.

"Let them alone," she said. "Something probably pleases them highly.
We'll find out later--yes? Operator? Will you call a cab for room 719?
Thanks."

       *       *       *       *       *

Attorney Tinken faced Judge Hamilton with a slight smile. "Prior
to your ruling, I wish to present you with your watch. Also I ask
permission to sum up my case--an act which I was unprepared to do last
evening."

Hamilton reached for the watch, but Tinken kept it.

"You may state your case--but it will make little difference in my
ruling unless you can offer better evidence than your opponent."

"Thank you," said Tinken. He made a show of winding the watch, and
he set it accurately to the court clock on the wall. "Your honor, a
telegram is a message. It requires energy for transmission. A letter
also requires energy for carrying and delivery. A spacegram requires
the expenditure of great energy to get the message across. The case in
hand is this: If the energy is expended in maintaining the contact,
then communications are involved. But when the energy is expected to
be used on the other side--and the energies transmitted are far above
and beyond those necessary for mere maintenance of contact, it may then
be construed that not the contact but the transmittal of energy is
desired, and power transmission is in force."

Tinken swung Hamilton's watch by the chain.

"The matter of sending flowers by telegram is not a matter of taking
a bouquet to the office and having the items sent by electricity to
Northern Landing. A message is sent--an order to ship or deliver.
It makes no difference whether the order be given in person or sent
by spacegram. It is a communication that counts. In this device, a
communication is sent which directs the device to produce a replica
of the transmitted object. Ergo it must fall under the realm of
communications. I will now demonstrate this effect, and also one other
effect which is similar to telegraphic communications."

Tinken ignored Hamilton's outstretched hand, and put the watch in the
cabinet. Hamilton roared, but Tinken put up a hand to stop him, "I
assure you that this will cause no ill effects. We have repaired the
damage."

"For every minute of delay between now and the moment I receive my
watch, I shall fine you one hundred dollars for contempt of court,"
stormed Hamilton.

"Well worth it," smiled Tinken.

Channing pressed the switch.

_Click!_ went the receiver, and from a slide, Channing removed the
judge's watch. With a flourish he started it, and handed it to the
judge, who glared.

"Now," added Tinken, "I wish to add--

_Click!_

"--two objects may be similar in form--

_Click!_

"--but can not be identities!

_Click!_

"However, two communications--

_Click!_

"--may be dissimilar in form--

_Click!_

"--but identical in meaning!

_Click!_

"We have before us--

_Click!_

"--a condition where--

_Click!_

"--identical messages are--

_Click!_

"--being reproduced in identical form--

_Click!_

"--just like a bunch of--

_Click!_

"--carbon copies!

_Click!_

"The production rate of which--

_Click!_

"--will be high enough--

_Click!_

"--to lower the cost--

_Click!_

"--of this previously rare item--

_Click!_

"--until it is well within the reach of all.

_Click!_

"Just as in communications--

_Click!_

"--we may send an order--

_Click!_

"--directing the fabrication--

_Click!_

"--of several hundred similar items!

_Click!_

"And our supplier will bill us--

_Click!_

"--for them later!

_Brrr-rup!_

"That last buzz or burp was a signal that we have reached the end of
our matter bank, your honor. Our credit, for example, has run out.
However, Dr. Channing is about to make a substantial deposit with the
manufacturer, and we will resume operations later. I ask you--

_Click!_

"--can you do this with energy?"

_Click!_

"Stop that infernal--

_Click!_

"--machine before I have you all held for disrespect, perjury, contempt
of court and grand larceny!" yelled the judge.

Channing stopped the machine and started to hand out the carbon-copy
watches to the audience, who received them with much glee. Kingman came
to life at this point. He rose from his chair and started to object,
but he was stopped by Tinken who leaned over and whispered:

"My worthy and no doubt learned opponent, I'd advise you to keep your
magnificent oratory buttoned tight in those flapping front teeth of
yours. If we all get into that gadget--how would you like to fight ten
or twelve of us?"




                             _Interlude:_


_Don Channing turned from the court and made his way through the room
to the hallway. In his hand he bore one of the judge's watch-replicas.
In his mind he had the world by the tail._

_He was going to leave the court, make his way to Venus Equilateral and
launch a new era._

_He didn't know that he had launched one already._




                          PANDORA'S MILLIONS


    _"A lot has been written about mankind starving amid plenty. But
    never before was a civilization confronted with the prospect of
    luxury amid bankruptcy--"_

Keg Johnson was the executive type. He was the chief executive of
Interplanet Transport, a position of no mean height. Keg had become the
chief executive by sheer guts, excellent judgment, and the ability to
gamble and win.

Like any high executive in a culture based on a technical background,
Keg was well aware of science. He was no master of the scientific
method nor of laboratory technique. He was able to understand most
of the long-haired concepts if they were presented in words of less
than nine syllables, and he was more than anxious to make use of any
scientific discovery that came from the laboratory. He knew that the
laboratory paid off in the long run.

Keg Johnson was strictly a good business man. He played a good game
and usually won because he could size up any situation at a glance and
prepare his next move while his opponent was finishing his preparatory
speech.

So when Keg Johnson met Don Channing in the hallway of the courtroom
in Buffalo, he was dangling an exact replica of the judge's watch--a
timepiece no longer a rare collector's item.

He waved the watch before Channing's face.

"Brother," he said with a worried smile, "what have you done!"

"We won," said Channing cheerfully.

"You've lost!" said Keg.

"Lost?"

Keg's eyes followed the Terran Electric's lawyer, Mark Kingman, as he
left the courtroom.

"He's been trying to put you out of business for a couple of years,
Don, without any success. But you just put your own self out of comish.
Venus Equilateral is done for, Channing."

"Meaning?" asked Don, lowering his eyebrows. "Seems to me that you're
the one that should worry. As I said, we'll give you your opportunity
to buy in."

"Interplanet Transport is finished," agreed Johnson. He did not seem
overly worried about the prospect of tossing a triplanetary corporation
into the furnace. "So is Venus Equilateral."

"Do go on," snapped Don. "It seems to me that we've just begun. We can
take over the job of shipping on the beams. The matter-transmitter will
take anything but life, so far. Pick it up here, shove it down the
communications beams and get it over there. Just like that."

"That's wonderful," said Keg in a scathing voice. "But who and why will
ship what?"

"Huh?"

"Once they get recordings of Palanortis Whitewood logs on Mars, will
we ship? Once they get recordings of the Martian Lagel to Northern
Landing, who will take the time to make the run by ship?"

"Right," agreed Channing.

"The bulk of your business, my brilliant friend, comes not from
lovesick swains calling up their gal friends across a hundred million
miles of space. It comes from men sending orders to ship thirty
thousand tons of Venusian Arachnia-web to Terra, and to ship ten
thousand fliers to Southern Point, Venus, and to send fifty thousand
cylinders of acetylene to the Solar Observatory on Mercury, and so
forth. Follow me?"

"I think so," said Channing slowly. "There'll still be need for
communications, though."

"Sure. And also spacelines. But there's one more item, fella."

"Yes?"

"You've got a terrific laboratory job ahead of you, Don. It is one that
must be done--and quick! You owe it to the world, and to yourself, and
to your children. You've brought forth the possibility of a system of
plenty, Don, and left it without one very necessary item.

"_Channing, can you make one item that can not be duplicated?_"

"No, but--"

"Uh-huh. Now we go back to the barter and exchange."

"Golly!"

"Furthermore, chum, what are you going to barter with? A ton of pure
gold is the same value as a ton of pure silver. That is, aside from
their relative technical values. A ton of pure radium won't bother us
at all, and if we want Uranium 235, we make it by the ton also. _Oh,
brother, you've really screwed the works this time._"

"Now what?"

"You and your crew start looking for something that is absolutely
un-reproducible. It should be a light, metalloid substance of readily
identifiable nature, and it should be ductile and workable. We need a
coin-metal, Channing, that cannot be counterfeited!"

"Yum. That's one for the book. Meanwhile, we'll retrench on Venus
Equilateral and get set for a long, long drought."

"Check. I'm about to do likewise with Interplanet Transport. You don't
know anybody who'd like to buy the major holdings in a spaceline, do
you? It's on the market, cheap. In fine condition, too, in spite of the
depredations of Hellion Murdoch."

"Might swap you a communications company for your spaceline, Keg."

Johnson smiled. "No dice. I'm looking for a specialized business, Don.
One that will pay off in a world where there is no money!"

"What are you going to sell--and for what?"

"I'm going to sell security--for service!"

"So?"

"Those are items that your devil-gadget won't duplicate, Channing.
Barter and exchange on the basis of a washed car's worth of dug
postholes."

       *       *       *       *       *

Linna Johnson looked up with some annoyance as Keg entered her room.
She was a tall woman, lissome in spite of her fifty years, but the
artificial stamp of the "woman-of-fashion" spoke louder than her
natural charm.

"Yes?" she asked without waiting for salutation.

"Linna, I need a hundred and seventy thousand dollars."

"Remarkable. What do you want me to do about it?"

"You've got a quarter of a million tied up in baubles. I want 'em."

"Give up my jewelry?" scoffed Linna. "What sort of a tramp deal have
you got into this time, Keg?"

"No tramp deal, Linna," he said. "I've just sold the spaceline."

"So--you've sold your spaceline. That should have brought you in a
pretty penny. What do you need more for?"

"I want to buy Fabriville."

"Who or what is Frabri ... what-is-it?"

"Fabriville. A fairly large manufacturing village south of Canalopsis,
here. They have a complete village, assembly plant, stores, and all
that's needed to be self-sufficient if you permit a thorough income and
out-go of fabricated articles."

"Never heard of it."

"Well," said Keg dourly, "there are a lot of things you have never
heard of nor taken the interest to find out, Linna. Better shell out
the baubles. They won't be worth an exhausted cathode inside of a year."

"Why?"

"The economic structure of the system is about to be shot to pieces in
a box. Nothing will be worth anything in money. A diamond as big as
your fist will be just so much carbon crystal. I want to butter us up,
Linna, before the crash. That's the way to do it."

"What is this crash coming from?"

"Don Channing and Walt Franks have just developed a gadget that
will transmit articles any distance. That shoots Interplanet. The
articles--or the signal impulses from them--can be recorded, and the
recording can be used to duplicate, exactly, the same thing as many
times as you want it."

"You idiot," scorned Linna, "why not just get one and duplicate your
present money?"

"Merely because an operator as large as myself cannot palm off
two hundred $1,000 bills with the serial number AG334557990HHL-6.
Counterfeiting will become a simple art soon enough, Linna, but until
it is accepted, I'm not going to break any laws. I can't if I'm going
to shove ahead."

"But my jewels."

"So much junk."

"But everything I have is tied up in jewelry."

"Still so much junk."

"Then we're bankrupt?"

"We're broke."

"But the house ... the cars...."

"Not worth a farthing. We'll keep 'em, but their trade-in value will be
zero."

"If we have no money," said Linna, "how are we going to pay for them?"

"Not going to. They'll pay for themselves. We'll send 'em back and keep
duplicates which we'll make."

"But--"

"Look, Linna. Shell out. I've got to hit the market this afternoon if
I'm going to grab Fabriville."

"Seems to me that getting that place is slightly foolish," objected
Linna. "If nothing will have any value, why bother?"

"Oh, certain items will have value, Linna. That's what I'm working on."

"I still do not like the idea of giving up my jewels."

"If the junk is that important," exploded Keg, "I'll promise to replace
them all with interest as soon as we get running."

"Promise?" whined Linna.

"Yes," said Keg wearily. "It's a promise. I've got to make an option
payment immediately. From then on in, the place will be mine."

"But if you gamble and lose?" asked Linna worriedly. "I'll lose my
jewelry."

"I can't lose."

"But if the economic structure falls?"

"I can't miss. All I want to do is get out what I need before the
bottom falls out. Inflation of the worst kind will set in, and the
wheels will stop dead--except at Fabriville. That's where I enter the
picture."

"Good," said Linna in a bored voice. "As long as I am assured of my
jewelry, I don't care how you play the market. Run along, Keg. I've got
a dinner engagement. May I have just a few, though? I'll feel naked
without at least a ring."

"Take what you need," said Keg, and was immediately appalled at the
necessities of life.

An hour later, Keg Johnson was making some quiet trading and slowly but
surely gaining control over the manufacturing village of Fabriville.
The market was steady and strong. The traders worked noisily and
eagerly, tossing millions back and forth with the flick of a finger.
It was a normal scene, this work of theirs, and when it was done, they
would take their usual way home to a quiet evening beside a roaring
fireplace.

But this was surface quiet. Deep down below there was a miniscule
vortex that churned and throbbed, and other equally minute forces
fought the vortex--and strove in a battle that was lost before it began.

Terran Electric bought a full page advertisement in every paper. A
five-minute commercial assailed the ears from every radio that listened
to the Interplanetary Network. A full column emerged from the morning
news-facsimile machines. Terran Electric, it said, was announcing the
most modern line of household electrical appliances. Everything from
deep-freezers to super-cookers. Everything from cigarette lighters to
doorbell chimes.

The prices they quoted were devastating.

But on page seventeen, hidden among the financial and labor-situation
news, was a tiny, three-line squib that told the story to those who
knew the truth. Terran Electric had just released sixty percent of
their production-line labor.

Don Channing caught the squib, and headed for Evanston less than
fifteen minutes after reading it.

       *       *       *       *       *

Unannounced, Don Channing entered Kingman's office and perched himself
on the end of Kingman's desk. His bright blue eyes met Kingman's
lowering brown eyes in a challenge.

"Meaning?" asked Kingman.

"You utter fool," snapped Don. He lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of
smoke at Kingman, making the other cough.

"Am I?"

"You idiot. How long do you think this will last?"

"Not long," admitted Kingman, "but while it does, I'm going to get
mine."

"What good will it do you?"

"Plenty. Until the crash comes, I'm laying in a stock of stuff for my
personal use."

"Lovely set-up," grunted Channing. "Have you started duplicating the
duplicating machines yet?"

"Just today."

"Don't do it, Kingman. Venus Equilateral has all the rights sewed up
tight."

"What shall I do, Dr. Channing?" asked Kingman sourly. The title grated
on Don's ears, and Kingman knew it.

"Stop the whole thing."

"And what are you going to do about it?" asked Kingman. "Take me to
court, Channing. Go ahead. Get some litigation started."

"Oh, sure. And you'll tie the thing up for seventy years. And all the
time the plant here will be duplicating the whole solar system into
the worst mess it ever got itself into. Better stop until we can get
something sensible figured out to take care of the conversion."

"That in itself will take ten years," said Kingman. "Meanwhile, money
is still of value because the thing is not widespread. People will buy
and sell, and I'm going to buy up enough to keep me and mine in the
running until things settle down. You have no idea how much stuff is
needed to keep a man running ten years, Channing. Especially when you
try to store it all away at once. Oh, sure. Recordings. I know. I'm
making them. Also making recordings of everything that I can think of
that I might like. But getting originals takes money at the present
time, and I'm going to ride the inflation market right up to the peak
by being one step ahead all the way."

"How?"

"When butter is ten dollars a pound, Channing, I'll be producing and
selling its equivalent at fifteen."

"Very nice gesture, Kingman. But it doesn't work that way. You're
licked."

"Am I?"

"You're licked. You'll be no better off than any of us in the long
run. What happens when everyone has duplicators in their own homes and
are having their Sunday dinner coming out of the gadget complete; hot,
delicious, and costlessly complete from the salt-cellar to the butter
square? What price butter?"

"That'll happen," admitted Kingman. "But by the time it does, I'll be
able to weather the storm."

"You make it sound very easy, Mark. But it isn't going to work that
way."

"This is going to be a nice, level civilization by the time we get
through with it," said Kingman. "There'll be no more shopping for food.
No more working thirty hours a week for your pay so that you can buy
the niceties of life. With your household duplicator, you can make
everything you need for life, Channing. The Terran Electric label on
your duplicator is the label of the New Way of Living."

Channing snorted and crushed out his cigarette with a vicious gesture.
"You've been reading your own advertising," he gritted. "Kingman, what
do you hope to gain?"

Kingman leaned back in his chair and put both of his feet on the desk.
"I don't mind telling you," he said gloatingly. "Venus Equilateral is
going to have the name of having invented and developed the matter
transmitter and matter duplicator. That's fine. It will carry quite
an honor, that reputation, up to the time that the big crash comes,
when people realize they're being trapped. Terran Electric, selling
duplicators for home use at a song, will emerge as the savior of
mankind. All I'm going to gain out of this is security for Mark Kingman
and a big black eye for Venus Equilateral."

Channing swore. He stood up. "You fool," he snapped, "you blind,
bigoted fool. A little co-operation on your part would save a lot of
trouble, but you prefer to let a petty quarrel ruin the entire economic
system immediately. We could work this out sensibly, Kingman. Will you
help?"

"No. Nothing you can say will convince me that I'm doing wrong."

"But why fire your help? That's what is going to hurt."

"I don't need a production line full of people, Channing, to sit around
and watch a duplicator turn out vacuum cleaners, complete in their
packing cartons."

Channing took Kingman's under ankle where they were crossed on the edge
of the desk. He lifted, and the pudgy attorney went over backwards
with a roaring crash, hitting his head on the carpet and spilling
over backwards out of the chair onto the floor behind his desk. He
arose with a roar of hate, but the door slammed behind Channing before
Kingman could become coherent.

Channing returned to Venus Equilateral immediately, a trip that
took four days. In touch with events by driver beam, Don heard the
news-advertising agencies announcing the Terran Electric Duplicator of
a size suitable for a medium home, complete with a recording attachment
and a supply of disks. Channing gritted his teeth and stepped up the
drive of the _Relay Girl_ another notch. His first query upon reaching
the Station was to Wes Farrell.

"Nothing yet, Don," answered Wes. "We've been running some very
interesting experiments, though."

Channing was interested in nothing but the non-duplicatable material,
but he nodded. Wes Farrell's sideline experiments often paid off more
than the main line of research.

"By inserting a filter circuit in the transmission beam, we can filter
out other responses," said Wes. "Meaning that we can take a cube of
regular iron, for instance, and run it through. The integrated iron in
the receiver is pure iron, the purity of which is dependent upon the
band-pass of the filter. Using alloy selectivity disks for filters in
the circuits, we can make iron that is 99.99997% pure."

"Might be useful for metallurgical work, and so forth," mused Don.
"Nine-nines iron is valuable and almost impossible--and it takes a
gadget that destroys value to make it. Nice paradox, that."

"Another thing," said Wes. "We re-transmit the pure iron and heterodyne
the impulses into other elements. We can start with iron and end up
with any of the other elements, merely by introducing the proper
heterodyning impulse."

"That's not bad."

"I've got several elements that start off where the Periodic Chart
ends. The boys in the chemistry lab are investigating the properties of
Venium, Channium, Frankine, Ardenium, and Farrelline right now."

"Who picked the names?" grinned Don.

"Arden."

"O.K., Wes, but keep looking for that non-reproducible substance."

"I will. It may be--"

Farrell was interrupted by the insistent call on the station intercom
for Don Channing. Don went to his office to find the Terran beam
awaiting his presence. He lifted the phone and identified himself.

"This is P. L. Hughes of the Interplanetary Criminal Office," came the
answer.

"I didn't do it," grinned Channing. "Besides, I gotta alibi."

"O.K.," came the amused answer. "No use talking then."

"Just a minute," said Don. "I might as well know what I'm being
suspected of. Whom have I murdered?"

"No one, yet. Look, Channing, we're having a time here."

"What kind?"

"Phony money."

"So?"

"Yes. The trouble is that it isn't phony. You can always detect
spurious coins and counterfeit bills by some means or another. We have
bits of nita-fluorescin in the bills that is printed into the paper in
a pattern which is symbolically keyed to the issue--date, the serial
number, and the identifying marks on the face of the bill. It takes
a bit of doing to duplicate the whole shooting-match, but we've been
getting stuff that we know is phony--but, Channing, I have the original
and the duplicate here on my desk and I can't tell which is which!"

"Give me more."

"I have a hundred dollar bill here--two of them in fact. They are
absolutely alike. They are both bona fide as far as I or my men can
tell from complete analysis, right down to the bits of stuff that get
ground into a bill from much handling. I have coinage the same way.
Isn't there something that can be done?"

"We are trying to find a substance that cannot be duplicated,"
explained Channing. "Given time, we will. Until then, I'm helpless."

"What do you suggest?"

"I don't know. I've been hoping that we could control the situation
until something sensible could be worked out. It slipped out of
hand. I'd suggest that you'd stop operations because of the absolute
impossibility of keeping your thumb on things. I'd forget the
counterfeiting angle entirely and start building up a force to guard
against riots, mob rule and minor, intercommunity warfare."

"I think you're right," said Hughes, and Channing knew that the head of
the Interplanetary Criminal Office was nodding his head.

Channing hung up the telephone and toyed with three copies of the
judge's watch that were keeping identical time. He shook his head and
wondered how it was all going to end.

       *       *       *       *       *

Conversion from production line to duplicator came all over the Solar
System in about ten days. Terran Electric's own staff fabricated a
duplicator capable of handling an object the size of a locomotive,
and plant-sized duplicators were formed, one after the other on flat
cars that rolled from the maw of the huge machine. For payment, Terran
Electric accepted blocks of stock in the purchasing companies, and the
wealth and holdings of Terran Electric mounted high and began to look
like the major company that would ultimately control all merchandising
and manufacture in the System.

And thirty days after the conversion came, the wheels ground to a stop.
Industry was finished. Work had ceased. Plants lay idle, nothing to
do--and no one to do it for them.

Keg Johnson looked up as Linna entered. There was a worried look on her
face that caused Keg to inquire immediately as to its cause.

She tossed a diamond bracelet on the desk and snorted: "That!"

Keg picked it up. "Looks all right to me," he said. "Like the real
article. What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing that I can tell," grumbled his wife. "Excepting that my maid
has one like it. Exactly."

"I'm not too surprised," laughed Keg. "I've been warning you of that."

"But what's the world coming to? If my maid can afford a diamond
bracelet like this, she won't be working for me very long."

"At that, you're probably right. I'd treat her with the most delicate
of care," said Keg.

"She's my maid!"

"Look, Linna. You're not up-to-date. I can predict people sleeping in
gold beds and eating from solid platinum dishes before the hysteria
dies out. The economic set-up has gone to pot, Linna, and we're trying
to work it out."

"But what's the world coming to?"

"It isn't a matter of what it's coming to, it's a matter of where it
has gone. My technicians tell me metals will be rated in value as per
their atomic number. Uranium is more expensive than lithium because
the transmutation-factor is higher. It takes a little more power and
more matter from the matter bank in the instrument to make uranium than
lithium, ergo uranium will cost more."

"Then if this diamond bracelet is worthless, can't we get some uranium
jewelry?"

"Sure--if you want it. But remember it is radioactive and therefore
not to be worn too close to the skin. It isn't as bad as radium, for
instance, but it is bad enough. Besides, Linna, the matter of uranium's
value over lithium is a matter of a few tenths of a per cent."

"Um. And how much is a pound of uranium worth, these days?"

"In Terran dollars about forty-seven million, six hundred fifty-two
thousand, three hundred and eight."

"Are you kidding?" demanded Linna. "How can Marie afford--"

"Linna, dollars are worthless, these days. Monetary holdings are
worthless. Stocks and bonds are likewise useless. Interplanet isn't
shipping a thing. Venus Equilateral is handling sentimental messages
only, and they'd be running at a loss if it weren't for the fact that
they're out in space where power comes from Sol."

"But what is going on?"

"The death of an economic system."

"But why? Keg, you know I've never questioned your ability. You have
always enjoyed the run of big business. Whenever I've needed or wanted
anything, it has been available. I write checks and never question
the balance. But this has me stopped. What has happened, specifically?"

"Channing and Franks invented a gadget that will reproduce anything."

"It is just that?"

"That and only that," said Keg.

"But it seems to me that this would make everybody live in a world of
plenty."

"It will. That's why we'll have people sleeping in solid gold beds, and
enjoying silver plumbing. Platinum will have no more value than a slab
of lead of the same weight. You see, Linna, when they can duplicate
anything--in quantity--it includes money, stocks, bonds, and jewelry as
well as radio receivers, automobiles, refrigerators, and table lamps.
No one will take one dime's worth of money because it is valueless. Why
should I sell my fountain pen for fifty dollars when I can make fifty
dollars by pushing a button? Or the other guy can make a fountain pen
by pushing a button? Follow?"

"But the public utilities? What of them?"

"That's the cinder in the eye, Linna. Somebody's got to work!"

"Well, I've heard it said that someone will like to do
everything--someone will find pleasure in digging latrines if you look
for him long enough."

"Not good enough. Barney Carroll likes to tinker with radio. He's
good, too. But it is a hobby, and Barney's tinkering will not produce
anything like a commercial receiver. Oh, it'll work, and as good as
any set, but no one would have the thing in the living room because
it has no artistic appeal. But say it did. Fine. Then what about the
automobile boys? Has anyone ever tried to make his own automobile? Can
you see yourself trusting a homemade flier? On the other hand, why
should an aeronautical engineer exist? Study is difficult, and study
alone is not sufficient. It takes years of practical experience to make
a good aeronautical engineer. If your man can push buttons for his
living, why shouldn't he relax?"

"But what are we going to do?"

"Linna, I bought this place so that we could work it out. There is one
thing that cannot be duplicated."

"Yes?"

"Service."

"Meaning?"

"You can't machine-clean the house. You can't machine-write books,
music, or moving pictures. You can't machine-maintain machinery. You
can't machine-doctor a burst appendix. And so forth. You can duplicate
the antiques until they have no value. Rembrandt is going to be a
household word. The day of the antique is gone, Linna, and the eventual
trend will be toward the _unique_. Mark my words, there will one day be
unique shops that deal in nothing but items which they can certify as
never having been duplicated."

"But if service is of value," said Linna doubtfully, "how am I going to
get along?"

"You'll be of service," said Keg harshly, "or you'll not get along."

"So?"

"Look, Linna. You're my wife. As my wife, you've been spoiled. That's
my fault. I liked to spoil you. In the early days I couldn't spoil you
because we were in no financial position to do any spoiling, but now
you've become a parasite, Linna. You and your dinners and your jewels
and your cars and your sleek, vacuum-brained friends. Patron of the
arts! Nuts. Bum poetry, slapdash canvases, weird discordant music. No,
it's not entirely your fault. I've sponsored it because I thought it
gave you pleasure.

"But we're all on the same level now," he continued reflectively. "No
one is any better than his brains. I've been graced. It has been my
very lucky lot to be in a position where I can sway men to my will.
Fabriville is mine--and yet it belongs to every man in it equally.
I can't get along without them, and they can't get along without
Fabriville."

"But how is it going to work out?"

"I don't know. It is tough. We have three physicians and two surgeons
and a couple of high-powered diagnosticians. The question is this: How
much time should Mrs. Jones desire of Dr. Hansen? She has a bit of
rheumatism. Larkin, on the other hand, has a bad case of gallstones.
Obviously, these two must not enjoy equal call upon Dr. Hansen.
Furthermore, these two must not be expected to pay the same figure."

"Pay the same figure?"

"In service, Linna. The board of strategy sits for several hours each
day deciding upon things like this--and it is not simple. How many
hours of gardening is worth removing gallstones? And what happens
to Dr. Hansen when he has seventeen gardeners, four butlers, nine
chauffeurs, fifteen cooks, and twelve of each of the rest?"

"Um. I see."

"But how do we tackle it? Until someone gets a medium of exchange,
we're forced to go on the barter-and-trade basis. Fabriville will toss
out anyone who isn't paying his way by working. In return, he has free
call upon the market, the manufacturing center, and the professionals.
Thank God that hoarding is silly in a realm of plenty."

"But what can I do?" wailed Linna.

"Help. Go out and help in the hospital."

"But I'm your wife."

"So what?" said Keg flatly. "I'm working. I get no more for this than
Joe Doakes, who is out there painting the flagpole."

"But--"

"Sure, I like to do this. But Joe Doakes always wanted to run up a
flagpole on a bosun's chair and paint it. We're exactly even. At least
in Fabriville, we aren't doing without anything. Eventually the rest
of the worlds will fall in line and there will be enough of stuff for
everyone, but until that time arrives, we'll be seeing trouble."

"The rest of the worlds?"

"There'll be riots and small-town wars. I only hope we can get our
fence up before they decide to call on us."

"You've sort of created an oasis here," said Linna. "But how long will
it last?"

"Until Channing and Franks come up with some substance that can not be
run through their own duplicator. I hope it will not be too long."

       *       *       *       *       *

Out in the Trojan Position ahead of Venus, Venus Equilateral moved in
its quiet way. Like Fabriville, Venus Equilateral was self-sufficient.
Furthermore, Don Channing had declared a closed corporation, and the
three thousand inhabitants of the relay station were all in accord.

Business was running low. Yet the salaries went on, even increased,
while prices went dropping to ridiculously low levels.

With a closed system such as Venus Equilateral, such an artificial
economy was possible by mere basic control. The crime angle was nil
on Venus Equilateral. With three thousand people living in a cylinder
of steel three miles long and a mile in diameter, crime and general
nastiness were eradicated by the simple means of making it too hard
to conduct anything illegal. The citizens of Venus Equilateral were
patriotic to the nth degree.

So the situation was less strained than in Fabriville. Though work
moved slowly, there was still more than plenty for everyone, and the
people were satisfied.

They were an unsuspicious lot and so they did not think it off-color
when a small spacecraft of the plutocrat class came circling up to the
South End landing stage. The craft landed, and a tall, broad-shouldered
man emerged and asked for Channing. He was escorted along a mile of
car-way in the outer skin of the station and then whipped up toward the
center of the station for five hundred feet. He was led along the broad
corridor and shown the main office of the Director of Communications.

Don Channing's secretary opened the door and said: "A Mr. Laurus Towle
to see you, Dr. Channing."

Don nodded.

Towle entered behind the girl, who introduced him to Don and to Walt
Franks. Then she left.

And as the door closed, Towle whipped out a revolver and pointed it at
Channing. Walt slid forward off his chair and brought the chair around
over his head with a single, flowing motion. Towle ducked the thrown
chair, faded backwards, and fired at Don.

The shot pinged against the steel wall, flaking off some of the plastic
covering. Don dropped to the floor, and came up with his wastepaper
basket, which he hurled at Towle. Towle ducked, fended it aside with
his left hand, and tried to level the gun again. Walt Franks reached
into an open file drawer and grabbed a large handful of papers, which
he threw at Towle. They fluttered and filled the air for a moment,
which distracted Towle long enough for Channing to leap over the desk.

Don and Walt closed on Towle in a high-low tackle, Don jumping at
Towle's head and shoulders from the desk top, while Franks hit Towle
sidewise at the thigh-level in a crashing tackle. They rolled over and
over and Towle lost his revolver.

The papers were still fluttering to the floor when they came to rest
with Towle neatly squelched beneath Channing and Franks. Towle tried to
heave them off. Don almost knocked Towle's jaw loose with a stinging
backhand slap. "Don't try," snarled Don, "you're had--right now!"

"You stinking--"

"Shaddup," growled Channing, "and start explaining what this is for."

"I'm ruined!"

"Try it again and we'll ruin you some more," promised Don. "I have an
aversion to being shot at."

"So have I," said Walt.

"He wasn't shooting at you," said Don.

"No, but I'd have been next, wouldn't I, Lazarus?"

"Laurus," snarled Towle.

"Now look," said Don in a voice that gave no idea of softness, "you're
licked from here on in. This weapon of yours is now ours, and we'll
hang it in the museum with other mementoes of our having been shot at.
Luckily, this makes the first time that it has been close. Say--you
aren't an old crony of Hellion Murdoch?"

"Never heard of him."

"Good. Now, as I was saying, we've disarmed you--Walt, take a prowl
of his person and see if he has any more lethal instruments concealed
thereupon--and we're inclined to get up off the floor and resume our
roles as gentlemen. Besides, I want to know what you had in mind
besides assassination."

They lifted the man from his supine position and planted him roughly in
an overstuffed chair. Don and Walt sat on one edge of the desk, ready
to move in with the first wrong move. Don snapped the communicator and
spoke to the girl outside. "Mr. Towle had an accident with an exploding
cigar, Lorraine. No one need enter."

"Now," he said to Towle, "precisely what gives?"

"I'm ruined."

"Yup. You are. But why?"

"You ruined me."

"Me?" asked Channing. "Not that I know of."

"I'm bankrupt."

"_Bankrupt?_" laughed Channing.

Towle bristled at the laugh. "It's no laughing matter, Channing. For
most of my life I've been saving to retire. In the turn of a wrist, you
have made all my savings useless."

"Are you starving?"

"No."

"Are you homeless?"

"No."

"Are you being deprived of anything?"

"Um--no."

"Then what's all the shooting for?"

"But my savings?"

"Look, Towle, you worked hard for them, I do not doubt. But you've got
just what you wanted anyway. You have a duplicator?"

"Of course, I bought it early."

"Good. Then use it and quit worrying about your savings."

"But the years of deprivation to build up that fortune."

"Tough," said Channing. "I suppose you're mad because the foolish
grasshopper is now enjoying the same benefits as the ambitious ant.
That's not right, I suppose. But on the other hand, why should any man
be a slave to toil?"

"Man shall earn his bread by the sweat of his brow."

"Baloney. Next you'll be telling me that men were better off with a
ten-hour day and a six-day week."

"They didn't seem to get into as much trouble."

"Nor did they have as much fun," said Channing. "Nor were there as many
developments made in the fields of science and industry. Men slaved
and worked and lived and died without ever seeing the pleasure of the
country sky. The radio would have been useless without leisure to enjoy
its offerings. And who will say that radio is a useless science?"

"But it is not right that I should have slaved to acquire a retirement
fortune only to have it wiped out."

"Look, Towle, the whole system is undergoing a radical change in the
economic structure. By the same token, Venus Equilateral is a ruined
concern. We've dropped from ten million paid messages per day to a
mere handful. Those we send through because we are bound by agreement
to maintain service at all costs. We aren't making expenses, if you
feel like hollering about money. Would you like a few million?" asked
Channing suddenly.

"I have--"

"And you used your duplicator to run up your fortune first thing,
didn't you?" asked Channing scathingly.

"Naturally."

"And you're sore because everyone else did the same thing. Towle,
you're a dope. You've been feeling very virtuous about working like
a slave for your fortune, which would probably keep you in cakes and
lodging for the rest of your life. You've been promising starvation
and pauperism to anyone who bought anything that seemed the slightest
bit frivolous to you. Now that the axe has slipped, you're mad because
the guy who liked to ramble amid the roses is not going to starve to
death as per schedule. What's wrong with you? You're not going hungry.
You'll be better off than before. As soon as we get this mess ironed
out, you'll be able to enjoy life as before. Your savings are safe. As
soon as we get a medium of exchange that works, you'll be credited--the
government took care of that as soon as the bottom fell out of the
monetary system. Call 'em dollars, credits, or whathaveyous, they'll
all be prorated and you'll then enjoy your fortune--though it won't
be as much fun because no man is going to have to slave again. You're
a crazy man, Towle, and as such I'm sending you back to Terra under
guard. We'll let the psychologists work over you. Maybe they can make
you behave."

They stood Towle up, rang and waited for a guard, and then saw the man
off under the guard's eye.

And Don Channing said to Walt Franks: "Until we find a medium of
exchange, there'll be the devil to pay and no pitch hot."

Walt nodded. "I'm glad we're out here with our little colony instead
of where lots and lots of people can come storming at the gates
demanding that we _do_ something. Hope Keg Johnson is holding his own
at Fabriville."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was a growling mob that tramped across the desert toward Fabriville.
A growling, quarreling mob, that fought in its own ranks and stole
from its own men. A hungry, cold, and frightened mob that followed a
blustering man named Norton, who had promised them peace and plenty if
they did his bidding. His law did not include sharing among themselves,
and so men fought and stole food and clothing and women.

Had the mob been anything but a shaggy, travel-weary band, Fabriville
might have been wiped from the face of Mars.

It swept forward without form and like an ocean wave, it laved against
the cyclone fencing that surrounded that part of Fabriville and was
repulsed. A determined, well-fed band would have crushed the fencing,
but this was a dispirited mob that would have sold its leader for a
square meal and would have worked for the promise of a second meal in a
row.

Keg Johnson came to the edge of Fabriville in a medium-sized tank that
could withstand the entire mob to the last man. He ran the tank out of
the gate and right to the edge of the mob, who shrank back to permit
the thundering monster to pass. He stopped the tank and stood up in the
top turret and spoke.

A built-in amplifier carried his voice to the edge of the mob.

"Who is your leader?"

Norton came forward boldly. "I am."

"What do you intend?"

"We want a haven. We are cold and hungry and needy."

Johnson nodded. "I can see that," he said dryly. "How did you collect
this gang?"

"Most of this outfit were caught in the crash. Their incomes did not
permit them to buy duplicators, and their friends were too busy running
up their money to hand any out."

"Fine friends."

"And in the smaller cities, the attendants at the power stations left.
There are a horde of dead towns on Mars today. That is why we have come
here. We know that Fabriville is self-sufficient. We intend to join
you."

"Sorry," said Keg. "We have no openings."

"We'll join you by force, if need be."

"Want to try it?" asked Keg, patting the twin 105-mm. short rifles that
looked out over the mob.

No answer for a moment.

"I'll try appealing to your better nature," said Norton softly. "Shall
we starve and shiver while Fabriville eats and is warm?"

"How willing are you to take part?" asked Keg.

"Name it."

"Then listen. We need a more sturdy fence around Fabriville. We have
the material--who hasn't?--but we have not the manpower. Get your mob
to run up this fence, Norton, and I'll see that you are paid by giving
each and every man a household-size duplicator complete with a set of
household recordings. Is that a deal?"

Norton smiled wryly. "And what good is a duplicator with no place to
plug it in? The power stations are down all over Mars."

"In building this fence," said Keg, "you are working out the value of
the duplicators. Now look, Norton, in order to make this thing tick,
I want to know whether you and your motley crew are honest. There are
enough of you to man every vacant power station on Mars. If you, as
leader of this gang, will see to it that the stations are manned and
running every minute of the day, I'll see that you are given the
benefits of Fabriville's more massive duplicators. That means fliers,
and equipment of that size, Norton. Are you game?"

"What are you getting out of this?" asked Norton suspiciously.

"No more than you. I can eat only so much. I can wear only so much. I
can use only so much. But it is my pleasure to run things, and I like
to do it. Therefore I shall run things until people decide that they
want another man to run things. Until that date, Norton, you'll answer
to me."

"And if I do not kowtow?"

"You don't have to. No one is going to kill you for spitting in my eye.
But if you have sense, you'll see that working my way will ultimately
bring you more reward than going on as an unruly mob. Replace me if you
can, Norton, but remember that it cannot be done by force. I have too
many real friends out across the face of Mars who won't let me be shot
to pieces. I've done them the same service I'm doing you. Take it or
leave it."

"Why can't we remain?"

"We have thirteen thousand people in Fabriville. To take on another ten
thousand would complicate our work-system to the breaking point. We're
running pretty close to chaos as it is, and we couldn't take more. If
you'll set up the power stations and start small communities at these
points, you'll all be better off."

"And what do I get for all this?"

"Nothing. You'll be fed and clothed and housed. That's all that any
of us are. Men out there are all the same, Norton. No one has a
dime. They're all bankrupt. There isn't one of them that can buy a
thing--even if the stores were open. But not one of them is starving,
and not one of them is going unclothed, and not one of them is going
without the luxuries of life, except for those communities of which you
speak. Take life to them, Norton, and you'll be the ultimate gainer."

"Why do they remain?" wondered Norton.

"The duplicator will run on direct current," said Keg. "They just have
a set of fully charged batteries recorded. They have a set in spare.
When battery one runs down, battery two takes its place, and the first
thing run off is a spare battery number three, and so on. The exhausted
batteries are dumped into the matter bank and re-converted. But it
is not a real luxury, running on batteries. They need the high power
that your stations will deliver. They need the telephone and the radio
which your men can maintain. Go and seek the officials of the various
companies, and tell them what you want to do. Work at it, Norton. There
will be a lot of men in your gang that would rather do something else.
Eventually you will be able to release them to do the jobs you are best
fitted for. Until we get a medium of exchange, it is a job proposition.
I'll add this inducement: 'The medical service of Fabriville is
yours--providing that you and your men will work with us.'"

Norton thought for a moment. "Done," he said shortly. "Can you give us
warmth and food until we take care of the details?"

"That we can."

A stilted monster ran out from Fabriville under its own power. Four
great girdered legs supported a housing the size of a freight car, and
the legs moved on small tractor threads. Out it came, and it paused
just outside the gate. A faint violet glow emerged from the bottom of
the housing, and the whirling-skirling of Martian sands obscured the
vastness of the space between the legs of the monster machine.

It moved again, and the original dust settled to disclose a very small
but completely finished and furnished house. Around the encircling
fence went the monstrous duplicator, and at each stop it dropped the
carbon copy of the original house. Hour after hour it hummed, and when
it completed the circle, Norton's mob was housed, fed and clothed.

And Norton knew that the "fence-building" job was but a test. For if
the thing could build a house--

       *       *       *       *       *

Venus Equilateral resounded and re-echoed from the force of the blast.
It rocked, and precession tilted it away from its true north and
south axial positioning. Men raced along the car-way to the blister
laboratory and Channing led the wild rush.

The blister was gone. A shaken Wes Farrell clung to a stanchion, his
face white behind the spacesuit mask. They fished him out of the
wreckage and took him inside.

"What happened?" asked Don.

"Was making artificial elements," explained Wes. "Far outside of the
Periodic Chart. I'd been stacking them over in a corner--they come in
six-inch cubes, you know. But the last one--_Bang!_"

Channing shook his head. "That's dangerous," he said solemnly. "If you
had a six-inch cube of every known element, would you stack 'em all
side by side?"

"It might be all right--until you came to putting phosphorus on top of
a hunk of iodin," said Walt.

"There's no reason to suppose that Wes didn't get a couple of very
active elements side by each. We know nothing of the extra-charted
elements. We can make 'em, but until we do, what can we know of 'em?"

"Well, we didn't lose the station," said Walt. "And business is so punk
that tossing the beams won't harm us much; we'll have to spend some
time aligning the place again."

"We're all here, anyway," agreed Don, looking over the ruined blister
laboratory. "But look, Wes, I think you're running on the wrong gear.
Anything that can be made with this gadget can be duplicated. Right?"

"I guess so."

"What we need is a substance that will be stabilized under some sort of
electronic pressure. Then it might come unglued when the matter-dingbat
beam hit it. Follow?"

Wes Farrell thought for a few seconds. "We might make an electronic
alloy," he said.

"A what?"

"A substance that is overbalanced as goes electrons. They will be
inserted by concocting the stuff under extremely high electron
pressure. Make it on some sort of station that has an intrinsic charge
of ten to the fiftieth electron volts or so; that'll make queer alloys,
I'll bet. Then it can be stabilized by interalloying something with a
dearth of electrons. The two metals will be miscible, say, when liquid,
and so their electron balance will come out even. They are cooled under
this stress and so forth. When the disintegrator beam hits them, it
will liberate the electrons and the whole thing will go plooey."

"Looks like a matter of finding the right stuff," said Walt. "Don, what
about running the station charge up as Wes says?"

"No dice. The station is too big. Besides, the charge-changing gear
would be overworked all over the station to maintain the charge, once
made.

"Take the _Relay Girl_ out and try it, Wes."

"Come along?"

"We don't mind if we do," grinned Walt, winking at Don. "There'll be
nothing didding about business until we get a medium of exchange."

       *       *       *       *       *

The Reverend Thomas Doylen speared Keg Johnson with a fishy glance and
thundered: "A plague on both your houses!"

Johnson grinned unmercifully. "You didn't get that one out of the
Bible," he said.

"But it is none the less true," came the booming reply.

"So what? Mind telling me what I'm doomed to eternal damnation for?"

"Sacrilege and blasphemy," exploded Doylen. "I came to plead with you.
I wanted to bring you into the fold--to show you the error of your
sinful way. And what do I find? I find, guarding the city, a massive
facade of mother-of-pearl and platinum. Solid gold bars on gates which
swing wide at the approach. A bearded man in a white cloak recording
those who enter. Once inside--"

"You find a broad street paved with gold. Diamonds in profusion stud
the street for traction, since gold is somewhat slippery as a pavement.
The sidewalks are pure silver and the street-stop lights are composed
of green emeralds, red rubies, and amber amethysts. They got sort of
practical at that point, Reverend. Oh, I also see that you have taken
your sample."

Doylen looked down at the brick. It was the size of a housebrick--but
of pure gold. Stamped in the top surface were the words:

"99.99% pure gold. A souvenir of Fabriville."

"What means all this?" stormed the Reverend, waving the brick.

"My very good friend, it is intended to prove only one thing.
Nothing--absolutely nothing--is worth anything. The psychological
impact of the pearly gate and the street of gold tends to strike home
the fact that here in Fabriville nothing of material substance is of
value. Service, which cannot be duplicated, is the medium of exchange
in Fabriville--have you anything to offer, Reverend?"

"The Lord saith: 'Six days shalt thou labor--' You have destroyed that
law, Johnson."

"That's no law. That's an admonition not to overdo your labor. He
didn't want us laboring seven days per. If He were running things under
the present set-up, He'd be tickled pink to see people taking it easy
five days per week, believe me."

"Sacrilege!"

"Is it? Am I being sacrilegious to believe that He has a sense of humor
and a load more common sense than you and I?"

"To speak familiarly--"

"If I've offended Him, let Him strike me where I stand," smiled Keg.

"He is far too busy to hear the voice of an agnostic."

"Then He is far too busy to have heard that I mentioned Him in familiar
terms. What is your point, Reverend? What do you want?"

"A return to religion."

"Good. Start it."

"People will not come to church. They are too busy satiating themselves
with the worldly goods and luxuries."

"Your particular private sect, like a lot of others," said Keg Johnson
harshly, "has been catering to the wishful-thinking of the have-nots.
That used to be all right, I suppose. You gave them hope that in the
next life they could live in peace, quiet, and also in luxury, believe
it or not. You call down the troubles of hell upon the shoulders of the
ambitious, and squall that it is impossible for a rich man to get ahead
in Heaven. Nuts, Reverend. You've been getting your flock from people
who have no chance to have the pleasure of fine homes and good friends.
You've been promising them streets of gold, pearly gates, and the sound
of angelic music. Fine. Now we have a condition where people can have
those--worldly goods--luxuries right here on earth and without waiting
for death to take them there. If you want to start a return to church
movement, Reverend, you might start it by making your particular outfit
one of the first to eschew all this palaver about streets of gold.
Start being a spiritual organization, try to uplift the poor in spirit
instead of telling them that they will be blessed because of it. Don't
ever hope to keep your position by telling people that material made
with a duplicator is a product of Hell, Devil & Co., because they won't
believe it in the first place and there won't be anything manufactured
by any other means in the second place."

"And yet you have all of Mars under your thumb," scolded the Reverend
Thomas Doylen. "Of what value is it to gain the whole world and lose
your soul?"

"My soul isn't in bad shape," responded Keg cheerfully. "I think I may
have done as much toward lifting civilization out of the mire as you
have."

"Sacril--"

"Careful, Reverend. It is _you_ that I am criticizing now, not God.
Just remember this, people are not going to fall for a bit of salving
talk when they want nothing. You promise them anything you like in
the way of fancy embroidery, but they'll have it at home now instead
of getting it in Heaven. Give 'em something to hope for in the way of
greater intelligence, or finer personality, or better friends, and
they'll eat it up.

"As far as having all of Mars under my thumb, someone had to straighten
out this mess. I gave them the only thing I had worth giving. I gave
them the product of my ability to organize; to operate under any
conditions; and to serve them as I can. I'm no better off than I would
have been to sit at home and watch the rest run wild. They'd have done
it, too, if there hadn't been a strong hand on their shoulder. Where
were you when the bottom fell out? Were you trying to help them or were
you telling them that this was the result of their sinful way of life?"

The reverend flushed. "They wouldn't listen to my pleas that they
forsake this devil's invention."

"Naturally not. Work _with_ this thing and you'll come out all right.
But you've got to revise your thinking as well as the rest of the world
has had to revise theirs, or you'll fall by the wayside. Now good day,
Reverend, and I wish you luck."

"Your argument may have merit," said the reverend, "though it is
against the nature of things to fall in with any scheme without
considerable thought."

"Think it over, then, and see if I'm not correct. I don't expect any
immediate change, though, until you find that your former doctrines do
not fit the people's wants now."

The reverend left, and as the door closed, a wave of pain swept through
Keg Johnson's body. He reached for the telephone painfully and put a
call through for the doctor.

"It's here again," he said.

"O.K., Keg. You're it."

"I'm licked, all right. Can I be back in seven days?"

"Make it three days with no mention of work. In five days you can have
official visitors for three hours. In seven you may be up and around
the hospital. You'll not be back there for eleven days."

"I'll have to put it off."

"Put it off another day and you'll not be back at all," snapped Dr.
Hansen. "Take it or leave it!"

"How do I pay?"

"We'll take it out of your hide," said Hansen. "You're under the same
rules as the rest of us. You do your day's work, and you receive the
same medical blessing. Do you want to hoe the garden, or will you wash
my car?"

"I'll wash the car."

"That's what you say. Get over here in an hour--and bring Linna with
you."

"What for?"

"Someone's got to drive--and it shouldn't be you!"

"That an order?"

"Nothing else but. Official order from the medical council. You'll play
or else we'll have an interne take out that appendix."

Keg realized the sageness of the doctor's order by the time he reached
the hospital. He was doubled over with pain and they did not permit him
to walk from the car to the front door, but came out and got him on a
stretcher. He was whisked inside, leaving Linna to straighten out the
details at the incoming desk.

He went up to the operating room immediately, and the anaesthetic
blacked him out from both pain and consciousness.

The days that followed were hazy; they kept him drugged because his
energetic nature would have prevented rapid healing. It was four days
after the operation that they gave him a quick shot of counter-drug
that brought him out of the fog immediately.

There were people there.

Don Channing, Walt Franks, Wes Farrell, and Dr. Hansen.

"Hello," he said, looking up with a wry smile. "How many car washings
do I owe you?"

"Plenty, brother. I tinkered for three hours over that frame of yours.
Why did they have to run through an engineering change when they got to
hanging your appendix in? I had to dig for it."

"That's the trouble with this system," Keg mumbled to Don. "He'll get
the same credit for tinkering with me as he would for removing the
cat's appendix."

"Well, you're worth the same as any cat," grinned Walt.

"Thanks," grunted Keg. "Don't tell me that you guys were worried?"

"Nope. We came to give you a hunk of something interesting. Wes Farrell
hauled it out of space, electrons, and considerable high-powered
theory. _Identium._ Corrosion-proof, inert, malleable, but hard enough
for coins, and you can roll it out into ten-thousandths sheets and use
it for paper money. But don't ever put it into a duplicator. It'll
blow the top right off of your roof if you do. There's our medium of
exchange, Keg."

"Now," breathed Keg, "we can all get back to normal. Thanks, fellows."

"The government is making the stuff in reams," said Don. "It won't be
too long before you'll be able to pay Hansen what he's really worth, as
well as the rest of your crew. But in spite of this trinket, Life has
still made a big change. I can foresee the four-hour week right now."

"It's here and been here for some time," said Keg. "But--Hey! Linna!"

Keg's wife entered. She was clad in hospital whites and was carrying a
tray.

"Hello, Keg," she said solemnly. Keg hadn't heard that tone of voice
for years.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Someone had to help. I was doing nothing and so I pitched in to help
Dr. Hansen when he worked on you. He said I did fine."

"Linna is a good nurse's aid," responded Hansen. "Mind if we keep her
on a bit?"

"Not if she minds staying."

"I want to, Keg," she said quietly. "With Marie wearing a
platinum-mounted diamond tiara to dust the house, and Briggs coming to
work in a limousine--imagine the idea of a butler's chauffeur!--and as
you said, people eating from gold plates and using iridium tableware,
there's nothing to get long-nosed about but one's inventiveness,
talent, or uniqueness."

"Linna, you're an ace," grinned Keg. He smiled up at her and said,
while waving the sheet of Identium before their faces, "do me a job,
Linna. Go out and buy me back the spaceline."

"Huh?" blurted Channing, Franks and Hansen. "What for?"

"When the tumult and the shouting dies, fellers, we'll all be back in
business again. Identium! The only thing you can write a contract on
and not have it fouled or duplicated. The only thing you can write
a check on, or use for credit. Identium--the first page of the new
era--and when we get the mess cleared up Keg Johnson and Company will
be carrying the mail! Linna, go out and buy me back my spaceline!"




                             _Interlude:_


_An era of absolutely no want may give rise to concern about the
ambitions of the race. Those who may wonder why the Period of
Duplication did not weed all ambition out and leave the race decadent
are missing one vital point._

_They should ask themselves to consider the many reasons why men work,
Keg Johnson himself can supply one line of reasoning--as follows:_

_Why do men work? Men often work because they must work in order to
live. Then why do many men work hard, at long hours when there are
easier ways of getting along? Because they have the desire to provide
the best they can for their families. It is necessary to them to feel
proud of the fact that they can do as well as they do. But remove the
sheer necessity of toiling for food, clothing and shelter, and you make
all men equally capable of supporting a family. Then come the ambitious
ones who would appear a little better, a little more desirable, a
little cleverer than their fellow man. This is not odious; it is the
essence of ambition even though it sounds egotistic when mentioned in
cold print._

_And so when people all are well-clad, well-housed, and well-fed, there
arises an almost universal ambition to become clever; to produce things
that have not been duplicated by the machine._

_For in a culture in which fifty thousand copies of Leonardo da Vinci's
Last Supper hang, in theatres, churches, schools, and living rooms, he
who possesses a hand-made chromo painted by his own hand owns a true
Unique to which he can point with pride._

_So once the flurry was over and the tumult gone, men took a deep
breath--_

_And went back to work._

_On Venus Equilateral, they worked, too. Given more time for leisure,
they took more time for study and experiment._

_Of course, it was only a matter of time before someone came up with
something that would put Venus Equilateral on the obsolete list. Venus
Equilateral had been instrumental in putting a number of other things
on the retired list--and the Relay Station itself was long overdue._

_And, too, there was still one man who would give his black soul to see
Venus Equilateral lose out...._




                              MAD HOLIDAY


"Yeah," drawled Wes Farrell, "but what makes it vibrate?"

Don Channing looked down at the crystal. "Where did you get it?" he
asked.

Walt Franks chuckled. "I bet you've been making synthetic elements
again with the heterodyned duplicator."

Farrell nodded. "I've found a new series sort of like the
iron-nickel-cobalt group."

Channing shook his head. There was a huge permanent magnet that poured
a couple of million gauss across its gap, and in this magnetic field
Farrell had the crystal supported. A bank of storage batteries drove
several hundred amperes--by the meter--through the crystal from face
to face on another axis, and down from above there poured an intense
monochromatic light.

"Trouble is," complained Wes, "that there isn't a trace of a ripple
in any of the three factors that work on the thing. Permanent magnet,
battery current, and continuous gas-arc discharge. Yet--"

"It vibrates," nodded Channing. "Faintly, but definitely it is
vibrating."

Walt Franks disappeared for a moment. He returned with a portable
phonograph, which caused Don Channing to grin and ask, "Walt, are you
going to make a recording of this conversation, or do you think it will
dance to a Strauss waltz?"

"It's slightly bats, so I brought the overture to _Das Fledermaus_
for it," snorted Franks. As he spoke, he removed the pick-up from the
instrument and added a length of shielded wire. Then he set the stylus
of the phonograph against the faintly vibrating crystal and turned up
the gain.

At once a whining hum came from the loud speaker.

"Loud, isn't it?" he grinned. "Can you identify that any better?"

Wes Farrell threw up his hands. "I can state with positiveness that
there isn't any varying field of anything that I know of that is at
that frequency."

Channing just grinned. "Maybe it's just normal for that thing to
vibrate."

"Like an aspen leaf?" asked Walt.

Channing nodded. "Or like my wife's jello."

Walt turned the dial of an audio generator until the note was beating
at zero with the vibrating crystal. "What frequency does Arden's jello
work at?" he asked. "I've got about four-fifty per second."

"Arden's jello isn't quite that nervous," said Don, puzzling.

"Taking my name in vain?" asked a cool and cheerful contralto. Don
whirled and demanded, "How long have you been keyhole listening?"

Arden smiled. "When Walt Franks nearly runs me down without seeing
me--and in his great clutching hands is a portable phonograph but no
records--and in his eye there is that wild Tom Swift glint--I find
my curiosity aroused to the point of visible eruption. Interesting,
fellers?"

"Baffling," admitted Channing. "But what were you doing standing on
odd-corners waiting for Walt to run you down for?"

"My feminine intuition told me that eventually one of you would do
something that will wreck the station. When that happens, my sweet, I
want to be among the focus of trouble so that I can say I told you so."

Walt grunted. "Sort of a nice epitaph," he said. "We'll have them words
'I tole ya so' engraved on the largest fragment of Venus Equilateral
when we do."

Don grinned. "Walt, don't you like women?"

Franks swelled visibly and pompously. "Why, of course," he said with
emphasis. "Some of my best friends are women!"

Arden stuck her tongue out at him. "I like you, too," she said. "But
you wait--I'll fix you!"

"How?" asked Walt idly.

"Oh, go freeze," she told him.

"Freeze?" chuckled Walt. "Now, that's an idea."

"Idea?" asked Don, seeing the look on Walt's face. "What kind of idea?"

Walt thought seriously for a moment. "The drinks are on me," he said.
"And I'll explain when we get there. Game? This is good." Insistent,
Walt led them from Wes Farrell's laboratory near the South End skin of
Venus Equilateral to Joe's, which was up nine levels and in the central
portion of the station. "Y'know," he said, "women aren't so bad after
all. But I've got this feminine intuition business all figured out.
Since women are illogical in the first place, they are inclined to
think illogical things and to say what they think. Then if it should
happen to make sense, they apply it. I used to know an experimenter
that tried everything he could think of on the theory that some day
he'd hit upon something valuable. Well--this is it, good people."

Walt shoved the door open and Wes Farrell grinned as he always did at
the sign that read:

                                 JOE'S
                             The Best Bar
                                  in
                      Twenty-seven Million Miles
                               (minimum)

Arden entered and found a place at the long bar. The three men lined up
on either side of her and Joe automatically reached for the Scotch and
glasses.

"Now," said Channing, "what is it?"

Walt lifted his glass. "I drink to the Gods of Coincidence," he
chanted, "and the Laws of Improbability. 'Twas here that I learned that
which makes me master of the situation now."

Arden clinked her glass against his. "Walt, I'll drink to the Gods of
Propinquity. Just how many problems have you solved in your life by
looking through the bottom of a glass--darkly?"

"Ah--many," he said, taking a sip of the drink.

He swallowed.

A strange look came over his face. He spluttered. He grew a bit ruddy
of face, made a strangling noise, and then choked.

"Migawd, Joe--what have you mixed this with, shoe polish?"

"Just made it this afternoon," replied Joe.

"Then throw it back in the matter bank and do it again," said Walt.

Don took a very cautious sip and made a painfully wry face. "The
SPCS--Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Scotch--should dip their
tongue in this," he said.

Joe shrugged. "It's from your own pet brand," he told Channing.

Arden smelled gingerly. "Don," she asked him seriously, "have you been
petting dragons?"

Wes, chemist like, dipped his forefinger in the drink, diluted it in a
glass of water, and touched it to his tongue. "It'll never be popular,"
he said.

Joe turned back to his duplicator and shoved a recording into the slot.
The machine whirred for a few seconds, and Joe opened the door and took
out the new bottle, which he handed to Walt. Walt cut the seal and
pulled the cork, and poured. He tasted gingerly and made the same wry
face.

"What in the name of could have happened?" he asked.

"It's the same recording," asserted Joe.

"But what happened to it?"

"Well," admitted Joe, "it was dropped this morning."

"In what?" demanded Walt.

"Just on the floor."

Wes Farrell nodded. "Probably re-arranged some of the molecular
patterns in the recording," he said.

Joe put both bottles in the duplicator and turned the switch. They
disappeared in seconds, and then Joe took another recording and made a
bottle of a different brand. Again Walt tasted gingerly, smiled hugely,
and took a full swallow.

"Whew," he said. "That was almost enough to make a man give up liquor
entirely."

"And now," said Don Channing, "let us in on your big secret--or was
this just a ruse to get us in this gilded bistro?"

Walt nodded. He led them to the back of the bar and into the back room.
"Refrigerator," he said.

Arden took his arm with affected sympathy. "I know it's big enough
but--"

Walt swung the huge door open and stepped in.

"I didn't really mean--" continued Arden, but her voice died off,
trailing away into silence as Walt, motioning them to come in, also put
his finger on his lips.

"Are you going to beef?" demanded Channing.

"No, you big ham," snorted Walt. "Just listen!"

Wes blinked and slammed the door shut behind them.

And then in the deep silence caused when the heavy door shut off the
incident sounds from Joe's restaurant and bar, there came a faint,
high-pitched hum.

Don turned to Arden. "That it?" he asked. "You've got better
pitch-sense than I have."

"Sounds like it," admitted Arden.

"Cold in here," said Wes. He swung open the door and they returned
to the bar for their drink. "We can establish its identity easily
enough," he told them. He finished the drink, and turned from the bar.
"Walt, you bring the pick-up and amplifier; Don, you carry the audio
generator, and I'll bring up the rear with the rest of the gadget."

They left, and Joe threw his hands out in a gesture of complete
helplessness.

"Trouble?" asked Arden cheerfully.

"I didn't mind when they used the tablecloths to draw on," he said. "I
didn't really object when they took the tablecloths and made Warren use
'em as engineering sketches to make things from. But now, dammit, it
looks like they're going to move into my refrigerator and for God knows
what! I give up!"

"Joe," said Arden sympathetically, "have one on me."

"Don't mind if I do," chuckled Joe laconically. "If I'm to be shoved
out of mine own bailiwick, I might as well enjoy these last few days."

He was finishing the drink as the technical section of Venus
Equilateral returned, laden with equipment.

Arden shrugged. "Here we go again," she said. "Once more I am a gadget
widow. What do you recommend, Joe? Knitting--or shall I become a
dipsomaniac?"

Joe grinned. "Why not present Don with a son and heir?"

Arden finished her glass in one draught, and a horrified expression
came over her face. "One like Don is all I can stand," she said in
a scared voice. Then she smiled. "It's the glimmering of an idea,
though," she added with brightening face. "It stands a fifty-fifty
chance that it might turn out to be a girl--which would scare Don to
death, having to live with two like me."

"Twins," suggested Joe.

"You stay the hell out of this," said Arden good-naturedly.

Walt Franks re-appeared, headed out of the restaurant, and returned a
few minutes later with another small case full of measuring equipment.

"And this," said Arden as Walt vanished into the refrigerator once
again, "will be known as the first time Walt Franks ever spent so much
time in here without a drink!"

"Time," said Joe, "will tell."

       *       *       *       *       *

Half way from Lincoln Head to Canalopsis, Barney Carroll was examining
a calendar. "Christmas," he said absently.

Christine Baler stretched slender arms. "Yeah," she drawled, "and on
Mars."

Her brother Jim smiled. "Rather be elsewhere?"

"Uh-huh," she said.

"On Terra, where Christmas originated? Where Christmas trees adorn
every home, and the street corners are loaded with Santa Clauses?
Where--"

"Christmas is a time for joy," said Christine. "Also to the average
party, Christmas means snow, wassail, and friends dropping in. Me, I'm
acclimated--almost--to this chilly Martian climate. Cold weather has no
charm for your little sister, James."

"Oh," said Barney.

"Oh," echoed Jim, winking at his side-kick.

"Don't you 'Oh' me," snorted Christine.

"Oh?" repeated Barney. "Okay, woman, we get it. Instead of the cold and
the storm you'd prefer a nice warm climate like Venus?"

"It might be fun," she said evasively.

"Or even better," said Jim Baler to Barney Carroll, "we might visit
Venus Equilateral."

Christine's evasive manner died. "Now," she said, "you've come up with
a bright idea!"

Barney chuckled. "Jim," he said, "call Walt Franks and ask him if he
has a girl for us?"

"He has quite a stock in his little black book," remarked Jim.

"We'll drop in quietly, surprise-like," announced Christine. "And if
there's any little black book, I'll see that you two Martian wolves
divide 'em evenly."

"Walt is going to hate us for this," chuckled Jim. "Accessories to the
fact of his lost bachelorhood. Okay, Chris, pack and we'll--"

"Pack nothing," laughed Christine. "I've packed. For all three of us.
All we need is our furs until we get to Canalopsis. Then," she added
happily, "we can dress in light clothing. I'm beginning to hate cold
weather."

"How about passage?" asked Barney. "Or did you--"

Christine nodded. "The _Martian Girl_ leaves Canalopsis in about three
hours. We pause at Mojave, Terra, for six hours, and thence to Venus
Equilateral on the special trip that takes Christmas stuff out there."

Jim Baler shrugged. "I think we've been jockeyed," he said. "Come on,
Barney, needs must when a woman drives."

"The quotation pertains to the devil," objected Barney.

"No difference," said Jim, and then he ducked the pillow that Christine
threw at him.

A half hour later they were heading for Canalopsis.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Walt?" smiled Arden. "Oh, sure, Walt's fine."

"Then--?"

"Yeah," added Barney good naturedly, "do we find 'em in Joe's or
elsewhere?"

"The Joe-Section of the engineering has been completed," said Arden
with a grin. "They nearly drove Joe nuts for about a week."

"What were they doing?" asked Jim. "Building an electronically-operated
Martini?"

"When I tell you, you won't believe me," said Arden. "But they've been
living in Joe's refrigerator."

"Refrigerator?" gasped Christine.

"Just like a gang of unhung hams," said Arden. "But they're out now."

"Well! That's good."

Arden paused in front of three doors on the residence level near her
apartment and Jim, Christine, and Barney each put their traveling bags
inside. Then Arden led them high into the station where they came to a
huge bulkhead in which was a heavy door.

Arden opened the door and an icy blast came out.

"Jeepers!" exploded Christine.

"Hey! Ice-men!" called Arden.

From the inside of the vast room came Don, Walt, and Wes. They were
clad in heavy furs and thick gloves, Channing was carrying a small pair
of cutters that looked a bit ridiculous in the great glove.

"Well, holy rockets!" exploded Channing, "what gives?"

"Merry pre-Christmas," said Jim. Don whipped off a glove and Jim wrung
his hand unmercifully. Wes Farrell greeted Barney Carroll jovially,
while Walt Franks stood foolishly and gaped at Christine Baler.

Christine looked the heavy clothing over and shook her head. "And I
came here to be warm," she said. "Come out from behind that fur, Walt
Franks. I know you!"

"What is going on?" asked Barney.

"It all started in Joe's refrigerator," said Wes. "We found that the
cold had crystallized a bit of metal in the compressor. We discovered
that it was radiating one of the super-frequencies of the crystal-alloy
level. When warm it didn't. So we've set up this super-cooler to make
checks on it. Looks big."

Channing waved toward the door. "We've got the ultimate in
super-coolers in there," he said. "Remember the principle of the
sun-power tube--that it will drain power out of anything that it is
attuned to? Well, we're draining the latent heat-energy out of that
room with a power-beam tube--actually we're transmitting it across
space to Pluto."

"Pluto?"

"Uh-huh. In effect, it is like trying to warm Pluto from the energy
contained in that room. Obviously we aren't going to melt much of the
solid-frozen atmosphere of Pluto nor create a warm and habitable planet
of it. We can run the temperature down to darned near Nothing Kelvin
without doing much of anything to Pluto."

"We're below the black-body temperature of Mars right now," said Walt.
"And the gadgetry is working so much better that we're going to run it
down to as far as we can get it."

"What do you hope to find?" asked Barney.

"Why, it looks as though we can make a set of crystals that will permit
instantaneous communication from one to the other."

"Sounds good."

"Looks good, so far," said Channing. "Want to see it?"

Christine looked at the thermometer set in the face of the door. She
turned back to the others and shook her head vehemently.

"Not for all the ice in Siberia," she said fervently.

Walt brightened. "How about some ice in a glass," he said.

"For medicinal purposes only," agreed Barney. "It's been deadly cold on
Mars--about a quart and a half of sheer and utter cold."

"Been cold in there, too," said Don. "Arden, you're out of luck--you've
stayed out of the cold."

"You try to freeze me out of this session," said Arden, "and you'll
find that I have the coldest shoulder in the Solar System."

As the party from Mars left the platform of the spacecraft that was
poised on the Landing Stage of Venus Equilateral, another landing was
made. This landing came from the same ship, but unlike the arrival of
the Balers and Barney Carroll, the later landing was unseen, unknown,
and unwanted.

Mark Kingman had been a stowaway.

Now, most stowaways are apprehended because success in such a venture
is difficult. To properly stow away, it is calculated that more than
the nominal cost of the trip must be spent in planning and preparation.
Also, there is the most difficult of all problems--that of stepping
blithely ashore under the watchful eye of purser or authority whose
business it is to see that all the passengers who embarked ultimately
disembark--no more and no less; plus or minus zero. (It is considered
that an infant born aboard ship is a legal passenger and not a
stowaway. This is a magnanimity on the part of the transportation
companies who understand that they might have difficulty in persuading
any court that the will exists to defraud the company of rightful
revenues, etc.) (A death and burial at sea is also ignored; the
transportation company has already collected for a full fare!)

But Mark Kingman had done it. He had come aboard in a large packing
case, labelled:

                         _CERTIFIED UNIQUES!_
                         (Identium Protected)
                        Under NO Circumstances
                                 will
                              DUPLICATOR
                                  or
                          MATTER TRANSMITTER
                             Be Tolerated

With magnificent sophistry, Kingman was within the letter of the law
that did not permit false representation of contained merchandise. For
he, a human being, was a certified unique, he having never been under
the beam of the integrator scanning beam of the matter duplicator or
transmitter. Nor had any other living human, for that matter. The
identium protection was insurance on all such cargoes; it prevented
some overly--or underly bright clerk from slipping the package into a
duplicator to make shipping easier. Identium exploded rather violently
under the impact of the scanner beam, it will be recalled.

Along with Kingman was a small battery-powered duplicator, and a set of
recordings. The duplicator produced fresh air as needed, water, food,
and even books, games, and puzzles for solitary entertainment. Waste
material went into the matter bank, proving the earlier statements that
with a well-equipped duplicator and a set of recordings, any man can
establish a completely closed system that will be valid for any length
of time desired.

When the ship landed, Kingman tossed all the loose material into the
duplicator and reduced it to nonhomogeneous matter in the matter bank.
Then he turned the duplicator-beam against the side-wall of the huge
box and watched the side-wall disappear into the machine.

He stepped out through the opening, which was calculated to miss the
concealed plates of identium installed to prevent just this very thing.
Kingman, of course, had planned it that way.

Once outside, Kingman set the duplicator on the deck between other
cases and snapped the switch. The scanner beam produced books from
Kingman's own library which he packed in the case. Then by reversing
the direction of depth scan without changing the vertical or horizontal
travel, Kingman effected a completed reversal of the restoration. The
side of the packing case was re-established from the inside out, from
the original recording which, of course, was made from the other side.
It re-formed perfectly, leaving no seam.

Kingman went down an unused shaft to the bottom of the ship, where he
drilled down with the duplicator through the bottom of the ship where
it stood upon the Landing Stage. Down through the stage he went and
into a between-deck volume that was filled with girders.

He re-set the duplicator and replaced landing stage and the ship's hull.

By the time that the party had adjourned to Joe's, Mark Kingman was
high in the Relay Station, near the center line and a full mile and a
half from the Landing Stage. He was not far from the vast room that
once contained a lush growth of Martin Sawgrass, used before the advent
of the duplicator, for the purification of the atmosphere in Venus
Equilateral.

He was reasonably safe. He knew that the former vast storages of food
and supply were no longer present, and that being the case, few people
would be coming up to this out of the way place almost a third of a
mile above the outer radius of the station where the personnel of Venus
Equilateral lived and worked.

He started his duplicator and produced a newly charged battery first.
He tossed the old one into the matter bank. He'd have preferred a solar
energy tube, but he was not too certain of Sol's position from there
and so he had to forego that.

Then he used the duplicator to produce a larger duplicator, and that
duplicator to make a truly vast one. The smaller numbers he shoved into
the larger one.

From the huge duplicator, Kingman made great energy-beam tubes and
the equipment to run them. Taking his time, Kingman set them up and
adjusted them carefully.

He pressed the starting button.

Then a complete connection was established between an area high in the
station but a good many thousand feet away--and on the other side of
the central axis--through the energy-beam tubes, and a very distant
receptor tube on the planet Pluto.

"This," punned Kingman, "will freeze 'em out!"

His final act before relaxing completely was to have the huge
duplicator build a small but comfortable house, complete with furniture
and an efficient heating plant. Then he settled down to wait for
developments.

       *       *       *       *       *

"So what brings you out to Venus Equilateral?" asked Don.

"Christmas," said Barney. "We--Christine--thought that it might be nice
to spend Christmas with old friends in a climate less violent than
Mars."

"Well, we're all tickled pink," nodded Arden.

"Frankly," grinned Jim Baler, "my charming sister has set her sights on
your bachelor playmate."

"I think it is mutual," said Arden. "After all, Walt has had a lot
of business to tend to on Mars. He used to use the beams to conduct
business--in fact he still does most of it by communications when it
isn't Mars--but give him three ten-thousandths of an excuse and he's
heading for Canalopsis."

"I noted with interest that Christine was quite willing to help him
work."

"Fat lot of work they'll accomplish."

"Speaking of work, Wes, what goes on right now in this deal?"

"We've just set up a modulator," said Wes. "I'm modulating the current
since the magnetic field is supplied by a permanent magnet and the
monochromatic light comes from an ion arc. Using varying light seems
to widen the response band with a loss in transmission intensity. This
way, you see, all the energy going into the crystal is transmitted on a
single band, which is of course a matter of concentrated transmission."

"That sounds sensible. Also, if this gets to sounding practical, it is
quite simple to establish and maintain a high-charge permanent magnet
field, and also a monochromatic light from a continuous gas-arc.
Easier, I'd say, than making ammeters all read alike."

"Utopia," said Wes Farrell, "is where you can use any handy meter and
find it within one tenth of one percent of any other--including the
Interplanetary Standard."

Channing observed that Utopia was far from achieved. Then he said:
"You've got the Thomas gents out in a ship with another crystal set-up?"

"_Anopheles_," said Farrell. "Will shortly head for Mars with the other
half of the gear in another refrigerated compartment. If this proves
practical, Pluto is going to become useful."

Arden nodded absently. "I've always claimed that there is a practical
use for everything."

Channing opened his mouth to say something and had it neatly plugged by
Arden's small hand. "No, you don't," she said. "We've all heard that
one."

"Which one?" asked Farrell.

"The one about the navel being a fine place to hold the salt when
you're eating celery in bed," said Arden. Channing removed Arden's
hand from his mouth and placed it in hers. "You done it," he told her
ungrammatically. "For which I'll not tell you what Walt and Christine
are doing right now."

Arden's attempt to say, "Pooh. I know," was thoroughly stifled and it
came out as a muffled mumble.

Channing turned to Wes and asked: "Have any good theories on this
thing?"

Farrell nodded. "I noted that the energy entering the crystal was not
dissipated as heat. Yet there was quite a bit of energy going in, and
I wanted to know where it was going. Apparently the energy going in to
the crystal will only enter under the influence of a magnetic field.
Changing the field strength of the magnet changes the band, for the
transmission to the similar crystal ceases until the other one has had
its magnetic field reduced in synchronous amount. Also, no energy is
taken by the crystal unless there is an attuned crystal. The power
just generates heat, then, as should be normal.

"So," said Wes thoughtfully, "the propagation of this communicable
medium is powered by the energy going into the crystal. Crystals tend
to vibrate in sympathy with one another; hitting one with a light
hammer will make the other one ring, and vice versa. I've tried it with
three of them, and it makes a complete three-way hookup. As soon as
Chuck and Freddie Thomas get out a good way, we'll be able to estimate
the velocity of propagation, though I think it is the same as that
other alloy-transmission band we've been using."

Channing grinned. "The speed of light, squared?"

Farrell winced. _That_ argument was still going on, whether or not you
could square a velocity. "We'll know," he said quietly.

The loudspeaker above Farrell's desk hissed slightly, and the voice
of Freddie Thomas came in: "I'm about to trust my precious life once
more to the tender care of the hare-brained piloting of my semi-idiot
brother. Any last words you'd like to have uttered?"

Wes picked up a microphone and said: "Nothing that will bear
transmission under the rules. If there's anything I want to tell
you, I'll call you on this--and if this doesn't work, we'll try the
standard. They're on your course?"

"On the button all the way--they tell me."

"Well, if you jiggle any, call us," said Farrell, "either on the
standard space phone or this coupled-crystal set-up."

Channing grinned. "So it has a name?"

Freddie laughed. "We never did settle on a name for the
driver-radiation communication system. So we're starting this one off
right. It's the Coupled-Crystal Communicator. For short, 'Seesee', see?"

Channing returned the laugh. "Seeseesee, or Seesee, understand?"

Chuck Thomas chimed in. "My semi-moronic brother will delay this
take-off if he doesn't sharpen up," he said. "What he means is: Seesee,
get it?"

"I get it," replied Channing.

And they did get it. Hour followed hour and day followed day from
take-off to turnover, where there was no Doppler effect even though the
velocity of the ship was fiercely high.

The hours fled by in a working flurry of tests and experiments and
almost-constant talk between the arrowing ship and Venus Equilateral....

       *       *       *       *       *

"It doesn't add up," complained Walt Franks.

Christine looked up from her book and waited.

"Something's more'n we bargained for," he said.

"What?" asked Christine.

"Why, that area we're chilling off is cooling far too fast."

"I should think that would be an advantage," said Christine.

"Maybe--and maybe not," said Walt. "The big thing is that things should
behave according to rules. When they do not, then's when people make
discoveries that lead to new rules."

"That I don't follow," said Christine.

"Well, in this case we know to several decimal places the heat
equivalent of electrical energy. Three thousand, four hundred thirteen
kilowatt hours equals one B.T.U.--a British Thermal Unit. We know
the quantity of electrical power--the number of kilowatts--being
coursed through the tubes en route to Pluto. We know by calculation
just how many calories of heat there are in the area we're cooling
off--and therefore we can calculate the time it will take to reduce the
temperature of that area a given number of degrees centigrade. We're
about double."

"And--you were starting to explain something different," said Christine.

"Oh--yes. Well, for a number of years--several thousand, in fact--it
was taught that a heavy mass falls faster than a light mass. Then
Galileo tossed rocks off of the Tower at Pisa and showed that a small
stone and a large stone fall equally fast. That was a case where
definitely provable evidence was at variance with the rules. They
couldn't revise the actuality, so they had to revise the rules."

"I see. And now because that area is cooling off much faster than
anticipated, you anticipate that something is not behaving according to
the rules?"

"Bright girl," chuckled Walt.

"Thank you, kind sir," laughed Christine. "But remember that I was
raised in a bright family."

"Come on," said Walt. "We're going to investigate."

"In that cold room?" asked Christine with some concern.

Walt nodded. "You'll get used to it," he said absently, collecting a
few instruments.

"Look, Walt," said Christine in a scathing tone, "I'm used to it!
That's why I came to Venus Equilateral from Mars. Remember?"

Walt looked at her, wondering. But Christine wore a smile that took
most of the sting out of her words.

"Lead on, Walt. I can take a bit of chill. In fact," she said with a
half-smile, "under the proper circumstances, a bit of chill is fun."

Walt finished collecting his equipment and packed it into two carrying
cases. Then from a closet, he took electrically warmed clothing, helped
Christine into hers, climbed into his own, and then they took the long
trek along corridors and up elevators to the cold room.

"It's cold even here," said Christine.

"The room leaks bad," said Walt. "Wes Farrell's hobby these days is
making synthetic elements on the duplicator--he uses a filter to get a
mono-atomic pattern and then heterodynes the resulting signal to atomic
patterns above the transuranic system. But in all of Wes Farrell's
playing at making synthetic transuranic elements, he hasn't come up
with anything like a good heat insulator yet. We did toy with the idea
of hermetically sealing in a double wall and piping some of the vacuum
of interstellar space in there. But it was too vast a project. So we
let some heat leak and to hell with it."

Christine shuddered. "I've never really appreciated the fact that Venus
Equilateral is really just a big steel capsule immersed in the vacuum
of interplanetary space," she said. "It's so much like a town on Terra."

"Inside, that is," grinned Walt. "There's a nice queasy thrill awaiting
you when first you stand in an observation blister made of plastiglass."

"Why?" she asked.

"Because first you are terrified because you are standing on a bubble
that is eminently transparent and looking down beneath your feet,
you see the stars in the sky. You know that 'down' to the working
and residence section of the station is actually 'out and away' from
the axis of the station, since it revolves about the long axis to
provide a simulated gravity plus gyroscopic action to stabilize the
beam-stage and pointers. Well, when you go down--and again 'Down' is a
relative term meaning the direction of gravitic thrust--into one of the
blisters, your mind is appalled at the fact that your feet are pressing
against something that your eyes have always told you is 'up'. The
stars. And then you realize that between you and the awesome void of
space in just that thin glass.

"You end up," he grinned, "being very careful about banging your heels
on the floor of the station for about a week."

"Well thanks for the preparation," said Christine.

"You'll still go through it," he told her. "But just remember that
anybody on the other side of the station, standing in a similar
blister a mile 'above' your head, is standing feet 'upward' with
respect to you. But he, too, is being thrown out and away by
centrifugal force."

Walt put his equipment down and rummaged through it. He selected a
supersensitive thermocouple and bridge and fixed the couple to one of
the fixtures in the room. He balanced the bridge after the swinging
needle came to a halt--when the thermocouple junction had assumed the
temperature of the fixture. "Now," he said, "we'll read that at the end
of a half hour and we'll then calculate the caloric out-go and balance
it against the kilowatts heading out through the energy beam."

"And in the meantime?" asked Christine.

"In the meantime, we measure the electrical constants to within an
inch of their lives," he told her. "I've got a couple of real fancy
meters here--this one that I'm hooking across the original wattmeter
in the circuit measures the wattages in the region between one hundred
thousand kilowatts and one hundred ten thousand kilowatts. Designed
especially as a high-level meter."

Walt clipped the portable meters in place and made recordings. Finally
he nodded. "Right on the button," he said. "Just what the meters should
read."

The crystal began to vibrate faintly, and Walt mentioned that either
Wes Farrell was calling Freddie Thomas or vice versa. "Can't hear
it very well," complained Walt, "because Wes has the amplifiers
downstairs, both incoming amplifier from the dynamic pick-up--we had to
give up the standard crystal because it is expected to get cold enough
to make the crystal too brittle---to the modulating equipment. The
monitor-speaker is outside--we haven't been in here enough to make use
of it since our first tries."

Walt took a look at the bridge on the thermocouple and nodded vaguely.
He killed more time by showing Christine the huge tube that drained the
latent heat out of the room and hurled it across the solar system to
Pluto.

"Y'know," he grinned as a thought struck him, "I think we've licked the
Channing Layer that so neatly foiled Mark Kingman and Terran Electric
on that solar power project."

"Yes?"

"Sure," he said. "All we do is set up a real beam-input device on the
moon, for instance, and then use a batch of these things to draw the
power from there."

"But how about the formation of ozone?"

"That'll have to be checked," said Walt. "For Pluto hasn't got a
Channing Layer, of course, and our station out there is no criterion.
But you note there is no smell of ozone in here. That leads me to think
that w've given Terran Electric the runaround once more. Funny thing
about Kingman, if someone gave him this development, he'd never think
of reversing it to bring energy in."

"From what I know of the man," said Christine, "he'd not think of
reversing, but he would think of perverting."

"Christine!" shouted Walt.

"Huh?" asked the bewildered girl.

"You may have had your thought for the week!"

Walt tried a bit of Indian War Dance but failed because the
pseudo-gravitic force was too light to hold him down. They were too
close to the axis for full force.

"But I don't understand."

Walt laughed hugely and hugged her. Christine was lissome in the curve
of his arm as she relaxed against him.

Walt looked down at her for what seemed to be a long time while
the stream of highly-technical thinking and deduction gave way to
a series of more fundamental thoughts. Then he added his other arm
to the embrace, and Christine turned to face him. He kissed her
gently; experimentally--and discovered instead of resistance there
was co-operation. His kiss became fervent and Christine's lips parted
beneath his.

Some minutes later, Christine leaned back in his arms and smiled at
him affectionately. "I was wondering if you'd ever get around to that,"
she said softly.

Walt grinned. "Have I been had?"

"I had Jim pack the all-white shotgun," she told him.

"Shucks, why not just have him threaten to sit on me?" asked Walt. He
kissed her again.

"Now," she said after an appropriate and pleasant interval, "just what
was my 'thought for the week'?"

"Kingman," he said, his forehead creasing in a frown.

"Kingman?"

"We've no corner on brains," said Walt. "Anybody tinkering with these
energy tubes might easily devise the same thing. Kingman's immediate
thought would be to freeze us out, I betcha."

Walt kissed her again and then let her go, "Let's do some juggling with
figures," he said.

"What kind of?"

"The Laws of Probability aided by a bit of sheer guesswork and some
shrewd evaluation of the barrister's mind."

Christine smiled. "You can speak plainer than that," she said.

"I know," he replied, reaching for his bag of gear, "but there's a lady
present."

"You forget that the lady thought of it," Christine pointed out. "So
let's go and find the--barrister."

"It ought to show, though," observed Walt. "And yet, my lady, we can
check whether there has been cross-duggery at the skull-roads by making
a brief observation along here somewhere."

"How?"

"Well, about fifty yards up this corridor there is a wall-thermostat."

"You think that if Kingman were trying to chill-off the place, he'd
have bollixed the thermostats so they can't heat up the place and
compensate?"

Walt nodded. "He'd do it, not knowing that we had all the near-by
circuits shut off for our own experiment, no doubt."

"You don't suppose Kingman knew about this idea and decided to add to
the general effect?" asked Christine.

Walt shook his head. "He'd assume that someone would be rambling up
here off and on to look at the works. He'd automatically choose another
place if he thought we had this one under observation."

Walt stopped at the thermostat and with a screwdriver he removed the
face of the instrument. He reached down into his tool-pocket and took
out a long, slender pair of tweezers. He probed in the depths of the
thermostat and come out with a tiny square of paper.

He held it up for Christine to see.

"Stickum on one side held it until the contacts closed," he said. "Then
it made a darned good insulator. Betcha this slip of paper came from
Terran Electric!"

"Now what?" asked Christine.

"I'm going to call Don," said Walt. "Iffen and providen we can find a
live jack." He took a handset from his kit of tools and plugged it into
the jack below the thermostat. He jiggled a tiny switch and pressed
a little red button, and after a full three minutes, he said "Damn,"
under his breath and dropped the handset back into his tool kit.

"Nobody's paying much attention to the telephone from this section of
Venus Equilateral any more," he said. "There's a live one in the cold
room, though. Let's take a look around first."

"Which way?"

Walt thought for a moment. "We set the cold room about one-third of
the way from the North End because it was as far from the rest of the
station's operating and living section as possible while commensurable
with being reasonably close to the labs," he said. "We're not very
far--perhaps a hundred yards from the axis. We're about a mile from the
North End.

"Now, if I were Kingman, I'd set up shop in some place as far from the
operating section as possible commensurable with an out of the way
place--and definitely far from the laboratories. Then I'd select a
place as far from me as I could get without too much danger of having
the effect detected."

Christine nodded. "If Venus Equilateral were a cube, you'd take one
corner and chill off the opposite corner."

"Venus Equilateral is a cylinder, and the skin is filled with people.
However, you can set up an equation in differential calculus that will
give you two spots as far from one another as possible with the least
danger of detection from the ends or skin of a cylinder. The answer
will give you two toroidal volumes located inside of the cylinder. You
set your workshop in one and start the chill-off in the other--and
right across the center from you."

"And?" prompted Christine with a smile.

"We used the same equation to locate the least dangerous place.
Predicated on the theory that if the personnel need be protected from
the danger area as much as the danger area need be concealed from
people, we can assume the use of the same constants. Now, since by
sheer coincidence Markus the Kingman selected a spot in the toroid that
we also selected, it narrows our search considerably."

"In other words, we chase down the length of the station, cross the
axis, and knock on Kingman's door."

"Right," said Walt.

And being firmly convinced that mixing pleasure with business often
makes the business less objectionable, Walt kissed Christine once more
before they started toward the place where they expected to find their
troublemaker.

       *       *       *       *       *

"About here," said Walt, looking up at a smooth bulkhead.

"How are we going to find him?" asked Christine. The corridor was
long and die-straight, but both walls were sheer for thirty feet and
unbroken.

"Look, I guess," said Walt, uncertainly. "I'm not too familiar with
this section of the station. When I was first here--many years ago--I
spent a lot of spare time roaming and exploring these seldom-used
corridors. But my Boy Scout hatchet wouldn't cut trail-blazes on the
steel walls."

He laughed a bit thoughtfully, and then he put his hands to his mouth,
cupping them like a megaphone, and he yelled:

"Hey! Kingman! We're on to you!"

"But what good will that do?" asked Christine doubtfully.

"Might scare him into action," said Walt. "Easiest way to shoot
pa'tridge is to flush it into the open. Otherwise you might walk over a
nest and never see it. I--Holy Grease!"

A four foot section of the wall beside them flashed into nothingness
with neither sound nor light nor motion. It just disappeared. And as
they goggled at the vacant square, an ugly round circle glinted in the
light and a sourly-familiar voice invited them in--or else!

"Well," said Walt Franks, exhaling deeply. "If it isn't Our Legal Lamp
himself!"

Kingman nodded snappishly. "You were looking for me?"

"We were."

"It's too bad you found me," said Kingman.

"It was just a matter of time before you dropped all pretense of being
thinly legal," said Walt scathingly. "Give you credit, Kingman, for
conducting yourself as close to the line without stepping over for a
long time. But now you can add breaking and entering to kidnaping to
whatever other crimes you have committed."

Kingman smiled in a superior manner. "I might," he said suavely, "add
murder. There would be no corpus delicti if both of you were fed into
the duplicator."

"You can't record a human being," said Walt.

"Don't be stupid," said Kingman. "Who said anything about making a
record?"

Walt admitted that this was so.

Then Kingman snapped the switch on the duplicator and the wall was
re-established. Then he forced Christine to tie Walt, after which he
tied Christine and then checked and added to Walt's bonds from a large
roll of friction tape. He dropped them side by side in chair, and taped
them thoroughly.

"You are a damned nuisance," he said. "Having to eliminate you tends
to decrease my enjoyment at seeing the failure of Venus Equilateral.
I'd have preferred to watch all of you suffer the hardest way. Killing
you leaves fewer to gloat over, but it must be done. Once you found me,
there is no other way."

"Walt," pleaded Christine, "won't the others find the same thing and
follow us?"

Walt wanted to lie--wanted desperately to lie, if for no other reason
than to spare Christine the mental anguish of expecting death. But Walt
was not a good liar. He gave up and said: "I happen to be the guy who
rigged the thermal-energy tube--and I'm the only guy who knows about
the too-fast drop. All I hope for is that we'll be missed."

"We will," said Christine.

Kingman laughed nastily and began to fiddle with the scanning-rate
controls on his duplicator.

       *       *       *       *       *

Arden came running into her husband's office breathlessly. She was
waving a sheet of paper and there was mingled anger and pleasure on her
face as she shoved the paper under Don's eyes and waggled it. "Look!"
she commanded.

"Stop fanning me with that," said Channing, "and let me see it if it's
so all-fired important."

"I'll murder 'em in cold blood," swore Arden.

Channing pried his wife's fingers apart and took the paper. He
read--and his eyes bulged with amused concern--

    "Dear Characters:

    When we were giving Venus Equilateral's advantages the up and down
    a coupla years ago after the sudden and warranted departure of
    Director Francis Burbank, we forgot one important item--a justice
    of the peace.

    So Christine and I are eloping in a time-honored fashion.

    Neither of us have any desire to get wedded in the midst of a Roman
    Holiday even though it does deprive a lot of guys the right to kiss
    the bride.

    You may give my Little Black Book to Jim Baler, Barney Carroll, and
    Wes--and have Arden see that they divide 'em up proportionately.

    Your ex-bachelor chum(p)
    Walt.

    PS: He chased me 'til I caught him--

    Christine."

"Well," chuckled Don good-naturedly, "that's Our Walt. He never did do
anything the slow and easy way. Does Jim know?"

"I dunno, let's find him and ask."

They found Jim and Barney in Farrell's laboratory discussing the
theories of operating a gigantic matter-transmitter affair to excavate
sand from a cliff. Channing handed the note to Jim, who read it with a
half smile and handed it to Barney, who shared it with Wes while they
read it together. Jim said "I'm not surprised; Christine could have
been talked into wedlock--holy or unholy--by a mere wink from Walt."

"I hope she'll be kind to our little bucket-headed idiot," said Arden,
making to wipe tears with a large sheet of emery paper from Farrell's
workbench. "He's been slightly soft-skulled ever since he set eye on
that scheming hussy you have for a sister."

Barney shook his head sadly. "Poor guy."

"We ought to toast 'em even though they aren't here," suggested Farrell.

"A requiem toast."

"This," chuckled Don Channing, "is one mess that Walt will have to get
out of himself."

"Mess is it?" demanded Arden with a glint in her eye. "Come, husband, I
would have words with thee."

Don reached in his hip pocket. "Here," he said, "just take my
checkbook."

"I'd rather have words with you."

Don shook his head. "If I just give you the checkbook, you'll use it
reasonably sparing, all things feminine considered. But gawd help the
balance once you get to talking me into writing the check myself.
Besides, we're about to hear from the Thomas boys again. They're about
to land at Canalopsis."

"I'll wait," said Arden, settling on a tall stool and lighting a
cigarette.

It took about ten minutes, and then Freddie Thomas's voice came from
the speaker, loud and clear. "Well, we've landed. We're here. And where
are you?"

"Hang on, Freddie," replied Farrell. "And we've some news for you. Walt
Franks and Christine Baler have just committed matrimony."

"That's fine--What? Who? When?"

"They eloped; left a note; took the _Relay Girl_ unbeknownst to all and
sundry. Left their damned note right where the _Relay Girl's_ landing
space was."

"Well I'll be--"

Chuck's voice came in. "He probably will," he observed. "And you know,
when I think of spending Eternity with my brother, it's enough to make
a guy spend an exemplary life in the hope of going to Heaven so we can
be apart. But I've got another guy here that might be interested."

"Hello, Channing?"

"Well if it ain't Keg Johnson. Own Mars yet?"

"No, but I'm darned interested in this coupled-crystal gadget of yours.
Mind if I bring Linna out for a few days?"

"Come ahead. Coming on _Anopheles_?" asked Don.

Keg Johnson laughed. "Not a chance, Don. I own a spaceline, remember?
And not wanting to cast disparagement at your type of genius, but
I'll prefer riding in style at two gravities instead of blatting all
over the sky at five, ducking meters and festoons of cable; eating
canned beans off a relay-rack shelf standing up; and waking up in the
morning to the tune of Chuck Thomas carving a hole through the bedroom
wall to make a straight-line half-wave dipole that won't quite fit in
otherwise."

"I'd send the _Relay Girl_," said Don, "but it seems as how my old
side-kick, Walt Franks, swiped it to locate a justice of the peace in
the company of a young and impressionable gal named Christine."

"Nuts?"

"If so, happy about it. Hope he'll be home by Christmas, anyway."

"Well, we'll be arriving in about ten days. See you then, Don."

"Right," answered Channing, and Wes Farrell took the microphone to give
the Thomas boys some information.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mark Kingman emerged from his tiny house in the huge storeroom and his
breath blew out in a white cloud. He went to the couple tied to their
chairs and said: "Cold, isn't it?"

Franks swore. Christine shivered despite the electrically-heated
clothing.

"You know," said Kingman, "those batteries are going to wear out sooner
or later. I'd remove them and let the cold do its work excepting for
the fact that I'd have to loose you and get into the inside pocket of
the suits. You stay tied!"

"Having nothing to eat but your words is beginning to undermine my
health," snapped Walt. "Gonna starve us to death too?"

"Oh," said Kingman expansively, "I've been devising a machine for you.
As an inventor of note, you will appreciate Little Joe. He will take
care of you both, to keep you alive until the cold gets you."

He returned to his little house and emerged with a large, complicated
gadget that he trundled to position in front of Walt and Christine.
There was a large hopper above and a wild assortment of levers and
gears interlocked in the body of the mechanism.

Kingman pressed a button and the gears whirled and the levers flashed--

And from the insides of the thing a lever speared forward. A spoon
was welded to the fore end, and it carried a heaping load of mushy
something-or-other.

Walt blinked and tried to duck, but his bindings wouldn't permit too
much freedom of motion. The spoon hit him on the cheek, cutting him and
spilling the food on his chest. The spoon disappeared back into the
machine.

It re-appeared on the other side and sliced towards Christine, who
screamed in fright. The spoon entered her opened mouth, and the stuff
it hurled into her throat nearly strangled her. It came again at Walt,
who miscalculated slightly and received a cut lip and a mouth full of
heavy gruel.

"You have to get set just so," explained Kingman, "then you'll not be
cut."

"Damn you--glub!" snapped Walt.

Christine waited and caught the next spoonful neatly.

And then the thing accelerated. The velocity of repetition increased
by double--then decreased again--and then started on random intervals.
They could never be certain when the knifing spoon would come hurtling
out of the machine to plunge into the position where their mouths
should be. They were forced to swallow quickly and then sit there with
mouth wide open to keep from getting clipped. With the randomness of
interval there came another randomness. One spoonful would be mush;
the next ice-cream; followed by a cube of rare steak. The latter was
tough, which demanded jaw-aching rapid chewing to get set for the next
possible thrust.

"A balanced diet," chortled Kingman, rolling his eyes in laughter. He
held his stomach at the sight.

"You--glub!

"--devil--glub!" snarled Walt.

"It won't be long now," said Kingman. "Your cold room is down to almost
absolute zero row. You know what that means?"

"--glub--you--"

"When the metal reaches absolute zero, as it will with the thermal
beam, the spread of cooling will accelerate. The metal will become a
superconductor--which will superconduct heat as well as electricity.
The chill area is spreading rapidly now, and once this cold room
section reaches absolute zero, the chill will spread like wildfire and
the famous Venus Equilateral Relay Station will experience a killing
freeze."

Walt glared. There was nothing else he could do. He was being fed
at a rapid rate that left him no time for other occupations. It was
ignominious to be so treated, but Walt consoled himself with the
fact that he was being fed--even though gulps of scalding-hot coffee
drenched spoons of ice cream that came after mashed potatoes (with
lumps, and where did Kingman get _that_ duplicator recording?). The
final blow was a one-inch tube that nearly knocked their teeth out in
arriving. It poured a half pint of Benedictine and brandy down their
throats which made them cough--and which almost immediately left them
with their senses reeling.

Kingman enjoyed this immensely, roaring with laughter at his 'feeding
machine' as he called it.

Then he sobered as Walt's eyes refused to focus. He stepped to a place
behind Walt and unbound him quickly. Walt tried to stand, but reeled,
and Kingman pointed his heavy rifle at Walt from a very safe distance
and urged him to go and enter the small metal house. Walt did. Then
Kingman transferred Christine to the house in the same way.

He sealed the only door with the duplicator, and from a small opening
in the wall, he spoke to them.

"I'm leaving," he said. "You'll find everything in there to set up
light housekeeping but food and heat. There'll be no heat, for I've
removed the heating plant. You can see it through this hole, but the
hole will soon be closed by the feeding machine, which I'm fixing so
that you can eat when hungry. I'd prefer that you stay alive while
you slowly freeze. Eventually your batteries will give out, and
then--curtains.

"But I've got to leave because things are running my way and I've got
to be in a place to cash in on it.

"I'll be seeing you."

       *       *       *       *       *

Keg Johnson greeted Don warmly. Then he said, "I knew you'd do it
sooner or later," with a grin.

Don blinked. "The last time you said that was in the courtroom
in Buffalo after we wrecked the economic system with the
matter-duplicator. What is it this time?"

"According to the guys I've had investigating your coupled-crystal
effect, it is quite simple. The effect will obtain with any crystalline
substance--so long as they are absolutely identical! It took the
duplicator to do it right to the atomic lattice structure. You'll get
any royalties, Channing, but I'm getting all my ships talking from ship
to ship direct, and from Canalopsis direct to any ship. You've just
invented Venus Equilateral out of business!"

"Good!" exclaimed Don.

"Good?"

Don nodded. "Venus Equilateral is fun--and always has been. But, darn
it, here we are out here in space lacking the free sky and the fresh
natural air. We'd never abandon it so long as Venus Equilateral had
a shred of necessity. But--now we can all go home to Man's Natural
Environment. A natural planet."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Furnish the Communications Stations at Northern Landing, at
Canalopsis, and on Terra with coupled-crystal equipments. Then we
abandon Venus Equilateral in one grand celebration."

Arden smiled. "Walt and Christine will be wild. Serves 'em right."

Farrell shrugged. "Going to tell 'em?"

"Nope. For one thing, they're honeymooning where no one knows. And so
we'll just leave quietly and when they come back, they'll find that
Venus Equilateral is a large empty house. Run off on us, will they!"

"Making any public announcements?" asked Keg.

Don shook his head. "Why bother?" he asked. "People will know sooner or
later, and besides, these days I'd prefer to keep the coupled-crystal
idea secret as long as possible. We'll get more royalty, because once
it is known, the duplicators will go crazy again. So long as Venus
Equilateral--the generic term--maintains interplanetary communications,
that's all that is necessary. Though Venus Equilateral as an identity
is no more, the name of the interplanetary communications company
shall be known as Venus Equilateral as a fond tribute to a happy memory
of a fine place. And--"

"And now we can haul off and have a four-alarm holiday brawl," said
Arden.

Farrell noted the thermometers that measured the temperature of the
cold room. "About all we'd have to do is to hold the door open and
Venus Equilateral will have its first snow storm."

"Just like Mars," said Jim. "No wonder Christine eloped with Walt. Bet
they're money-hooning on Venus."

"Well," said Channing, "turn up the gain on that ice-cream freezer of
Walt's, and we'll have our winter snowstorm. A white Christmas, by all
that's good and holy!"

Farrell grinned widely and reached up to the servo panel. He twisted
the master control dial all the way clockwise and the indicators read
high on their scales. Imperceptibly, the recording thermometers started
to creep downward--though it would take a day or so before the drop
became evident.

"Get everything in motion," said Channing. "Arden, make plans to clean
out about an acre of former living space--make a one-room apartment out
of it. Get the gals a-decorating like mad. Wes, get someone to make a
firebrick and duplicate it into enough to build a fireplace. Then make
enough fireplaces to go around to all as wants 'em. For draft, we'll
tie the chimneys together and let it blow out into space at fourteen
pounds per square inch of draft. Better get some good dampers, too.
We'll have the air-duplicator running at full blast to keep up. We've
got some crude logs--duplicate us a dozen cords of wood for fire-wood.
Tell the shopkeepers down on the Mall that the lid is off and the
Devil's out for breakfast! We'll want sleds, fur coats, holly and
mistletoe by the acre. And to hell with the lucite icicles they hang
from the corridor cornices. This year we have real ones.

"Oh," he added, "better make some small heating units for living rooms.
We can freeze up the halls and 'outdoor' areas, but people want to come
back into a warm room, shuck their earmuffs and overcoats and soak up
a cup of Tom and Jerry. Let's go, gang. Prepare to abandon ship! And
let's abandon ship with a party that will go down in history--and make
every man, woman, and child on Venus Equilateral remember it to the end
of their days!"

"Poor Walt," said Arden. "I wish he could be here. Let's hope he'll
come back to us by Christmas."

       *       *       *       *       *

For the ten thousandth time Walt inspected the little metal house.
It was made of two courses of metal held together with an insulating
connector, but these metal walls had been coupled with water now, and
they were bitter cold to the touch.

Lights were furnished from outside somewhere, there was but a switch
in the wall and a lamp in the ceiling. Walt thought that he might be
able to raise some sort of electrical disturbance with the lighting
plan, but found it impossible from the construction of the house. And,
obviously Kingman had done the best he could to filter and isolate any
electrical fixtures against radio interference that would tell the men
in Venus Equilateral that funny-work was a-foot. Kingman's duplicator
had been removed along with anything else that would give Walt a single
item that he could view with technical eye.

Otherwise, it was a miniature model of a small three-room house; not
much larger than a "playhouse" for a wealthy child, but completely
equipped for living, since Kingman planned it that way and lived in it,
needing nothing.

"Where do we go from here?" asked Walt in an angry tone.

Christine shuddered. "What I'm wondering is when these batteries will
run out," she said.

"Kingman has a horse-and-buggy mind," said Walt. "He can't understand
that we'd use miniature beam-energy tubes. They won't give out for
about a year."

"But we can't hold out that long."

"No, we damwel can't," grunted Franks unhappily. "These suits aren't
designed for anything but a severe cold. Not a viciously killing kind.
At best, they'll keep up fairly well at minus forty degrees, but below
that they lose ground degree for degree."

Christine yawned sleepily.

"Don't let that get you," said Walt nervously. "That's the first sign
of cold-adaptation."

"I know," she answered. "I've seen enough of it on Mars. You lose the
feeling of cold eventually, and then you die."

Walt held his forehead in his hands. "I should have made an effort,"
he said in a hollow voice. "At least, if I'd started a ruckus, Kingman
might have been baffled enough to let you run for it."

"You'd have been shot."

"But you'd not be in this damned place slowly freezing to death," he
argued.

"Walt," she said quietly, "remember? Kingman had that gun pointed at me
when you surrendered."

"Well, damn it, I'd rather have gone ahead anyway. You'd have been--"

"Not better off. We're still alive."

"Fine prospect. No one knows we're here; they think we're honeymooning.
The place is chilling off rapidly and will really slide like hell once
that room and the original tube reaches absolute zero. The gang below
us don't really know what's going on because they left the refrigerator
tube to my care--and Channing knows that I'd not go rambling off on a
honeymoon without leaving instructions unless I was certain without
doubt that the thing would run without trouble until I returned. I'm
impulsive, but not forgetful. As for making any kind of racket in
here--we're licked."

"Can't you do something with the miniature power tubes that run these
suits?"

"Not a chance--at least nothing that I know I can do between the
removal of the suit and the making of communications. They're just
power intake tubes tuned to the big solar beam jobs that run the
station. I--"

"Walt--please--no reproach."

He looked at her. "I think you mean that," he said.

"I do."

He nodded unhappily. "But it still obtains that it is my fault."

Christine put cold hands on his cheeks. "Walt, what would have happened
if I'd not been along?"

"I'd have been trapped alone," he told her.

"And if I'd come alone?"

"But you wouldn't have--"

"Walt, I would have. You couldn't have kept me. So, regardless of
whether you blame yourself, you need not. If anybody is to blame,
call it Kingman. And Walt, remember? I've just found you. Can you
imagine--well, put yourself in my place--how would you feel if I'd
walked out of your office and dropped out of sight? I'm going to say
it once and only once because it sounds corny, Walt, but I'd rather be
here and knowing than to be safe and forever wondering. And so long as
there is the breath of life in us, I'll go on praying for help."

Walt put his arms around her and held her gently. Christine kissed him
lightly. "Now I'm going to curl up on that couch," she said. "Don't
dare let me sleep more than six hours."

"I'll watch."

"And I'll measure time for you. Once we start sleeping the clock
around, we're goners."

Christine went to the couch and Walt piled the available covers on
after he checked the operation of the power tube that furnished heat
for her suit. He turned it up a bit, and then dimmed the light.

For Walt there was no sleep. He wandered from room to room in sheer
frustration. Given anything of a partially technical nature and he
could have made something of it. Given a tool or two or even a few
items of kitchen cutlery and he might have quelled his restlessness in
working toward some end. But to be imprisoned in a small house that was
rapidly dropping toward zero degrees Kelvin without a book, without a
knife or fork or loose bit of metal anywhere was frustration for the
technical mind.

Mark Kingman, of course, had been quite afraid of just that and he
had skinned the place bare of everything that could possibly be used.
Kingman even feared a loose bit of metal because metal struck against
metal can produce sparks that will light a fire.

There was nothing at all but himself--and Christine.

And Walt knew that it would take only a few more days before that, too,
would end.

For the metal of the house was getting to the point where he stuck to
it if he touched it. The suits kept them warm--to take them off would
have been sheer folly.

So from kitchenette to bathroom to livingroom prowled Walt. He swore at
the neat little shower--the water was frozen, even had anybody wanted
to take a bath.

       *       *       *       *       *

Kingman entered the conference room of the Interplanetary
Communications Commission with confidence. He knew his ground and he
knew his rights, and it had been none other than Mark Kingman who
managed to call this meeting together. With a bland smile, Kingman
faced the members of the Commission.

"I wish to state that the establishment known as Venus Equilateral has
forfeited their license," he said.

This was intended to be a bombshell, and it did create a goodly
amount of surprise on the part of the Commission. The chairman, Lewis
Hollister, shook his head in wonder. "I have this morning received a
message from Mars."

"It did not go through Venus Equilateral," stated Kingman.

"I'm not acquainted with the present celestial positions," said
Hollister. "However, there are many periods during which time the
communications are made direct from planet to planet--when Terra and
Mars are on line-of-sight to Venus and one another."

"The celestial positions are such that relay through Venus Equilateral
is necessary," said Kingman.

"Indeed?"

Kingman unrolled a chart showing the location of the planets of
the inner solar system--Mars, Terra, Venus--and Venus Equilateral.
According to the lines-of-sight drawn on the map, the use of the relay
station was definitely desirable.

"Conceded," said Hollister. "Now may I ask you to bring your complaint?"

"The Research Services Corporation of Northern Landing, Venus, have
for years been official monitors for the Interplanetary Communications
Commission," explained Mark Kingman. "I happen to be a director of
that corporation, which has research offices on Terra and Mars and is,
of course, admirably fitted to serve as official monitor. I make this
explanation because I feel it desirable to explain how I know about
this. After all, an unofficial monitor is a lawbreaker for making use
of confidential messages to enhance his own position. As an official
monitor, I may observe and also make suggestions pertaining to the beat
interests of interplanetary communications.

"It has been reported along official channels that the relaying of
messages through the Venus Equilateral Relay Station ceased as of
twelve hundred hours Terran mean time on Twenty December."

"Then where are they relaying their messages?" asked Hollister. "Or are
they?"

"They must," said Kingman. "Whether they use radio or the
sub-electronic energy bands, they cannot drive a beam direct from
Terra to Mars without coming too close to the sun. Ergo they must be
relaying."

"Perhaps they are using their ship-beams."

"Perhaps--and of course, the use of a secondary medium is undesirable.
This matter of interrupted or uninterrupted service is not the major
point, however. The major point is that their license to operate as a
major monopoly under the Communications Act insists that one relayed
message must pass through their station--Venus Equilateral--during
every twenty-four hour period. This is a safety measure, to ensure that
their equipment is always ready to run--even in periods when relaying
is not necessary."

"Venus Equilateral has been off the air before this."

Kingman cleared his throat. "A number of times," he agreed. "But each
time that discontinuance of service occurred, it was during a period
of emergency--and in each instance this emergency was great enough
to demand leniency. Most of the times an explanation was instantly
forthcoming; the other times were after seeking and receiving
permission to suspend operations during the emergency period. This,
gentlemen, is Twenty-three December and no message has passed through
the Venus Equilateral Relay Station since noon on Twenty December."

"Your statements, if true, indicate that Venus Equilateral has violated
their license," nodded Hollister. "However, we are inclined to be
lenient with them because they have been exemplary in the past and--"

"And," interrupted Kingman, "they are overconfident. They think that
they are big enough and clever enough to do as they damn well please!"

"Indeed?"

"Well, they've been doing it, haven't they?"

"We've seen no reason for interfering with their operations. And they
are getting the messages through."

Kingman smiled. "How?"

Hollister shrugged. "If you claim they aren't using the station, I
wouldn't know."

"And if the government were to ask--you would be quite embarrassed."

"Then what do you suggest?" asked Hollister.

"Venus Equilateral has failed to live up to the letter of their license
regardless of what medium they are using to relay communications around
Sol," said Kingman. "Therefore I recommend that you suspend their
license."

"And then who will run Venus Equilateral?" asked Hollister.

"As of three years ago, the Terran Electric Company of Evanston,
Illinois, received an option on the operation of an interplanetary
communications company," said Kingman. "This option was to operate
at such a time as Venus Equilateral ceased operating. Now, since
Venus Equilateral has failed, I suggest that we show them that their
high-handedness will not be condoned. I recommend that this option be
fulfilled; that the license now held by Venus Equilateral be suspended
and turned over to Terran Electric."

Hollister nodded vaguely. "You understand that Venus Equilateral has
posted as bond the holdings of their company. This of course will be
forfeit if we choose to act. Now, Mr. Kingman, is the Terran Electric
Company prepared to post a bond equivalent to the value of Venus
Equilateral? Obviously we cannot wrest holdings from one company
and turn them over to another company free of bond. We must have
bond--assurance that Terran Electric will fulfill the letter of the
license."

"Naturally we cannot post full bond," replied Kingman stiffly. "But
we will post sufficient bond to make the transfer possible. The
remainder of the evaluation will revert to the Commission--as it was
previously. I might point out that had Venus Equilateral kept their
inventiveness and efforts directed only at communications, they would
not be now in this position. It was their side-interests that made
their un-subsidized and free incorporation possible. I promise you that
Terran Electric will never stoop to making a rubber-stamp group out of
the Interplanetary Communications Commission."

Hollister thought for a moment. But instead of thinking of the
ramifications of the deal, Hollister was remembering that in his home
was a medium sized duplicator made by Terran Electric. It had a very
low serial number and it had been delivered on consignment. It had been
sent to him not as a gift, but as a customer-use research--to be paid
for only if the customer were satisfied. Not only had Terran Electric
been happy to accept the thousand dollar bill made in the duplicator,
but it had happily returned three hundred dollars' worth of change--all
with the same serial number. But since Hollister received his
consignment along with the very first of such deliveries, Hollister had
prospered very well and had been very neatly situated by the time that
the desperate times of the Period of Duplication took place. Hollister
recalled that Venus Equilateral wanted to suppress the duplicator.
Hollister recalled also that Venus Equilateral had been rather rough on
a certain magistrate in Buffalo, and though he thought that it was only
a just treatment, it was nevertheless a deep and burning disrespect for
the Law.

Besides, if this deal went through, Hollister would once more be a
guiding hand in the operation of Venus Equilateral. He did believe that
Channing and Franks could out-do Terran Electric any day in the week,
but business is business. And if Kingman failed, the license could
always be turned back to Channing & Co.--with himself still holding a
large hunk of the pie.

"You will post bond by certified identium check," said Hollister.
"And as the new holder of the license, we will tender you papers that
will direct Venus Equilateral to hand over to you as representative
of Terran Electric, the holdings necessary to operate the Venus
Equilateral Relay Station and other outlying equipments and stations."

Kingman nodded happily. His bit of personal graft had begun to pay
off--though he of course did not consider his gift anything but a
matter of furnishing to a deserving person a gratuity that worked no
hardship on the giver.

The bond annoyed Kingman. Even in an era when material holdings had
little value, the posting of such securities as demanded left Kingman a
poor man. Money, of course, was not wanted nor expected. What he handed
over was a statement of the equivalent value on an identium check of
the Terran Electric Company, his holdings in the Research Services
Corporation, and just about everything he had in the way of items
that could not be handled readily by the normal sized duplicator. At
Terran Electric, for instance, they had duplicators that could build a
complete spacecraft if done in sections, and these monstrous machines
were what kept Terran Electric from the cobweb-growing stage. A man
could not build a house with the average household-sized duplicator,
and to own one large enough to build automobiles and the like was
foolish for they were not needed that often. Kingman didn't like to
post that size of bond, but he felt certain that within a year he would
be able to re-establish his free holdings in Terran Electric because
of revenues from Venus Equilateral. Doubtless, too, there were many
people on Venus Equilateral that he could hire--that he would need
desperately.

For Kingman had no intention of losing.

       *       *       *       *       *

A duplicator produced snowflakes by the myriad and hurled them into
the corridor-ventilators. They swirled and skirled and piled into deep
drifts at the corners and in cul-de-sacs along the way. A faint odor of
pine needles went with the air, and from newly-installed water pipes
along the cornices, long icicles were forming. There was the faint
sound of sleigh bells along the corridors, but this was obviously
synthetic since Venus Equilateral had little use for a horse.

Kids who had never seen snow nor known a cold snap reveled in their
new snow suits and built a huge snowman along the Mall. One long ramp
that led into a snaky corridor was taken over by squatter's or rather
"sledder's"--rights and it became downright dangerous for a pedestrian
to try to keep his ankles away from the speeding sleds.

Snow forts were erected on either side of one wide corridor and the air
was filled with flying snowballs.

And from the station-wide public announcement system came the crooned
strains of Adeste Fideles and White Christmas.

A snowball hissed past Arden's ear and she turned abruptly to
give argument. She was met by another that caught her full in the
face--after which it was wiped off by her husband. "Merry Christmas,"
he chuckled.

"Not very," she said, but she could not help but smile back at him.
When he finished wiping her face Arden neatly dropped a handful of
snow down his collar. He retaliated by scooping a huge block out of
a near-by drift and letting it drape over her head. Arden pushed him
backwards into a snowbank and leaped on him and shovelled snow with
both hands until her hands stung with cold and Don was completely
covered.

Channing climbed out of the drift as Arden raced away. He gave chase,
though both of them were laughing too much to do much running. He
caught her a few hundred feet down the hall and tackled her, bringing
her down in another drift. As he was piling snow on her, he became the
focal point of a veritable barrage from behind, which drove him to
cover behind a girder. His assailants deployed and flushed him from
behind his cover, and he stood in the center of a large square area
being pelted from all sides.

Channing found a handkerchief and waved it as surrender. The pelting
slowed a bit, and Channing took that time to race to one side; join Jim
Baler, and hurl some snowballs at Barney Carroll across the square.
That evened things and the snowfight was joined by Arden, who arose
from her snowdrift to join Barney Carroll and Keg Johnson.

"We used to freeze 'em," grunted Don.

"Me too," agreed Jim. "These things wouldn't stop a fly."

Then down the corridor there hurtled a snowball a good two feet in
diameter. It caught Channing between the shoulder blades and flattened
him completely. Baler turned just in time to stop another one with the
pit of his stomach. He went 'ooof!' and landed in the drift beside Don.
Another huge one went over their heads as Don was arising, and he saw
it splat against a wall to shower Barney Carroll and Arden with bits.

"Those would," remarked Don. "And if Walt weren't honeymooning
somewheres, I'd suspect that Our Tom Swift had just hauled off and
re-invented the ancient Roman catapult."

"There's always Wes Farrell, or does the physicist in him make him
eschew such anachronisms?" asked Jim.

Arden scurried across the square in time to hear him, and she replied:
"Not at all. So long as the thing is powered by a new spring-alloy and
charged by a servo-mechanism run by a beam-energy tube. Bet he packs
'em with an automatic packing gadget, too."

Barney Carroll caught one across the knees that tripped him headlong as
he crossed the square. He arrived grunting and grinning. "We can either
take it idly," he said, "or retreat in disorder, or storm whatever
ramparts he has back there."

"I dislike to retreat in disorder," said Channing. "Seems to me that we
can get under that siege-gun of his. He must take time to re-load. Keep
low, fellers, and pack yourself a goodly load of snowballs as we go."

"How to carry 'em?" asked Arden.

Don stripped off his muffler, and made a sling of it. Then down the
corridor they went, dodging the huge snowballs that came flying over at
regular intervals. Channing finally timed the interval, and then they
raced forward in clear periods and took cover when fire was expected.

They came upon Farrell eventually. He was 'dug in' behind a huge drift
over which the big missiles came looping. Farrell had obviously cut
the power of his catapult to take care of the short-range trajectory,
but his aim was still excellent. With as many snowballs as they could
carry, the attackers stormed the drift, pelting without aim until their
supply was gone and then scooping snow up and throwing without much
packing.

Behind the rampart was Wes Farrell with a trough-shaped gadget and a
pair of heavy coil springs. Above the rear end of the trough was a
duplicator. It dropped a snowball on the trough and the springs snapped
forward.

The flying ball caught Don Channing in the pit of the stomach just as
he attained the top of the rampart.

When he regained the top once more, the festivities were about over.
The shooting was stopped, and the others of his side had Farrell held
face upward on the trough while the duplicator dropped snowball after
snowball on him.

"Wonder how far we could shoot him," suggested Jim Baler.

Farrell did not think that funny. He struggled to his feet and then
grinned, "Fine war," he told them. "Anybody ready for a bit of hot
toddy?"

Channing grunted. "Yeah, and a hot bath and a hearty dinner and a seven
hour sleep. So you've taken over Walt's job of making weapons, huh?"

"Walt will be green with envy," said Arden.

Don sobered. "He's missing plenty. I've got all the word out that if
he's seen, get here quick. He must have dropped the _Relay Girl_ in
some out of the way place. He hasn't landed on any regular spaceport."

"There's lots of room for that in the Palanortis Country," said Farrell.

"We've got likker and wassail and turkey," said Arden. "Also mistletoe.
Let's go to our place and drink Walt's health and Christine's
happiness."

"And that's appropriately apportioned," remarked Don with a grin.
"Walt's health and Christine's happiness. But I'll bet a hat that
they'd not mind being cold if they knew what fun this is." He brushed
snow from the back of his neck and grinned. "Let's add fuel for the
inner man," he suggested, leading the way to the Channing apartment.

       *       *       *       *       *

Walt Franks sat dully in a chair, his eyes glazed over and but half
open. Through them dimly and out of focus he could see Christine,
who was huddled and quiet under the blankets. Her lips were blue
and Walt felt dully that this should not be so but he had trouble
remembering why. There was but one thought in his mind, and that was
to awaken Christine before he himself fell asleep. They'd been doing
that for--for--for years? No, that was not right. It must have been
days, because he hadn't been living with Christine for years. Fact,
he hadn't really lived with Christine at all; he'd just found her when
this all happened--and--and--

He shook himself, and the motion hurt inside and outside. His muscles
ached and where his skin touched a bit of clothing that hadn't been
against his skin before it was bitterly cold. Quickly, Walt opened his
hands and then drew out his left hand from the pocket and took a quick
look at his wrist watch. He stuffed his hand back in again quickly and
tried to stand up.

His legs were numb and he almost fell forward, which carried him
where he wanted to go anyway, so he just let himself stumble forward
heartlessly until he fell on his knees beside the couch.

"Christine," he mumbled. To himself his voice sounded loud, but it was
faint and cracked. It hurt his lips to move, but he moved them for
Christine where he would have moved them for no one else.

"Christine," he said, a bit more clearly and loudly on the second
attempt.

"Christine!"

Dull eyes opened and cracked lips smiled faintly and painfully.

"Mus' wake up," he warned.

She nodded--painfully slow. She made no effort to move.

Walt stood up and made his way to the accursed feeding machine. He
pressed the button and collected dollops of hot food in a shallow bowl.
It was a mess because coffee mingled with the many other items of a
fine balanced diet including appetizer and dessert made just that--a
mess. But it was hot and it was food, and though there was not a single
bit of silverware in the place, Walt managed. He carried the bowl to
the couch and offered it to Christine, who protestingly permitted Walt
to feed her with his fingers. She did not eat much, but it did warm
her. Then Walt finished the plate.

Christine shuddered under the blankets. "Suits losing ground?" she
asked.

Walt nodded pitifully.

Christine thought that over for a full minute. Then she said: "Must get
up, Walt."

Walt wanted to let her stay there, but he knew that she must arise and
move in order to keep from freezing. He nodded dumbly.

"Losing ground," he said, meaning the heated suite. Minutes he
considered it. Long minutes....

There was a faint crackling noise, and a pungent odor came. It
increased without either of them noticing it because their senses were
numbed. A curl of smoke wreathed Walt's chest and it rose above his
face and got into his eyes. Walt coughed and tears came and the salty
water dribbled down his cheeks, dropped to his suit, and froze.

"Something burning," he mumbled, looking around to see what it was.

"It's you!" cried Christine.

Walt looked down at his hip, where the tiny power tube was, and he saw
it smoking. As he watched, flame burst from the inside and came through.

He shucked the suit just as it burst into open flames, and he watched
it burn on the metal floor. He warmed himself against the flames, but
they were too meager to really help, and five minutes later all that
was left of the heated suit was a still-operating power tube and a
tangled maze of red hot heater-resistance wire.

Walt shivered. Beneath the suit he wore the usual slacks and
short-sleeved shirt, and it was pitifully inadequate. The dullness that
had been assailing him for hours reasserted itself--strengthened by
the exertion of removing the suit--and helped not at all by the scant
warmth from the fire.

Walt reeled dizzily, his eyes half closed, beads of ice from the tears
on his lashes gave the scene a dazzlingly sparkling tone that prevented
him from seeing clearly.

He fell forward and his body twitched violently as his skin touched the
viciously cold metal of the floor.

Christine hurled the covers back and with great effort she pulled and
lifted Walt onto the couch. She covered him and then leaned down and
kissed him with dry, cracked lips. As she stood up, she felt a spear of
pain at her side.

Looking, she found her suit on fire as Walt's had been. As Christine
fumbled with cold fingers at the fastenings, she realized that only
the added warmth of the blankets had kept both suits from burning out
at the same time. For they were duplicated models and were identical;
therefore they would burn out at exactly the same temperature.

She shivered in her thin summer frock even though she stood with the
flames licking at her sandals.

Then there were two useless tangles of wire on the floor, their red-hot
wires struggling hopelessly against the monstrous quantity of cold.

Christine shuddered convulsively, and turned slowly to look at Walt. He
was asleep already.

The sleep of frozen death.

Christine's eyes filled with tears which she brushed away quickly. She
smiled faintly.

It seemed warmer under the blankets, or maybe it was warmer there
beside him. His arm went around her instinctively though he slept and
Christine pressed against him partly to gain what warmth there was from
him and partly to give him what warmth there was in her.

It was warmer beneath the blankets.

Or, she thought just before the dizzying but welcome waves of black
slumber crept over her, this is that feeling of warmth that goes
before--

       *       *       *       *       *

"Now that," said Arden with complimentary tones, "is something that
duplicating can't buy."

She meant the twenty piece orchestra that filled the vast hall with
music. It was a vast place, for it contained three thousand people,
all talking or dancing. Joe presided over a bowl of punch that would
have made Nero die of jealousy--it was platinum, fifteen feet in
diameter and studded profusely with huge gold chasings and inlays, and
positively alive with diamonds and emeralds. On the edge of the huge
bowl hung Joe's original sign, and Joe handled a huge silver ladle to
scoop the highly-charged punch into small gold cups.

Linna Johnson, she of the formerly be-jewelled class, proudly displayed
a bit of hand-made jewelry and told everybody that Keg had made it for
her. Barney Carroll was holding forth at great length to a group of
women on the marvels and mysteries of digging in the Martian desert
for traces of the Lost Martian Civilization, while his partner Jim was
explaining to Chuck and Freddie Thomas just how they intended to let
a matter-transmitter do their excavating for them. Wes Farrell was
explaining the operation of the element-filter and heterodyne gadget
that produced pure synthetic elements to a woman who nodded gayly and
didn't understand a word he said but would rather be baffled by Farrell
than be catered to by anyone else.

"It's quite a sight," agreed Don. "Never before."

Arden sighed. "And never again!"

"It's an occasion to remember," grinned Don. "Christmas Eve at Venus
Equilateral! Here's Triplanet Films with their cameramen, and they
tell me that the Interplanetary Network has called off all Christmas
broadcasts at midnight, Terra mean time, to carry the sounds of revelry
from Venus Equilateral as a Christmas celebration program."

"Yeah," said Arden, "and tomorrow I've got to go to church and explain
to a class of Sunday Schoolsters how and why Santa Claus can make the
haul across a hundred million miles of space in an open sleigh powered
with a batch of reindeer."

"Some blowout," said Warren, coming up with his wife.

Hilda Warren smiled happily. "I don't think I've ever appreciated how
many people really worked here," she said.

"Shucks," grinned Don, "I've been trying to get along by merely
mumbling about half of the names myself. And if I may point it out,
Hilda, you're standing under a hunk of mistletoe." And before she could
say anything, Don had proceeded with great gusto to the amusement of
Warren.

Arden shook her head. "The rascal has been standing there for a half
hour because people are always coming up to tell him it's a fine party."

"Method in my madness," nodded Channing.

There was a faint tinkle of bells in the distance, and as people became
aware of them, Keg Johnson tapped Don on the shoulder and said: "The
fleet's in, Don. Here comes our professional Santa Claus. And the
fleet is going to land and await midnight tomorrow night. The Johnson
Spaceline is going to have the honor of hauling, bag, baggage, foot,
horse, and marines to Terra. Everything ready?"

Don nodded absently. He listened to the sleigh bells for a moment and
then said: "Everything of a personal nature is packed. The rest is
worthless. How many men have you?"

"About two hundred."

"Then tell 'em to forget the packing and join in. After this mass, we
won't even notice a couple of hundred more. But tell me is S. Claus
going to drive that thing right in here?"

Keg nodded. "He's running on snow in the corridor, of course, but he's
equipped with wheels for hard sledding."

The orchestra broke into Jingle Bells and a full dozen reindeer came
prancing in through the large double doors. They came in a whirl of
snow and a blast of icy air from the corridor, and they drew a very
traditional Santa Claus behind them in the traditional sleigh laden
with great bags.

Before the door was closed on the veritable blizzard in the hallway,
several men came in hauling a great log which they placed on the
monstrous fireplace at one end of the vast hall.

The only incongruity was the huge spit turned by a gear train from a
motor run from a beam energy tube.

Santa Claus handed out a few gifts to those nearest and then mounted
the orchestra platform. He held up his hands for silence.

"Before I perform my usual job of delivering gifts and remembrances,"
he said, "I want you to hear a word or two from your friend and
mine--Don Channing!"

This brought a roar. And Channing went to the platform slowly.

"My friends," said Don Channing, "I've very little to say and I'm not
going to take a lot of time in saying it. We've had a lot of hard work
on Venus Equilateral and we've had a lot of fun. Venus Equilateral has
been our home--and leaving our home tomorrow night will be as great
a wrench as was the leaving of our original homes so many years ago
to come to Venus Equilateral. It will for me. I shall darned well be
homesick.

"Yet--this job is finished. And well done. Frankly," he grinned
cheerfully, "we started out just covering the planet-to-planet job.
We extended that to include planet-to-ship, and then when they added
ship-to-planet, it automatically made it ship-to-ship. Well, we've got
it all set now to make it anywhere-at-all without relay. People speak
of Venus Equilateral and forget the Relay Station part of the name.
A relay station is no darned good without something to relay--and
you know, good people, I'm completely baffled as of now for a
communications project. I can't conceive of a problem in communications
that would be at all urgent. I--"

       *       *       *       *       *

A loop of the maze of heater-wire from the fire-ruined suit twisted
on the bare metal floor. The bare metal shorted part of the long loop
and the remaining section grew hotter as a consequence. The expansion
caused by heat made the tangle of wire writhe slowly, and two crossing
lines touched, shortening the overheated loop still more.

It flared incandescent and blew like a fuse and showered the room with
minute droplets of molten metal that landed on wall and floor solid,
but yet warm.

A tiny stinging rain of them pelted Walt's face. This penetrated when
few other things would have. Walt stirred coldly painful, and his eyes
struggled against a slightly-frozen rim that tried to hold eyelash to
cheek.

It took minutes for the idea to filter through his mind: _What woke me?_

He could not know that it had been his subconscious mind. To the
trained electronic technician the arc-discharge of a shorted circuit
has a special meaning where to the untrained it may be but an ambiguous
"Splat!" The blowing of a fuse penetrates the subconscious and brings
to that part of the brain a realization of the facts in the case just
as a trained musician will wince when the third violin strikes a sour
note in the midst of full orchestration.

Instinctively, Walt's trained brain considered the source. Ponderously
slow, he turned painful head to look on the floor at the remains of the
ruined suits. As he watched, the still writhing metal shorted again and
a loop glowed brightly, then died as the additional heat expanded it
away from its short circuit.

Walt wondered about the time.

He found his left arm trapped beneath Christine and he turned from one
side to the other and he considered her dully. She slept, and was as
still and stiff as death itself.

Walt released his arm, and the motion beneath the blankets pumped
viciously cold air under the covers and chilled his already stiff body.
He looked at his watch; it was nine hours since he'd awakened Christine
before.

Walt felt no pain, really. He wanted desperately to snuggle down under
the covers once more and return to oblivion, where it was warmer and
pleasant. But there was something--

Something--

Taking his nerve in his teeth, Walt forced his brain to clear.
Christine--didn't deserve this.

Yet if he got out from beneath those covers he would most certainly
freeze in a matter of minutes. Yet he must--do--something.

He considered the tubes and their tangles of wire through puffed,
half-closed eyes. He thought he was moving with lightning-rapidity
when he leaped out of the bed but his motion was insufferably slow.
He dropped on his knees beside the tubes and with his bare hands he
fumbled for the hot wires. They seared his fingers and sent pungent
curls of smoke up to torture his nose, but his fingers felt no pain and
his olfactory sense did not register the nauseous odor of burning flesh.

He found the switch and turned off the tiny tubes.

He collected loop after loop and shorted them close to the terminals
of the two tubes. A hundred feet of wire looped back and forth in a
one-inch span across the terminal lugs would produce a mighty overload.
It made a bulky bundle of wire the very mass of which would prevent it
from heating to incandescence and blowing out in a shower of droplets.

One chance in a million!

Just one!

Walt snapped the switches on.

For to the trained technician, a blown fuse is not an ill. It is a
symptom of an ill, and no trained technician ever replaced a blown fuse
without attempting to find out why and where the overload occurred.

Walt crept painfully back to bed and huddled under the blankets against
Christine.

"Kiddo," he said in a dry-cracked voice, "I did what I could! Honest."

The oblivion of cold claimed Walt again....

       *       *       *       *       *

"--there is but one unhappy note in this scene of revelry," continued
Don Channing a bit soberly. "We're sorry that Walt Franks took this
opportunity of rushing off to get matrimonially involved with Christine
Baler. He didn't know this was imminent, of course, otherwise he'd have
been here. We all love Walt and he'll be unhappy that he missed the
blowout here. Fact is, fellers, I'd give eight years off of the end of
my life to get any kind of word from Walt--"

An alarm clamored in the hallway and Wes Farrell jumped a foot. He
headed for the door, but Channing stopped him with a gesture.

"Friend Farrell forgets that we no longer care," laughed Channing.
"That was the main fuse in the solar-energy tubes blowing out and we
won't be needing them any more. It is sort of pleasant to know that a
fuse blew--a thing that was formerly master and we the slave--and that
we don't have to give a hoot whether it blew or not. Let it blow, Wes.
We don't need power any more!

"So I suggest that we all have a quick one on Walt Franks wishing him
health and happiness for the rest of his life with Christine nee Baler,
even though the big bum did cheat us out of the privilege of kissing
his bride.

"And now, I'm going to step aside and let Santa Claus take over."

There was a thunderous roar of applause, and Channing rejoined Arden
and the rest of them, who had sort of gravitated together.

"Merry Christmas," he grinned at them.

Keg Johnson nodded. "Merry Christmas--and on to Terra for your Happy
New Year!"

They raised their glasses, and it was Wes Farrell who said: "To
Walt--and may he be as happy as we are!"

Arden chuckled. "We used to sing a song about 'Walt's Faults' but
there's one thing, Walt would have replaced that fuse even though we
didn't need it. The old string-saver!"

A messenger came up and tapped Don on the shoulder. Channing turned
with an apologetic smile to his guests and said: "I get more damned
interruptions. They tell me that someone is knocking on the spacelock
door. If anyone here knows any prayers, let 'em make with a short one.
Pray this--whoever it is--knows something about Walt."

Don left the party and went along the cold, snow-filled corridor to his
office. As one of the few remaining places where operations were in
full tilt, Channing's office was where any visitor would be conducted.
Once the business was finished, Channing could hurl the guest into the
middle of the big party, but the party was no place to try to conduct
business in the first place.

So with heels on desk, a glass of Scotch from his favorite file drawer,
Don Channing idled and waited for the visitor.

The knock came and Channing said "Come in!"

Two policemen--The Terran Police--entered quietly and stood aside as
the third man entered cautiously.

Channing's feet came off the desk and hit the floor with a crash.

"The spectre at the feast," snorted Channing. "Of all the people I
know, I least expected you--and wanted to see you least. I hope it is
a mutual affection, Kingman."

"Don't be godlike, Channing," said Kingman coldly. "You may think
you're running things all your way, but some people object to being
made a rubber stamp."

"Look, Kingman, get whatever is on that little mind of yours damn well
off it so I can continue as I was."

"Channing, I have here papers of disenfranchisement."

"In--deed?"

"Right."

Channing smiled.

"Don't be so damned superior," snapped Mark Kingman.

"Tell me, Markus, just why this disenchantment takes place?"

"Venus Equilateral suspended operations on Twenty December," said
Kingman. "Without notice nor permission nor explanation. Since
the relay-beams of Venus Equilateral have carried nothing for a
period beyond that permitted for suspension of operations by the
Interplanetary Communications Commission, they have seen fit to revoke
your license."

"Well! And after all I've done," said Channing.

"You see--you think you can get away with anything. Doubtless this
ultra-frigid condition was the cause of failure?"

"Possibly. And then again, maybe someone wanted to make ice cream."

"Don't be flippant. You'll find that these papers are final and
complete. You'll not be able to talk your way out of it."

"Tell me, O Learned Legal Light, who is going to run Venus Equilateral
when I am far away?"

"Some time ago Terran Electric applied for a franchise and took an
option pending failure at Venus Equilateral. This failure has taken
place and Terran Electric now controls--

"I gather that you've been forced to put Terran Electric up as bail for
the license?"

Kingman flushed.

"Find that Terran Electric wasn't worth much?" jeered Channing.

"Sufficient," said Kingman.

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe Venus Equilateral wasn't worth
much either?" asked Channing.

"I'll make it work for me. And I'll also report that one of your wild
experiments got loose and nearly froze the station out completely. I
still say that if you'd stopped toying around with everything that came
along, Venus Equilateral would still be a running corporation."

"I daresay you're right. But the devil finds work for idle hands, you
know. So just what is the future holding?"

"Channing, your attitude is entirely frivolous and unconvinced that I
mean business. To convince you, I'm going to give you twelve hours to
relinquish the station and be on your way from here!"

"May I point out that this is Christmas?"

"I've investigated that," returned Kingman. "I find that Christmas is
a completely Terran date and is therefore legal for any and all legal
action on any planet or place removed from the interplanetary boundary
of the planet Terra. That, Channing, has been established to be the
Channing Layer."

"And how about the personnel? Must they get the hell off too?" asked
Channing loftily.

"You and your managerial cohorts must leave. Those upon whom
the continued service of communications depend are requested to
remain--under new management."

"You're taking on a big bite," grinned Channing. "I trust you can chew
it."

"I need no help from the likes of you."

"Good. And now that you've had your say I'll return to my own affairs.
Make yourself at home; you'll not be bothered here."

Kingman nodded slowly. He'd expected a battle, and he believed that
Channing did not think it true. Channing would find damn well out once
he appeared before the Interplanetary Communications Commission.

In the meantime, of course, he might as well remain in the office.
There was an apartment next door, and it was comfortable.

He did not notice that every very personal thing had been removed from
Channing's office. Frankly, Kingman did not care. He had everything his
own way.

The senior officer spoke, "You need us any more, Mr. Kingman?"

"No," replied the new owner of Venus Equilateral.

"Then we'll return to duty on Terra," said the officer.

Channing went back to the party and spent ten minutes telling his
friends what had happened. Then he forgot about it and joined in
the merrymaking, which was growing more boisterous and uninhibited
by the moment. It was in the wee small hours of the clock--though
not necessarily the night, for there is no such thing on Venus
Equilateral--when the party broke up and people bundled up and braved
the howling blizzard that raged up and down the halls.

Home to warmth and cheer--and bed.

       *       *       *       *       *

Arden sat up in bed and looked sleepily around the dark bedroom. "Don,"
she asked with some concern, "you're not sick?"

"Nope," he replied.

Arden pursed her lips. She snapped the light on and saw that Don was
half-dressed.

"What gives?" she demanded, slipping out of bed and reaching for a robe.

"Frankly--"

"You've been stewing over that blown-out fuse."

He nodded sheepishly.

"I knew it. Why?"

"Those tubes have been running on a maintenance load for days. They
shouldn't blow out."

"Critter of habit, aren't you?" grinned Arden.

Don nodded. "A consuming curiosity, I guess."

Arden smiled as she continued to climb into her clothing. "You're not
the only one in this family that has a lump of curiosity," she told him.

"But it's--"

"Don," said his wife seriously, "rules is rules and electricity and
energy are things I'm none too clear on. But I do know my husband.
And when he gets up out of a warm bed in the middle of the night to
go roaming through a frozen world, it's urgent. And since the man
in question has been married to me for a number of years, getting
up out of a warm bed and going out into snow and ice means that the
urgency-angle is directed at whatever lies at the other end. I want to
go see--and I'm going to!"

Channing nodded absently. "Probably a wild-goose chase," he said.
"Ready?"

Arden nodded. "Lead on, curious one."

Channing blinked when he saw the light in the room where the solar
intake tubes were. He hastened forward to find Wes Farrell making some
complex measurements and juggling a large page of equations. Farrell
looked up and grinned sheepishly.

"Couldn't sleep," he explained. "Wanted to do just one more job, I
guess."

Channing nodded silently.

Arden said: "Don't kid anybody. Both of you want to know why a fuse
should blow on a dead line."

Farrell grinned and Channing nodded again. "I--" started Channing, but
turned as the door opened.

"Thought we'd find you here," said Barney Carroll. Jim Baler added: "We
got to arguing as to how and why a fuse should blow on an empty line
and decided to ask you."

Arden squinted at Jim. "Did it ever occur to you that we might have
been in bed?"

Barney grinned. "I figured if we were awake from wondering about it, so
would you-all. So--"

Jim interrupted. "So what have you found?"

Channing shook his head. "Ask Wes," he said. "He got here first and was
measuring the deflecting electrode voltages when I arrived. I note that
he has a hunk of copper busbar across the main fuse terminals."

Wes smiled sheepishly. "Had to," he said. "Short was really shorted!"

"So what have you found?"

Farrell pointed to a place on a chart of the station. "About here."

"Spinach," said Channing, "there isn't anything there!"

Farrell handed the figures to Don. "That's where the short circuit load
is coming from," he said.

"Up there," said Channing, "I'll bet it is hitting close to seventy or
eighty degrees below zero. A supercold condition--"

He paused and shook his head. "The tube room reached absolute zero some
time ago," he said, "and there's no heavy drain to that position."

"Well?" demanded Arden, yawning. "Do we wait until tomorrow morning or
go up there now?"

Channing thought for a moment. "We're due to leave in the morning," he
said. "Yet I think that the question of why anything up in an empty
section of Venus Equilateral should be blowing fuses would belabor us
all of our lives if we didn't make this last screwball search. Let's
go. Wes, get your portable sun-finder, huh?"

"His what?" demanded Arden.

"Figger of speech, sweet. We mean a small portable relay tube that we
can stick in series with this gawd-awful drain and use for a direction
finder. I have no intention of trying to scour every storeroom in that
area for that which I don't really believe is there."

The main deterrent to swift action was the bitter, bitter cold that
stabbed at their faces and hands which were not enclosed in the
electrically heated suite--of which each one of them wore three against
this ultraviolent chill.

"There should be a door here," objected Don, reading a blueprint from
the large roll he carried under his arm. "Fact is, this series of rooms
seems to have been sealed off entirely though the blueprint calls for a
door, about here!"

"How could anybody re-seal a doorway?" asked Barney.

"Duplicator," said Don thoughtfully. "And I smell rats!"

"So. And how do we get in?" demanded Arden.

"We break in," said Channing harshly. "Come on, gang. We're going back
downstairs and get us a cutter!"

The cutter consisted of a single-focus scanner beam that Don wielded
like an acetylene torch. Clean and silently it cut through the metal
wall and the section fell inward with a slight crash.

They stepped in through the opening.

"Someone has been homesteading," said Channing in a gritty voice. "Nice
prefab home, hey? Let's add house-breaking to our other crimes. I'd
like to singe the heels offa the character that did this. And I think
I'll let the main one simmer."

"Who?" asked Arden.

Channing pointed to the huge energy tube at one end of the room. It
bore the imprint of Terran Electric.

"Kingman," he said drily.

He applied his cutter to the wall of the cottage and burned his way
through. "No one living here," he said. "Colder than Pluto in here,
too. Look, Wes, here's your short circuit. Tubes from--"

"And here," said Farrell quickly, "are your missing chums!"

Channing came over to stand beside Farrell, looking down at the
too-still forms. Baler looked at Channing with a puzzled glance, and
Channing shook his head quietly. Then he said: "I may be wrong, but it
strikes me that Walt and Christine interrupted skullduggery at work and
were trapped as a consequence. No man, no matter how insane, would ever
enter a trap like this willingly. This is neither a love nest nor a
honeymoon cottage, Jim. This is a death trap!"

Channing turned from the place and left on a dead run. He paused at the
door to the huge room and yelled: "Don't touch 'em 'till I get Doc!"

       *       *       *       *       *

By the clock, Christmas Day dawned bright and clear. The strip
fluorescents came on in the corridors of Venus Equilateral and there
began the inexorable flow of people towards the South End Landing Stage.

Each carried a small bag. In this were the several _uniques_ he
possessed and a complete set of recordings on the rest of his personal
possessions. Moving was as easy as that--and once they reached Terra,
everything they owned could be reproduced at will.

It was both glad and sad; the thrill of a new experience to come
balancing the loss of the comfortable routine of the old. Friends,
however, managed to get aboard the same spacecraft as a general rule
and so the pain of parting was spared them.

One by one the huge ships dropped South and then headed for Terra.
One by one until the three thousand-odd people who lived, loved, and
operated Venus Equilateral through its working years had embarked.

Channing shook hands with Captain Johannson as he got aboard the last
remaining ship. Behind Channing there came Keg Johnson, who supervised
the carrying aboard of Walt Franks and Christine Baler. They were
seated side by side in deck chairs on the operating bridge of the
spacecraft and Arden came up to stand beside her husband as she asked:
"Captain Johannson, you are empowered to perform matrimony?"

Johannson nodded.

"Well," she said, "I'm the Maid of Honor and this husband of mine
intends to be best man. We agree that the couple there have spent too
much time living with one another--"

"If she says 'sin' I'll strangle her," groaned Walt.

Christine reached over and took his hand. "She doesn't dare," said the
girl. "She knows it was ah--er--colder than sin!"

Big Jim Baler clenched and unclenched his hands. "I still think we
should have called on Mark Kingman," he said in a growl.

Channing shook his head. "And spoil the fine end of a fine holiday?
Nope. And also spoil a fine bit of retribution?"

Linna Johnson smiled. "A man of action like Jim finds the finer points
of retribution a bit too smooth," she said. "But it'll be plenty rough
on Kingman."

"To the devil with Kingman," said Barney Carroll. "I say we ought to
commit this ceremony at once and then repair to the bar--or have the
bar repair here--and have a last drink to Venus Equilateral."

Walt Franks stood up. "I'm still stiff," he said. "But I'll be damned
if I'm going to sit down at my own wedding."

Christine stood beside him. "You're thinking about that 'repair to the
bar' and don't want to get left," she told him. "Well, frozen solid or
not, I'm sticking tight."

Johannson turned to the pilot and gave the order. The big ship dropped
from the platform, and they all looked down through the glass dome at
the diminishing view of Venus Equilateral.

The captain turned to Channing and asked: "Just what did happen to Mark
Kingman?"

"Mark has mortgaged his everlasting black soul to the hilt to maintain
communications under the standard franchise. For a period of five
years, Mark Kingman must live on that damned station alone in the cold
and the loneliness, maintaining once each day a relay contact or lose
his shirt. And because he dropped the _Relay Girl_ into the sun when
he planned that 'elopement' we've just confiscated his ship. That
leaves Kingman aboard a practically frozen relay station with neither
the means to get away nor the ability to handle the situation at all.
He must stay, because when he puts a foot on any planet we clap him
in jail for kidnaping. He's lost his financial shirt because Venus
Equilateral is an obsolete commodity and he'll never regain enough of
his personal financial standing to fight such a case.

"If I were Mark Kingman, about now I'd--"

Channing shook his head, leaving the sentence unfinished. He turned to
Walt. "Got a ring handy?"

Wes Farrell held up a greenish metal ring that glinted iridescent
colors. "Y'might try this new synthetic," he offered.

Walt shook his head. He fumbled in an inner pocket and came up with a
small band that was very plain. "This is a certified unique," he said
proudly. "It was mother's, and grandmother's, too."

Then with Venus Equilateral still visible in the port below and a whole
sky above, Captain Johannson opened his book and started to read.
Behind them was work and fun and pain, and before them--

Was the exciting, uncharted future.



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