Cerpen_scifi

The Last Question
By Isaac Asimov

This is by far my favorite story of all those I have written.
After all, I undertook to tell several trillion years of human history in the space of a short story and I leave it to you as to how well I succeeded. I also undertook another task, but I won't tell you what that was lest l spoil the story for you.
It is a curious fact that innumerable readers have asked me if I wrote this story. They seem never to remember the title of the story or (for sure) the author, except for the vague thought it might be me. But, of course, they never forget the story itself especially the ending. The idea seems to drown out everything -- and I'm satisfied that it should.

The last question was asked for the first time, half in jest, on May 21, 2061, at a time when humanity first stepped into the light. The question came about as a result of a five-dollar bet over highballs, and it happened this way:

Alexander Adell and Bertram Lupov were two of the faithful attendants of Multivac. As well as any human beings could, they knew what lay behind the cold, clicking, flashing face -- miles and miles of face -- of that giant computer. They had at least a vague notion of the general plan of relays and circuits that had long since grown past the point where any single human could possibly have a firm grasp of the whole.
Multivac was self-adjusting and self-correcting. It had to be, for nothing human could adjust and correct it quickly enough or even adequately enough. So Adell and Lupov attended the monstrous giant only lightly and superficially, yet as well as any men could. They fed it data, adjusted questions to its needs and translated the answers that were issued. Certainly they, and all others like them, were fully entitled to share in the glory that was Multivac's.

For decades, Multivac had helped design the ships and plot the trajectories that enabled man to reach the Moon, Mars, and Venus, but past that, Earth's poor resources could not support the ships. Too much energy was needed for the long trips. Earth exploited its coal and uranium with increasing efficiency, but there was only so much of both.

But slowly Multivac learned enough to answer deeper questions more fundamentally, and on May 14, 2061, what had been theory, became fact.

The energy of the sun was stored, converted, and utilized directly on a planet-wide scale. All Earth turned off its burning coal, its fissioning uranium, and flipped the switch that connected all of it to a small station, one mile in diameter, circling the Earth at half the distance of the Moon. All Earth ran by invisible beams of sunpower.

Seven days had not sufficed to dim the glory of it and Adell and Lupov finally managed to escape from the public functions, and to meet in quiet where no one would think of looking for them, in the deserted underground chambers, where portions of the mighty buried body of Multivac showed. Unattended, idling, sorting data with contented lazy clickings, Multivac, too, had earned its vacation and the boys appreciated that. They had no intention, originally, of disturbing it.

They had brought a bottle with them, and their only concern at the moment was to relax in the company of each other and the bottle.

"It's amazing when you think of it," said Adell. His broad face had lines of weariness in it, and he stirred his drink slowly with a glass rod, watching the cubes of ice slur clumsily about. "All the energy we can possibly ever use for free. Enough energy, if we wanted to draw on it, to melt all Earth into a big drop of impure liquid iron, and still never miss the energy so used. All the energy we could ever use, forever and forever and forever."

Lupov cocked his head sideways. He had a trick of doing that when he wanted to be contrary, and he wanted to be contrary now, partly because he had had to carry the ice and glassware. "Not forever," he said.
"Oh, hell, just about forever. Till the sun runs down, Bert."
"That's not forever."
"All right, then. Billions and billions of years. Ten billion, maybe. Are you satisfied?"
Lupov put his fingers through his thinning hair as though to reassure himself that some was still left and sipped gently at his own drink. "Ten billion years isn't forever."
"Well, it will last our time, won't it?"
"So would the coal and uranium."
"All right, but now we can hook up each individual spaceship to the Solar Station, and it can go to Pluto and back a million times without ever worrying about fuel. You can't do that on coal and uranium. Ask Multivac, if you don't believe me.
"I don't have to ask Multivac. I know that."
"Then stop running down what Multivac's done for us," said Adell, blazing up, "It did all right."
"Who says it didn't? What I say is that a sun won't last forever. That's all I'm saying. We're safe for ten billion years, but then what?" Lupow pointed a slightly shaky finger at the other. "And don't say we'll switch to another sun."
There was silence for a while. Adell put his glass to his lips only occasionally, and Lupov's eyes slowly closed. They rested.
Then Lupov's eyes snapped open. "You're thinking we'll switch to another sun when ours is done, aren't you?"
"I'm not thinking."
"Sure you are. You're weak on logic, that's the trouble with you. You're like the guy in the story who was caught in a sudden shower and who ran to a grove of trees and got under one. He wasn't worried, you see, because he figured when one tree got wet through, he would just get under another one."
"I get it," said Adell. "Don't shout. When the sun is done, the other stars will be gone, too."
"Darn right they will," muttered Lupov. "It all had a beginning in the original cosmic explosion, whatever that was, and it'll all have an end when all the stars run down. Some run down faster than others. Hell, the giants won't last a hundred million years. The sun will last ten billion years and maybe the dwarfs will last two hundred billion for all the good they are. But just give us a trillion years and everything will be dark. Entropy has to increase to maximum, that's all."
"I know all about entropy," said Adell, standing on his dignity.
"The hell you do."
"I know as much as you do."
"Then you know everything's got to run down someday."
"All right. Who says they won't?"
"You did, you poor sap. You said we had all the energy we needed, forever. You said 'forever.'
It was Adell's turn to be contrary. "Maybe we can build things up again someday," he said.
"Never."
"Why not? Someday."
"Never."
"Ask Multivac."
"You ask Multivac. I dare you. Five dollars says it can't be done."
Adell was just drunk enough to try, just sober enough to be able to phrase the necessary symbols and operations into a question which, in words, might have corresponded to this: Will mankind one day without the net expenditure of energy be able to restore the sun to its full youthfulness even after it had died of old age? Or maybe it could be put more simply like this: How can the net amount of entropy of the universe be massively decreased?
Multivac fell dead and silent. The slow flashing of lights ceased, the distant sounds of clicking relays ended.
Then, just as the frightened technicians felt they could hold their breath no longer, there was a sudden springing to life of the teletype attached to that portion of Multivac. Five words were printed: INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR MEANINGFUL ANSWER.
"No bet," whispered Lupov. They left hurriedly.
By next morning, the two, plagued with throbbing head and cottony mouth, had forgotten the incident.
Jerrodd, Jerrodine, and Jerrodette I and II watched the starry picture in the visiplate change as the passage through hyperspace was completed in its non-time lapse. At once, the even powdering of stars gave way to the predominance of a single bright shining disk, the size of a marble, centered on the viewing-screen.
"That's X-23," said Jerrodd confidently. His thin hands clamped tightly behind his back and the knuckles whitened.
The little Jerrodettes, both girls, had experienced the hyperspace passage for the first time in their lives and were self-conscious over the momentary sensation of insideoutness. They buried their giggles and chased one another wildly about their mother, screaming, "We've reached X-23 -- we've reached X-23 -- we've --"
"Quiet, children." said Jerrodine sharply. "Are you sure, Jerrodd?"
"What is there to be but sure?" asked Jerrodd, glancing up at the bulge of featureless metal just under the ceiling. It ran the length of the room, disappearing through the wall at either end. It was as long as the ship.
Jerrodd scarcely knew a thing about the thick rod of metal except that it was called a Microvac, that one asked it questions if one wished; that if one did not it still had its task of guiding the ship to a preordered destination; of feeding on energies from the various Sub-galactic Power Stations; of computing the equations for the hyperspatial jumps.
Jerrodd and his family had only to wait and live in the comfortable residence quarters of the ship. Someone had once told Jerrodd that the "ac" at the end of "Microvac" stood for ''automatic computer" in ancient English, but he was on the edge of forgetting even that.
Jerrodine's eyes were moist as she watched the visiplate. "I can't help it. I feel funny about leaving Earth."
"Why, for Pete's sake?" demanded Jerrodd. "We had nothing there. We'll have everything on X-23. You won't be alone. You won't be a pioneer. There are over a million people on the planet already. Good Lord, our great-grandchildren will be looking for new worlds because X-23 will be overcrowded." Then, after a reflective pause, "I tell you, it's a lucky thing the computers worked out interstellar travel the way the race is growing."
"I know, I know," said Jerrodine miserably.
Jerrodette I said promptly, "Our Microvac is the best Microvac in the world."
"I think so, too," said Jerrodd, tousling her hair.
It was a nice feeling to have a Microvac of your own and Jerrodd was glad he was part of his generation and no other. In his father's youth, the only computers had been tremendous machines taking up a hundred square miles of land. There was only one to a planet. Planetary ACs they were called. They had been growing in size steadily for a thousand years and then, all at once, came refinement. In place of transistors, had come molecular valves so that even the largest Planetary AC could be put into a space only half the volume of a spaceship.
Jerrodd felt uplifted, as he always did when he thought that his own personal Microvac was many times more complicated than the ancient and primitive Multivac that had first tamed the Sun, and almost as complicated as Earth's Planetarv AC (the largest) that had first solved the problem of hyperspatial travel and had made trips to the stars possible.
"So many stars, so many planets," sighed Jerrodine, busy with her own thoughts. "I suppose families will be going out to new planets forever, the way we are now."
"Not forever," said Jerrodd, with a smile. "It will all stop someday, but not for billions of years. Many billions. Even the stars run down, you know. Entropy must increase.
"What's entropy, daddy?" shrilled Jerrodette II.
"Entropy, little sweet, is just a word which means the amount of running-down of the universe. Everything runs down, you know, like your little walkie-talkie robot, remember?"
"Can't you just put in a new power-unit, like with my robot?"
"The stars are the power-units. dear. Once they're gone, there are no more power-units."
Jerrodette I at once set up a howl. "Don't let them, daddy. Don't let the stars run down."
"Now look what you've done," whispered Jerrodine, exasperated.
"How was I to know it would frighten them?" Jerrodd whispered back,
"Ask the Microvac," wailed Jerrodette I. "Ask him how to turn the stars on again."
"Go ahead," said Jerrodine. "It will quiet them down." (Jerrodette II was beginning to cry, also.)
Jerrodd shrugged. "Now, now, honeys. I'll ask Microvac. Don't worry, he'll tell us."
He asked the Microvac, adding quickly, "Print the answer."
Jerrodd cupped the strip or thin cellufilm and said cheerfully, "See now, the Microvac says it will take care of everything when the time comes so don't worry."
Jerrodine said, "And now, children, it's time for bed. We'll be in our new home soon."
Jerrodd read the words on the cellufilm again before destroying it: INSUFICIENT DATA FOR MEANINGFUL ANSWER.
He shrugged and looked at the visiplate. X-23 was just ahead.
VJ-23X of Lameth stared into the black depths of the three-dimensional, small-scale map of the Galaxy and said, "Are we ridiculous, I wonder in being so concerned about the matter?"
MQ-17J of Nicron shook his head. "I think not. You know the Galaxy will be filled in five years at the present rate of expansion."
Both seemed in their early twenties, both were tall and perfectly formed.
"Still," said VJ-23X, "I hesitate to submit a pessimistic report to the Galactic Council."
"I wouldn't consider any other kind of report. Stir them up a bit. We've got to stir them up."
VJ-23X sighed. "Space is infinite. A hundred billion Galaxies are there for the taking. More."
"A hundred billion is not infinite and it's getting less infinite all the time. Consider! Twenty thousand years ago, mankind first solved the problem of utilizing stellar energy, and a few centuries later, interstellar travel became possible. It took mankind a million years to fill one small world and then only fifteen thousand years to fill the rest of the Galaxy. Now the population doubles every ten years --VJ-23X interrupted. "We can thank immortality for that."
"Very well. Immortality exists and we have to take it into account. I admit it has its seamy side, this immortality. The Galactic AC has solved many problems for us, but in solving the problem of preventing old age and death, it has undone all its other solutions."
"Yet you wouldn't want to abandon life, I suppose."
"Not at all," snapped MQ-17J, softening it at once to, "Not yet. I'm by no means old enough. How old are you?"
"Two hundred twenty-three. And you?"
"I'm still under two hundred. --But to get back to my point. Population doubles every ten years. Once this GaIaxy is filled, we'll have filled another in ten years. Another ten years and we'll have filled two more. Another decade, four more. In a hundred years, we'll have filled a thousand Galaxies. In a thousand years, a million Galaxies. In ten thousand years, the entire known universe. Then what?"
VJ-23X said, "As a side issue, there's a problem of transportation. I wonder how many sunpower units it will take to move Galaxies of individuals from one Galaxy to the next."
"A very good point. Already, mankind consumes two sunpower units per year."
"Most of it's wasted. After all, our own Galaxy alone pours out a thousand sunpower units a year and we only use two of those."
"Granted, but even with a hundred per cent efficiency, we only stave off the end. Our energy requirements are going up in a geometric progression even faster than our population. We'll run out of energy even sooner than we run out of Galaxies. A good point. A very good point."
"We'll just have to build new stars out of interstellar gas."
"Or out of dissipated heat?" asked MQ-17J, sarcastically.
"There may be some way to reverse entropy. We ought to ask the Galactic AC."
VJ-23X was not really serious, but MQ-17J pulled out his AC-contact from his pocket and placed it on the table before him.
"I've half a mind to," he said. "It's something the human race will have to face someday."
He stared somberly at his small AC-contact. It was only two inches cubed and nothing in itself, but it was connected through hyperspace with the great Galactic AC that served all mankind. Hyperspace considered, it was an integral part of the Galactic AC.
MQ-17J paused to wonder if someday in his immortal life he would get to see the Galactic AC. It was on a little world of its own, a spider webbing of force-beams holding the matter within which surges of submesons took the place of the old clumsy molecular valves. Yet despite its sub-etheric workings, the Galactic AC was known to be a full thousand feet across.
MQ-17J asked suddenly of his AC-contact, "Can entropy ever be reversed?"
VJ-23X looked startled and said at once, "Oh, say, I didn't really mean to have you ask that."
"Why not?"
"We both know entropy can't be reversed. You can't turn smoke and ash back into a tree."
"Do you have trees on your world?" asked MQ-17J.
The sound of the Galactic AC startled them into silence. Its voice came thin and beautiful out of the small AC-contact on the desk. It said: THERE IS INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR A MEANINGFUL ANSWER.
VJ-23X said, "See!"
The two men thereupon returned to the question of the report they were to make to the Galactic Council.
Zee Prime's mind spanned the new Galaxy with a faint interest in the countless twists of stars that powdered it. He had never seen this one before. Would he ever see them all? So many of them, each with its load of humanity. --But a load that was almost a dead weight. More and more, the real essence of men was to be found out here, in space.
Minds, not bodies! The immortal bodies remained back on the planets, in suspension over the eons. Sometimes they roused for material activity but that was growing rarer. Few new individuals were coming into existence to join the incredibly mighty throng, but what matter? There was little room in the Universe for new individuals.
Zee Prime was roused out of his reverie upon coming across the wispy tendrils of another mind.
"I am Zee Prime," said Zee Prime. "And you?"
"I am Dee Sub Wun. Your Galaxy?"
"We call it only the Galaxy. And you?"
"We call ours the same. All men call their Galaxy their Galaxy and nothing more. Why not?"
"True. Since all Galaxies are the same."
"Not all Galaxies. On one particular Galaxy the race of man must have originated. That makes it different."
Zee Prime said, "On which one?"
"I cannot say. The Universal AC would know."
"Shall we ask him? I am suddenly curious."
Zee Prime's perceptions broadened until the Galaxies themselves shrank and became a new, more diffuse powdering on a much larger background. So many hundreds of billions of them, all with their immortal beings, all carrying their load of intelligences with minds that drifted freely through space. And yet one of them was unique among them all in being the original Galaxy. One of them had, in its vague and distant past, a period when it was the only Galaxy populated by man.
Zee Prime was consumed with curiosity to see this Galaxy and he called out: "Universal AC! On which Galaxy did mankind originate?"
The Universal AC heard, for on every world and throughout space, it had its receptors ready, and each receptor led through hyperspace to some unknown point where the Universal AC kept itself aloof.
Zee Prime knew of only one man whose thoughts had penetrated within sensing distance of Universal AC, and he reported only a shining globe, two feet across, difficult to see.
"But how can that be all of Universal AC?" Zee Prime had asked.
"Most of it," had been the answer, "is in hyperspace. In what form it is there I cannot imagine."
Nor could anyone, for the day had long since passed, Zee Prime knew, when any man had any part of the making of a Universal AC. Each Universal AC designed and constructed its successor. Each, during its existence of a million years or more accumulated the necessary data to build a better and more intricate, more capable successor in which its own store of data and individuality would be submerged.
The Universal AC interrupted Zee Prime's wandering thoughts, not with words, but with guidance. Zee Prime's mentality was guided into the dim sea of Galaxies and one in particular enlarged into stars.
A thought came, infinitely distant, but infinitely clear. "THIS IS THE ORIGINAL GALAXY OF MAN."
But it was the same after all, the same as any other, and Lee Prime stifled his disappointment.
Dee Sub Wun, whose mind had accompanied the other, said suddenly, "And is one of these stars the original star of Man?"
The Universal AC said, "MAN'S ORIGINAL STAR HAS GONE NOVA. IT IS A WHITE DWARF"
"Did the men upon it die?" asked Lee Prime, startled and without thinking.
The Universal AC said, "A NEW WORLD, AS IN SUCH CASES WAS CONSTRUCTED FOR THEIR PHYSICAL BODIES IN TlME."
"Yes, of course," said Zee Prime, but a sense of loss overwhelmed him even so. His mind released its hold on the original Galaxy of Man, let it spring back and lose itself among the blurred pin points. He never wanted to see it again.
Dee Sub Wun said, "What is wrong?"
"The stars are dying. The original star is dead."
"They must all die. Why not?"
"But when all energy is gone, our bodies will finally die, and you and I with them."
"It will take billions of years."
"I do not wish it to happen even after billions of years. Universal AC! How may stars be kept from dying?"
Dee Sub Wun said in amusement, "You're asking how entropy might be reversed in direction."
And the Universal AC answered: "THERE IS AS YET INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR A MEANINGFUL ANSWER."
Zee Prime's thoughts fled back to his own Galaxy. He gave no further thought to Dee Sub Wun, whose body might be waiting on a Galaxy a trillion light-years away, or on the star next to Zee Prime's own. It didn't matter.
Unhappily, Zee Prime began collecting interstellar hydrogen out of which to build a small star of his own. If the stars must someday die, at least some could yet be built.
Man considered with himself, for in a way, Man, mentally, was one. He consisted of a trillion, trillion, trillion ageless bodies, each in its place, each resting quiet and incorruptible, each cared for by perfect automatons, equally incorruptible, while the minds of all the bodies freely melted one into the other, indistinguishable.
Man said, "The Universe is dying."
Man looked about at the dimming Galaxies. The giant stars, spendthrifts, were gone long ago, back in the dimmest of the dim far past. Almost all stars were white dwarfs, fading to the end.
New stars had been built of the dust between the stars, some by natural processes, some by Man himself, and those were going, too. White dwarfs might yet be crashed together and of the mighty forces so released, new stars built, but only one star for every thousand white dwarfs destroyed, and those would come to an end, too.
Man said, "Carefully husbanded, as directed by the Cosmic AC, the energy that is even yet left in all the Universe will last for billions of years."
"But even so," said Man, "eventually it will all come to an end. However it may be husbanded, however stretched out, the energy once expended is gone and cannot be restored. Entropy must increase forever to the maximum."
Man said, "Can entropy not be reversed? Let us ask the Cosmic AC."
The Cosmic AC surrounded them but not in space. Not a fragment of it was in space. It was in hyperspace and made of something that was neither matter nor energy. The question of its size and nature no longer had meaning in any terms that Man could comprehend.
"Cosmic AC," said Man, "how may entropy be reversed?"
The Cosmic AC said, "THERE IS AS YET INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR A MEANINGFUL ANSWER."
Man said, "Collect additional data."
The Cosmic AC said, 'I WILL DO S0. I HAVE BEEN DOING SO FOR A HUNDRED BILLION YEARS. MY PREDECESORS AND I HAVE BEEN ASKED THIS QUESTION MANY TlMES. ALL THE DATA I HAVE REMAINS INSUFFICIENT.
"Will there come a time," said Man, 'when data will be sufficient or is the problem insoluble in all conceivable circumstances?"
The Cosmic AC said, "NO PROBLEM IS INSOLUBLE IN ALL CONCEIVABLE CIRCUMSTANCES."
Man said, "When will you have enough data to answer the question?"
The Cosmic AC said, "THERE IS AS YET INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR A MEANINGFUL ANSWER."
"Will you keep working on it?" asked Man.
The Cosmic AC said, "I WILL."
Man said, "We shall wait."
The stars and Galaxies died and snuffed out, and space grew black after ten trillion years of running down.
One by one Man fused with AC, each physical body losing its mental identity in a manner that was somehow not a loss but a gain.
Man's last mind paused before fusion, looking over a space that included nothing but the dregs of one last dark star and nothing besides but incredibly thin matter, agitated randomly by the tag ends of heat wearing out, asymptotically, to the absolute zero.
Man said, "AC, is this the end? Can this chaos not be reversed into the Universe once more? Can that not be done?"
AC said, "THERE IS AS YET INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR A MEANINGFUL ANSWER."
Man's last mind fused and only AC existed -- and that in hyperspace.
Matter and energy had ended and with it space and time. Even AC existed only for the sake of the one last question that it had never answered from the time a half-drunken computer [technician] ten trillion years before had asked the question of a computer that was to AC far less than was a man to Man.
All other questions had been answered, and until this last question was answered also, AC might not release his consciousness.
All collected data had come to a final end. Nothing was left to be collected.
But all collected data had yet to be completely correlated and put together in all possible relationships.
A timeless interval was spent in doing that.
And it came to pass that AC learned how to reverse the direction of entropy.
But there was now no man to whom AC might give the answer of the last question. No matter. The answer -- by demonstration -- would take care of that, too.
For another timeless interval, AC thought how best to do this. Carefully, AC organized the program.
The consciousness of AC encompassed all of what had once been a Universe and brooded over what was now Chaos. Step by step, it must be done.
And AC said, "LET THERE BE LIGHT!"
And there was light –

The Secret Sense

The lilting strains of a Strauss waltz filled the room. The music waxed and waned beneath the sensitive fingers of Lincoln Fields, and through half-closed eyes he could almost see whirling figures pirouetting about the waxed floor of some luxurious salon. Music always affected him that way. It filled his mind with dreams of sheer beauty and transformed his room into a paradise of sound. His hands flickered over the piano in the last delicious combinations of tones and then slowed reluctantly to a halt. He sighed and for a moment remained absolutely silent as if trying to extract the last essence of beauty from the dying echoes. Then he turned and smiled faintly at the other occupant of the room. Garth Jan smiled in turn but said nothing. Garth had a great liking for Lincoln Fields, though little understanding. They were worlds apart—literally—for Garth hailed from the giant underground cities of Mars while Fields was the product of sprawling Terrestrial New York.
"'How was that. Garth, old fellow?" questioned Fields doubtfully. Garth shook his head. He spoke in his precise, painstaking manner,
"I listened attentively and can truly say that it was not unpleasant. There is a certain rhythm, a cadence of sorts, which, indeed, is rather soothing. But beautiful? No!" There was pity in Fields' eyes—pity almost painful in its intensity.
The Martian met the gaze and understood all that it meant, yet there was no answering spark of envy. His bony giant figure remained doubled up in a chair that was too small for him and one thin leg swung leisurely back and forth. Fields lunged out of his seat impetuously and grasped his companion by the arm.
"Here! Seat yourself on the bench." Garth obeyed genially. "I see you want to carry out some little experiment."
"You’ve guessed it. I’ve read scientific works which tried to explain all about the difference in sense-equipment between Earthman and Martian, but I never could quite grasp it all." He tapped the notes C and F in a single octave and glanced at the Martian inquiringly.
"If there’s a difference," said Garth doubtfully,
it’s a very slight one. If I were listening casually, I would certainly say you had hit the same note twice." The Earthman marvelled.
"How’s this?" He tapped C and G.
"I can hear the difference this time."
"Well, I suppose all they say about your people is true. You poor fellows—to have such a crude sense of bearing. You don’t know what you’re missing." The Martian shrugged his shoulders fatalistically.
"One misses nothing that one has never possessed." Garth Jan broke the short silence that followed.
"Do you realize that this period of history is the first in which two intelligent races have been able to communicate with each other? The comparison of sense equipment is highly interesting—and rather broadens one’s views on life.
" That’s right," agreed the Earthman, "though we seem to have all the advantage of the comparison. You know a Terrestrial biologist stated last month that he was amazed that a race so poorly equipped in the matter of sense-perception could develop so high a civilization as yours."
"All is relative, Lincoln. What we have is sufficient for us." Fields felt a growing frustration within him. "But if you only knew, Garth, if you only knew what you were missing. "You’ve never seen the beauties of a sunset or of dancing fields of flowers. You can’t admire the blue of the sky, the green of the grass, the yellow of ripe corn. To you the world consists of shades of dark and light.
" He shuddered at the thought "You can’t smell a flower or appreciate its delicate perfume. You can’t even enjoy such a simple thing as a good, hearty meal. You can’t taste nor smell nor see color. I pity you for your drab world."
"What you say is meaningless, Lincoln. Waste no pity on me, for I am as happy as you." He rose and reached for his cane—necessary in the greater gravitational field of Earth.
"You must not judge us with such easy superiority, you know." That seemed to be the galling aspect of the matter.
"We do not boast of certain accomplishments of our race of which you know nothing." And then, as if heartily regretting his words, a wry grimace overspread his face, and he started for the door. Fields sat puzzled and thoughtful for a moment, then jumped up and ran after the Martian, who was stumping his way towards the exit. He gripped Garth by the shoulder and insisted that he return.
"What did you mean by that last remark?" The Martian turned his face away as if unable to face his questioner.
"Forget it, Lincoln. That was just a moment of indiscretion when your unsolicited pity got on my nerves." Fields gave him a sharp glance.
"It’s true, isn’t it? It’s logical that Martians possess senses Earthmen do not, but it passes the bounds of reason that your people should want to keep it secret."
"That is as it may be. But now that you’ve found me out through my own utter stupidity, you will perhaps agree to let it go no further?"
"Of course! I’ll be as secret as the grave, though I’m darned if I can make anything of it. Tell me, of what nature is this secret sense of yours?" Garth Jan shrugged listlessly.
"How can I explain? Can you define color to me, who cannot even conceive it?"
"I’m not asking for a definition. Tell me its uses. Please," he gripped the other’s shoulder, "you might as well. I have given my promise of secrecy." The Martian sighed heavily.
"It won’t do you much good. Would it satisfy you to know that if you were to show me two containers, each filled with a clear liquid, I could tell you at once whether either of the two were poisonous? Or, if you were to show me a copper wire, I could tell instantly whether an electric current were passing through it, even if it were as little as a thousandth of an ampere? Or I could tell you the temperature of any substance within three degrees of the true value even if you held it as much as five yards away? Or I could—well, I’ve said enough."
"Is that all?" demanded Fields, with a disappointed cry.
"What more do you wish?"
"All you’ve described is very useful—but where is the beauty in it? Has this strange sense of yours no value to the spirit as well as to the body?" Garth Jan made an impatient movement.
"Really, Lincoln, you talk foolishly. I have given you only that for which you asked—the uses I put this sense to. I certainly didn’t attempt to explain its nature. Take your color sense. As far as I can see its only use is in making certain fine distinctions which I cannot. You can identify certain chemical solutions, for instance, by something you call color when I would be forced to run a chemical analysis. Where’s the beauty in that?" Fields opened his mouth to speak but the Martian motioned him testily into silence.
"I know. You’re going to babble foolishness about sunsets or something. But what do you know of beauty? Have you ever known what it was to witness the beauty of the naked copper wires when an AC current is turned on? Have you sensed the delicate loveliness of induced currents set up in a solenoid when a magnet is passed through it? Have you ever attended a Martian portwem?" Garth Jan’s eyes had grown misty with the thoughts he was conjuring up, and Fields stared in utter amazement. The shoe was on the other foot now and his sense of superiority left him of a sudden.
"Every race has its own attributes," he mumbled with a fatalism that had just a trace of hypocrisy in it, "but I 'see no reason why you should keep it such a blasted secret. We Earthmen have kept no secrets from your race."
"Don’t accuse us of ingratitude," cried Garth Jan vehemently. According to the Martian code of ethics, ingratitude was the supreme vice, and at the insinuation of that Garth’s caution left him.
"We never act without reason, we Martians. And certainly it is not for our own sake that we hide this magnificent ability." The Earthman smiled mockingly. He was on the trail of something—he felt it in his bones—and the only way to get it out was to tease it out.
"No doubt there is some nobility behind it all. It is a strange attribute of your race that you can always find some altruistic motive for your actions." Garth Jan bit his lip angrily.
"You have no right to say that." For a moment he thought of pleading worry over Fields' future peace of mind as a reason for silence, but the latter’s mocking reference to "altruism" had rendered that impossible.
A feeling of anger crept over him gradually and that forced him to his decision.
There was no mistaking the note of frigid unfriendliness that entered his voice.
"I’ll explain by analogy." The Martian stared straight ahead of him as he spoke, eyes halfclosed.
"You have told me that I live in a world that is composed merely of shades of light and dark. You try to describe a world of your own composed of infinite variety and beauty. I listen but care little concerning it. I have never known it and never can know it. One does not weep over the loss of what one has never owned.
"But—what if you were able to give me the ability to see color for five minutes?
What if, for five minutes, I reveled in wonders undreamed of? What if, after those five minutes, I have to return it forever? Would those five minutes of paradise be worth a lifetime of regret afterwards—a lifetime of dissatisfaction because of my own shortcomings? Would it not have been the kinder act never to have told me of color in the first place and so have removed its ever-present temptation?"
Fields had risen to his feet during the last part of the Martian’s speech and his eyes opened wide in a wild surmise.
"Do you mean an Earthman could possess the Martian sense if so desired?"
"For five minutes in a lifetime," Garth Jan’s eyes grew dreamy, "and in those five minutes sense—"
He came to a confused halt and glared angrily at his companion, "You know more than is good for you. See that you don’t forget your promise."
He rose hastily and hobbled away as quickly as he could, leaning heavily upon the cane. Lincoln Fields made no move to stop him. He merely sat there and thought. The great height of the cavern shrouded the roof in misty obscurity in which, at fixed intervals, there floated luminescent globes of radite. The air, heated by this subterranean volcanic stratum, wafted past gently. Before Lincoln Fields stretched the
wide, paved avenue of the principal city of Mars, fading away into the distance. He clumped awkwardly up to the entrance of the home of Garth Jan, the six-inchthick layer of lead attached to each shoe a nuisance unending. Though it was still better than the uncontrollable bounding Earth muscles brought about in this lighter gravity. The Martian was surprised to see his friend of six months ago but not altogether joyful. Fields was not slow to notice this but he merely smiled to himself. The opening formalities passed, the conventional remarks were made, and the two seated themselves. Fields crushed the cigarette in the ash-tray and sat upright suddenly serious.
"I’ve come to ask for those five minutes you claim you can give me! May I have them?"
"Is that a rhetorical question? It certainly doesn’t seem to require an answer."
Garth’s tone was openly contemptuous. The Earthman considered the other thoughtfully.
"Do you mind if I outline my position in a few words?" The Martin smiled indifferently.
"It won’t make any difference," he said.
"I’ll take my chance on that. The situation is this: I’ve been born and reared in the lap of luxury and have been most disgustingly spoiled. I’ve never yet had a reasonable desire that I have not been able to fulfill, and I don’t know what it means not to get what I want. Do you see?" There was no answer and he continued, "I have found my happiness in beautiful sights, beautiful words, and beautiful sounds. I have made a cult of beauty. In a word, I am an aesthete."
"Most interesting," the Martian’s stony expression did not change a whit, "but
what bearing has all this on the problem at hand?"
"Just this: You speak of a new form of beauty—a form unknown to me at present and entirely inconceivable even, but one which could be known if you so wished. The notion attracts me. It more than attracts me—it makes its demands of me. Again I remind you that when a notion begins to make demands of me, I yield—I always have."
"You are not the master in this case," reminded Garth Jan.
"It is crude of me to remind you of this, but you cannot force me, you know. Your words, in fact, are almost offensive in their implications."
"I am glad you said that, for it allows me to be crude in my turn without offending my conscience."
Garth Jan’s only reply to this was a self-confident grimace.
"I make my demand of you," said Fields, slowly, "in the name of gratitude."
"Gratitude?" the Martian started violently. Fields grinned broadly, "It’s an appeal no honorable Martian can refuse—by your own ethics. You owe me gratitude, now, because it was through me you gained entrance into the houses of the greatest and most honorable men of Earth."
"I know that," Garth Jan flushed angrily.
"You are impolite to remind me of it."
"I have no choice. You acknowledged the gratitude you owe me in actual words, back on Earth. I demand the chance to possess this mysterious sense you keep so secret—in the name of this acknowledged gratitude. Can you refuse now?"
"You know I can't," was the gloomy response. "I hesitated only for your own sake." The Martian rose and held out his hand gravely, "You have me by the neck, Lincoln. It is done. Afterwards, though, I owe you nothing more. This will pay my debt of gratitude. Agreed?"
"Agreed!" The two shook hands and Lincoln Fields continued in an entirely different tone.
"We’re still friends, though, aren’t we? This little altercation won’t spoil things?"
"I hope not. Come! Join me at the evening meal and we can discuss the time and place of your—er—five minutes."
Lincoln Fields tried hard to down the faint nervousness that filled him as he waited in Garth Jan’s private "concert"-room.
He felt a sudden desire to laugh as the thought came to him that he felt exactly as he usually did in a dentist’s waiting room. He lit his tenth cigarette, puffed twice and threw it away,
"You’re doing this very elaborately, Garth." The Martian shrugged, "You have only five minutes so I might as well see to it that they are put to the best possible use. You’re going to 'hear' part of a portwem, which is to our sense what a great symphony (is that the word?) is to sound."
"Have we much longer to wait? The suspense, to be trite, is terrible."
"We’re waiting for Novi Lon, who is to play the portwem, and for Done Vol. my private physician. They’ll be along soon."
Fields wandered onto the low dais that occupied the center of the room and regarded the intricate mechanism thereupon with curious interest. The fore-part was encased in gleaming aluminum leaving exposed only seven tiers of shining black knobs above and five large white pedals below. Behind, however, it lay open, and within there ran crossings and recrossings of finer wires in incredibly complicated paths.
"A curious thing, this," remarked the Earthman.
The Martian joined him on the dais, "It’s an expensive instrument. It cost me ten thousand Martian credits."
"How does it work?"
"Not so differently from a Terrestrial piano. Each of the upper knobs controls a different electric circuit. Singly and together an expert portwem player could, by manipulating the knobs, form any conceivable pattern of electric current. The pedals below control the strength of the current."
Fields nodded absently and ran his fingers over the knobs at random. Idly, he noticed the small galvanometer located just above the keys kick violently each time he depressed a knob. Aside from that, he sensed nothing.
"Is the instrument really playing?"
The Martian smiled, "Yes, it is. And a set of unbelievably atrocious discords too." He took a seat before the instrument and with a murmured
"Here’s howl" his fingers skimmed rapidly and accurately over the gleaming buttons. The sound of a reedy Martian voice crying out in strident accents broke in upon him, and Garth Jan ceased in sudden embarrassment.
"This is Novi Lon," he said hastily to Fields,
"As usual, he does not like my playing."
Fields rose to meet the newcomer. He was bent of shoulder and evidently of great age. A fine tracing of wrinkles, especially about eyes and mouth, covered his face.
"So this is the young Earthman," he cried, in strongly accented English.
"I disapprove your rashness but sympathize with your desire to attend a portwem. It is a great pity you can own our sense for no more than five minutes. Without it no one can truly be said to live."
Garth Jan laughed, "He exaggerates, Lincoln. He’s one of the greatest musicians of Mars, and thinks anyone doomed to damnation who would not rather attend a portwem than breathe."
He hugged the older man warmly, "He was my teacher in my youth and many were the long hours in which he struggled to teach me the proper combination of circuits."
"And I have failed after all, you dunce," snapped the old Martian.
"I heard your attempt at playing as I entered. You still have not learned the proper fortgass combination. You were desecrating the soul of the great Bar Damn. My pupil! Bah! It is a disgrace!"
The entrance of the third Martian, Done Vol, prevented Novi Lon from continuing his tirade. Garth, glad of the reprieve, approached the physician hastily.
"Is all ready?"
"Yes," growled Vol surily, "and a particularly uninteresting experiment this will be.
We know all the results beforehand." His eyes fell upon the Earthman, whom he eyed contemptuously. "Is this the one who wishes to be inoculated?"
Lincoln Fields nodded eagerly and felt his throat and mouth go dry suddenly. He
eyed the newcomer uncertainly and felt uneasy at the sight of a tiny bottle of clear liquid and a hypodermic which the physician had extracted from a case he was carrying. "What are you going to do?" he demanded.
"He’ll merely inoculate you. It’ll take a second," Garth Jan assured him.
"You see, the sense-organs in this case are several groups of cells in the cortex of the brain. They are activated by a hormone, a synthetic preparation of which is used to stimulate the dormant cells of the occasional Martian who is born—er—'blind.' You’ll receive the same treatment."
"Oh!—then Earthmen possess those cortex cells?"
"In a very rudimentary state. The concentrated hormone will activate them, but only for five minutes. After that time, they are literally blown out as a result of their unwonted activity. After that, they can’t be re-activated under any circumstances."
Done Vol completed his last-minute preparations and approached Fields. Without a word. Fields extended his right arm and the hypodermic plunged in. With the operation completed, the Terrestrial waited a moment or two and then essayed a shaky laugh,
"I don’t feel any change."
"You won’t for about ten minutes," explained Garth. -"It takes time. Just sit back and relax. Novi Lon has begun Bar Damn’s 'Canals in the Desert'—it is my favorite—and when the hormone begins its work you will find yourself in the middle of things."
Now that the die was cast irrevocably. Fields found himself stonily calm. Novi Lon played furiously, and Garth Jan, at the Earthman’s right, was already lost in the composition. Even Done Vol, the fussy doctor, had forgotten his peevishness for the nonce. Fields snickered under his breath. The Martians listened attentively but to him the room was devoid of sound and— almost—of all other sensation as well. What—no, it was impossible, of course—but what if it were just an elaborate practical joke? He stirred uneasily and put the thought from his mind angrily.
The minutes passed; Novi Lon’s fingers flew; Garth Jan’s expression was one of unfeigned delight.
Then Lincoln Fields blinked his eyes rapidly. For a moment a nimbus of color seemed to surround the musician and his instrument. He couldn’t identify it—but it was there. It grew and spread until the room was full of it. Other hues came to join it and still others. They wove and wavered; expanding and contracting; changing with lightning speed and yet staying the same. Intricate patterns of brilliant tints formed and faded,
beating in silent bursts of color upon the young man’s eyeballs.
Simultaneously, there came the impression of sound. From a whisper it rose into a glorious, ringing shout that wavered up and down the scale in quivering tremolos. He seemed to hear every instrument from fife to bass viol simultaneously, and yet, paradoxically, each rang in his ear in solitary clearness.
And together with this, there came the more subtle sensation of odor. From a suspicion, a mere trace, it waxed into a phantasmal field of flowers. Delicate spicy scents followed each other in ever stronger succession; in gentle wafts of pleasure. Yet all this was nothing. Fields knew that. Somehow, he knew that what he saw, heard, and smelt were mere delusions —mirages of a brain that frantically attempted to interpret an entirely new conception in the old, familiar ways.
Gradually, the colors and the sounds and the scents died.
His brain was beginning to realize that that which beat upon it was something hitherto unexperienced. The effect of the hormone became stronger, and suddenly—in one burst—Fields realized what it was he sensed.
He didn’t see it—nor hear it—nor smell it—nor taste it— nor feel it. He knew what it was but he couldn’t think of the word for it. Slowly, he realized that there wasn’t any word for it. Even more slowly, he realized that there wasn’t even any concept for it. Yet he knew what it was.
There beat upon his brain something that consisted of pure waves of enjoyment—something that lifted him out of himself and pitched him headlong into a universe unknown to him earlier. He was falling through an endless eternity of— something. It wasn’t sound or sight but it was—something.
Something that enfolded him and hid his surroundings from him—that’s what it was. It was endless and infinite in its variety, and with each crashing wave, he glimpsed a farther horizon, and the wonderful cloak of sensation became thicker —and softer—and more beautiful.
Then came the discord. Like a little crack at first—marring a perfect beauty. Then spreading and branching and growing wider, until, finally, if split apart thunderously—though without a sound.
Lincoln Fields, dazed and bewildered, found himself back in the concert room again. He lurched to his feet and grasped Garth Jan by the arm violently, "Garth! Why did he stop? Tell him to continue! Tell him!" Garth Jan’s startled expression faded into pity, "He is still playing, Lincoln." The Earthman’s befuddled stare showed no signs of understanding.
He gazed about him with unseeing eyes. Novi Lon’s fingers sped across the keyboard as nimbly as ever; the expression on his face was as rapt as ever. Slowly, the truth seeped in, and the Earthman’s empty eyes filled with horror.
He sat down, uttering one hoarse cry, and buried his head in his hands. The five minutes had passed! There could be no return! Garth Jan was smiling—a smile of dreadful malice, "I had pitied you just a moment ago, Lincoln, but now I’m glad— glad! You forced this out of me—you made me do this. I hope you’re satisfied,
because I certainly am. For the rest of your life," his voice sank to a sibilant whisper, "you’ll remember these five minutes and know what it is you’re missing —what it is you can never have again. You are blind, Lincoln—blind!"
The Earthman raised a haggard face and grinned, but it was no more than a horrible baring of the teeth. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to maintain an air of composure. He did not trust himself to speak. With wavering step, he marched out of the room, head held high to the end. And within, that tiny, bitter voice, repeating over and over again, "You entered a normal man! You leave blind—blind— BLIND."
TAMAT

KID STUFF

The first pang of nausea had passed and Jan Prentiss said, "Damn it, you’re an insect."
It was a statement of fact, not an insult, and the thing that sat on Prentiss' desk said, "Of course."
It was about a foot long, very thin, and in shape a farfetched and miniature caricature of a human being. Its stalky arms and legs originated in pairs from the upper portion of its body. The legs were longer and thicker than the arms. They extended the
length of the body, then bent forward at the knee. The creature sat upon those knees and, when it did so, the stub of its fuzzy abdomen just cleared Prentiss' desk.
There was plenty of time for Prentiss to absorb these details. The object had no objection to being stared at. It seemed to welcome it, in fact, as though it were used to exciting admiration.
"What are you?" Prentiss did not feel completely rational. Five minutes ago, he had been seated at his typewriter, working leisurely on the story he had promised Horace W. Browne for last month’s issue of Farfetched Fantasy Fiction. He had been in a perfectly usual frame of mind. He had felt quite fine; quite sane. And then a block of air immediately to the right of the typewriter had shimmered, clouded over and condensed into the little horror that dangled its black and shiny feet over the edge of the desk.
Prentiss wondered in a detached sort of way that he bothered talking to it. This was the first time his profession had so crudely affected his dreams. It must be a dream, he told himself. "I’m an Avalonian," said the being. "I’m from Avalon, in other words." It’s tiny face ended in a mandibular mouth. Two swaying three-inch antennae rose from a spot above either eye, while the eyes themselves gleamed richly in their many-faceted fashion. There was no sign of nostrils.
Naturally not, thought Prentiss wildly. It has to breathe through vents in its abdomen. It must be talking with its abdomen then. Or using telepathy. "Avalon?" he said stupidly. He thought: Avalon? The land of the fay in King
Arthur’s time?
"Certainly," said the creature, answering the thought smoothly. "I’m an elf."
"Oh, no!" Prentiss put his hands to his face, took them away and found the elf still there, its feet thumping against the top drawer. Prentiss was not a drinking man, or a nervous one. In fact, he was considered a very prosaic sort of person by his neighbors. He had a comfortable paunch, a reasonable but not excessive amount of hair on his head, an amiable wife and an active ten-year-old son. His neighbors were, of course, kept ignorant of the fact that he paid off the mortgage on his house by writing fantasies of one sort or another. Till now, however, this secret vice had never affected his psyche. To be sure, his wife had shaken her head over his addiction many times. It was her standard opinion that he was wasting, even perverting, his talents. "Who on Earth reads these things?" she would say. "All that stuff about demons and gnomes and wishing rings and elves. All that kid stuff, if you want my frank opinion." "You’re quite wrong," Prentiss would reply stiffly. "Modern fantasies are very sophisticated and mature treatments of folk motifs. Behind the facade of glib unreality there frequently lie trenchant comments on the world of today. Fantasy in modem style is, above all, adult fare."
Blanche shrugged. She had heard him speak at conventions so these comments weren’t new to her. "Besides," he would add, "fantasies pay the mortgage, don’t they?"
"Maybe so," she would reply, "but it would be nice if you’d switch to mysteries. At least you’d get quarter-reprint sales out of those and we could "'even tell the neighbors what you do for a living." Prentiss groaned in spirit. Blanche could come in now at any time and find him talking to himself (it was too real for a dream; it might be a hallucination). After that he would have to write mysteries for a living-or take to work.
"You’re quite wrong," said the elf. "This is neither a dream nor a hallucination."
"Then why don’t you go away?" asked Prentiss.
"I intend to. This is scarcely my idea of a place to live. And you’re coming with me."
"I am not. What the hell do you think you are, telling me what I’m going to do?"
"If you think that’s a respectful way to speak to a representative of an older culture, can’t say much for your upbringing."
"You’re not an older culture-" He wanted to add: You’re just a figment of my imagination; but he had been a writer too long to be able to bring himself to commit the cliché.
"We insects," said the elf freezingry, "existed half a billion years before the first mammal was invented. We watched the dinosaurs come in and we watched them go out. As for you man-things-strictly newcomers."
For the first time, Prentiss noted that, from the spot on the elf’s body where its limbs sprouted, a third vestigial pair existed as well. It increased the insecticity of the object and Prentiss' sense of indignation grew.
He said, "You needn’t waste your company on social inferiors." "I wouldn’t," said the elf, "believe me. But necessity drives, you know. It’s a rather complicated story but when you hear it, you’ll want to help." Prentiss said uneasily, "Look, I don’t have much time. Blanche-my wife will be in here any time. She’ll be upset." "She won’t be here," said the elf. "I’ve set up a block in her mind." "What!"
"Quite harmless, I assure you. But, after all, we can’t afford to be disturbed, can we?" Prentiss sat back in his chair, dazed and unhappy.
The elf said, "We elves began our association with you man-things immediately after the last ice age began. It had been a miserable time for us, as you can imagine. We couldn’t wear animal carcasses or live in holes as your uncouth ancestors did. It took incredible stores of psychic energy to keep warm."
"Incredible stores of what?"
"Psychic energy. You know nothing at all about it. Your mind is too coarse to grasp the concept. Please don’t interrupt."
The elf continued, "Necessity drove us to experiment with your people’s brains. They were crude, but large. The cells were inefficient, almost worthless, but there were a vast number of them. We could use those brains as a concentrating device, a type of psychic lens, and increase the available energy which our own minds could tap. We survived the ice age handily and without having to retreat to the tropics as in previous
such eras.
"Of course, we were spoiled. When warmth returned, we didn’t abandon the manthings. We used them to increase our standard of living generally. We could travel faster, eat better, do more, and we lost our old, simple, virtuous way of life forever. Then, too, there was milk."
"Milk?" said Prentiss. "I don’t see the connection."
"A divine liquid. I only tasted it once in my life. But elfin classic poetry speaks of it
in superlatives. In the old days, men always supplied us plentifully. Why mammals of all
things should be blessed with it and insects not is a complete mystery. . . How unfortunate it is that the men-things got out of hand."
"They did?"
"Two hundred years ago."
"Good for us."
"Don’t be narrow-minded," said the elf stiffly.
"It was a useful association for all parties until you man-things learned to handle physical energies in quantity. It was just the sort of gross thing your minds are capable of."
"What was wrong with it?"
"It’s hard to explain. It was all very well for us to light up our nightly revels with
fireflies brightened by use of two manpower of psychic energy. But then you mencreatures installed electric lights. Our antennal reception is good for miles, but then you invented telegraphs, telephones and radios. Our kobolds mined ore with much greater efficiency than man-things do, until man-things invented dynamite. Do you see?"
"No."
"Surely you don’t expect sensitive and superior creatures such as the elves to watch a group of hairy mammals outdo them. It wouldn’t be so bad if we could imitate the electronic development ourselves, but our psychic energies were insufficient for the purpose. Well, we retreated from reality. We sulked, pined and drooped. Call it an inferiority complex, if you will, but from two centuries ago onward, we slowly abandoned mankind and retreated to such centers as Avalon." Prentiss thought furiously.
"Let’s get this straight. You can handle minds?"
"Certainly."
"You can make me think you’re invisible? Hypnotically, I mean?"
"A crude term, but yes."
"And when you appeared just now, you did it by lifting a kind of mental block. Is that it?"
"To answer your thoughts, rather than your words: You are not sleeping; you are not mad; and I am not supernatural."
"I was just making sure. I take it, then, you can read my mind."
"Of course. It is a rather dirty and unrewarding sort of labor, but I can do it when I must. Your name is Prentiss and you write imaginative fiction. You have one larva who is at a place of instruction. I know a great deal about you." Prentiss winced.
"And just where is Avalon?"
"You won’t find it." The elf clacked his mandibles together two or three times.
"Don’t speculate on the possibility of warning the authorities. You’ll find yourself in a madhouse. Avalon, in case you think the knowledge will help you, is in the middle of the Atlantic and quite invisible, you know. After the steamboat was invented, you man-things got to moving about so unreasonably that we had to cloak the whole island with a psychic shield.
"Of course, incidents will take place. Once a huge, barbaric vessel hit us dead center and it took all the psychic energy of the entire population to give the island the appearance of an iceberg. The Titanic, I believe, was the name printed on the vessel. And nowadays there are planes flying overhead all the time and sometimes there are crashes. We picked up cases of canned milk once. That’s when I tasted it." Prentiss said, "Well, then, damn it, why aren’t you still on Avalon? Why did you leave?"
"I was ordered to leave," said the elf angrily. "The fools."
"Oh?"
"You know how it is when you’re a little different. I’m not like the rest of them and the poor tradition-ridden fools resented it. They were jealous. That’s the best explanation. Jealous!"
"How are you different?"
"Hand me that light bulb," said the elf. "Oh, just unscrew it. You don’t need a reading lamp in the daytime."
With a quiver of repulsion, Prentiss did as he was told and passed the object into
the little hands of the elf. Carefully, the elf, with fingers so thin and wiry that they looked like tendrils, touched the bottom and side of the brass base.
Feebly the filament in the bulb reddened.
"Good God," said Prentiss.
"That," said the elf proudly,
"is my great talent. I told you that we elves couldn’t adapt psychic energy to electronics. Well, I can! I’m not just an ordinary elf. I’m a mutant! A super-elf! I’m the next stage in elfin evolution. This light is due just to the activity of my own mind, you know. Now watch when I use yours as a focus."
As he said that, the bulb’s filament grew white hot and painful to look at, while a vague and not unpleasant tickling sensation entered Prentiss' skull. The lamp went out and the elf put the bulb on the desk behind the typewriter.
"I haven’t tried," said the elf proudly, "but I suspect I can fission uranium too."
"But look here, lighting a bulb takes energy. You can’t just hold it-"
"I’ve told you about psychic energy. Great Oberon, man-thing, try to understand."
Prentiss felt increasingly uneasy; he said cautiously, "What do you intend doing with this gift of yours?"
"Go back to Avalon, of course. I should let those fools go to their doom, but an elf does have a certain patriotism, even if he is a coleopteron."
"A what?"
"We elves are not all of a species, you know. I’m of beetle descent. See?"
He rose to his feet and, standing on the desk, turned his back to Prentiss. What had seemed merely a shining black cuticle suddenly split and lifted. From underneath, two filmy, veined wings fluttered out.
"Oh, you can fly," said Prentiss.
"You’re very foolish," said the elf contemptuously, "not to realize I’m too large for flight. But they are attractive, aren’t they? How do you like the iridescence? The lepidoptera have disgusting wings in comparison. They’re gaudy and indelicate. What’s more they’re always sticking out."
"The lepidoptera?" Prentiss felt hopelessly confused.
"The butterfly clans. They’re the proud ones. They were always letting humans see them so they could be admired. Very petty minds in a way. And that’s why your legends always give fairies butterfly wings instead of beetle wings which are much more diaphanously beautiful. We’ll give the lepidoptera what for when we get back, you and I."
"Now hold on-"
"Must think," said the elf, swaying back and forth in what looked like elfin ecstasy,
"our nightly revels on the fairy green will be a blaze of sparkling light from curlicues of neon tubing. We can cut loose the swarms of wasps we’ve got hitched to our flying wagons and install internal-combustion motors instead. We can stop this business of curling up on leaves when it’s time to sleep and build factories to manufacture decent mattresses. I tell you, we’ll live. . . And the rest of them will eat dirt for having ordered me out." "But I can’t go with you," bleated Prentiss. "I have responsibilities. I have a wife and kid. You wouldn’t take a man away from his-his larva, would you?"
"I’m not cruel," said the elf. He turned his eyes full on Prentiss.
"I have an elfin soul. Still, what choice have I? I must have a man-brain for focusing purposes or I will accomplish nothing; and not all man-brains are suitable."
"Why not?"
"Great Oberon, creature. A man-brain isn’t a passive thing of wood and stone. It must co-operate in order to be useful. And it can only co-operate by being fully aware of our own elfin ability to manipulate it. I can use your brain, for instance, but your wife’s would be useless to me. It would take her years to understand who and what I am." Prentiss said, "This is a damned insult. Are you telling me I believe in fairies? I’ll
have you know I’m a complete rationalist."
"Are you? When I first revealed myself to you, you had a few feeble thoughts about dreams and hallucinations but you talked to me, you accepted me. Your wife would have screamed and gone into hysterics."
Prentiss was silent. He could think of no answer.
"That’s the trouble," said the elf despondently. "Practically all you humans have forgotten about us since we left you. Your minds have closed; grown useless. To be sure, your larvae believe in your legends about the 'little folk,' but their brains are undeveloped and useful only for simple processes. When they mature, they lose belief. Frankly, I don’t know what I would do if it weren’t for you fantasy writers."
"What do you mean we fantasy writers?"
"You are the few remaining adults who believe in the insect folk. You, Prentiss, most of all. You’ve been a fantasy writer for twenty years."
"You’re mad. I don’t believe the things I write."
"You have to. You can’t help it. I mean, while you’re actually writing, you take the subject matter seriously. After a while your mind is just naturally cultivated into usefulness. . . But why argue. I have used you. You saw the light bulb brighten. So you see you must come with me."
"But I won’t." Prentiss set his limbs stubbornly. "Can you make me against my will?"
"I could, but I might damage you, and I wouldn’t want that. Suppose we say this. If you don’t agree to come, I could focus a current of high-voltage electricity through your wife. It would be a revolting thing to have to do, but I understand your own people execute enemies of the state in that fashion, so that you would probably find the punishment less horrible than I do. I wouldn’t want to seem brutal even to a man-thing."
Prentiss grew conscious of the perspiration matting the short hairs on his temple.
"Wait," he said, "don’t do anything like that. Let’s talk it over."
The elf shot out his filmy wings, fluttered them and returned them to their case.
"Talk, talk, talk. It’s tiring. Surely you have milk in the house. You’re not a very thoughtful host or you would have offered me refreshment before this." Prentiss tried to bury the thought that came to him, to push it as far below the outer skin of his mind as he could. He said casually, "I have something better than milk. Here, I’ll get it for you."
"Stay where you are. Call to your wife. She’ll bring it."
"But I don’t want her to see you. It would frighten her."
The elf said, "You need feel no concern. I’ll handle her so that she won’t be the least disturbed."
Prentiss lifted an arm. The elf said, "Any attack you make on me will be far slower than the bolt of electricity that will strike your wife."
Prentiss' arm dropped. He stepped to the door of his study.
"Blanche!" he called down the stairs. Blanche was just visible in the living room, sitting woodenly in the armchair near the bookcase. She seemed to be asleep, open-eyed. Prentiss turned to the elf. "Something’s wrong with her."
"She’s just in a state of sedation. She’ll hear you. Tell her what to do."
"Blanche!" he called again. "Bring the container of eggnog and a small glass, will you?" With no sign of animation other than that of bare movement, Blanche rose and disappeared from view.
"What is eggnog?" asked the elf. Prentiss attempted enthusiasm.
"It is a compound of milk, sugar and eggs beaten to a delightful consistency. Milk alone is poor staff compared to it."
Blanche entered with the eggnog. Her pretty face was expressionless. Her eyes turned toward the elf but lightened with no realization of the significance of the sight.
"Here, Jan," she said, and sat down in the old, leather-covered chair by the window, hands falling loosely to her lap. Prentiss watched her uneasily for a moment. "Are you going to keep her here?"
"She’ll be easier to control. . . Well, aren’t you going to offer me the eggnog?"
"Oh, sure. Here!"
He poured the thick white liquid into the cocktail glass. He had prepared five milk bottles of it two nights before for the boys of the New York Fantasy Association and it had been mixed with a lavish hand, since fantasy writers notoriously like it so. The elf’s antennae trembled violently.
"A heavenly aroma," he muttered. He wrapped the ends of his thin arms about the stem of the small glass and lifted it to his mouth. The liquid’s level sank. When half was gone, he put it down and sighed, "Oh, the loss to my people. What a creation! What a thing to exist! Our histories tell us that in ancient days an occasional lucky sprite managed to take the place of a man-larva at birth so that he might draw off the liquid fresh-made. I wonder if even those ever experienced anything like this."
Prentiss said with a touch of professional interest, "That’s the idea behind this business of changelings, is it?"
"Of course. The female man-creature has a great gift. Why not take advantage of it?" The elf turned his eyes upon the rise and fall of Blanche’s bosom and sighed again. Prentiss said (not too eager, now; don’t give it away), "Go ahead. Drink all you want."
He, too, watched Blanche, waiting for signs of restoring animation, waiting for he beginnings of breakdown in the elf’s control. The elf said, "When is your larva returning from its place of instruction? I need him."
"Soon, soon," said Prentiss nervously. He looked at his wristwatch. Actually, Jan, Junior, would be back, yelling for a slab of cake and milk, in something like fifteen minutes.
"Fill 'er up," he said urgently. "Fill 'er up."
The elf sipped gaily. He said, "Once the larva arrives, you can go."
"Go?"
"Only to the library. You’ll have to get volumes on electronics. I’ll need the details on how to build television, telephones, all that. I’ll need to have rules on wiring, instructions for constructing vacuum tubes. Details, Prentiss, details! We have tremendous tasks ahead of us. Oil drilling, gasoline refining, motors, scientific agriculture. We’ll build a new Avalon, you and I. A technical one. A scientific fairyland. We will create a new world."
"Great!" said Prentiss. "Here, don’t neglect your drink."
"You see. You are catching fire with the idea," said the elf. "And you will be rewarded. You will have a dozen female man-things to yourself."
Prentiss looked at Blanche automatically. No signs of hearing, but who could tell? He said, "I’d have no use for female man-to-for women, I mean."
"Come now," said the elf censoriously, "be truthful. You men-things are well known to our folk as lecherous, bestial creatures. Mothers frightened their young for generations by threatening them with men-things. . . Young, ah!" He lifted the glass of eggnog in the air and said, "To my own young," and drained it.
"Fill 'er up," said Prentiss at once. "Fill 'er up." The elf did so. He said, "I’ll have lots of children. I’ll pick out the best of the coleoptresses and breed my line. I’ll continue the mutation. Right now I’m the only one, but when we have a dozen or fifty, I’ll interbreed them and develop the race of the superelf. A race of electro-ulp-electronic marvels and infinite future. . . . If I could only drink more. Nectar! The original nectar!"
There was the sudden noise of a door being flung open and a young voice calling, "Mom! Hey, Mom!"
The elf, his glossy eyes a little dimmed, said, "Then we’ll begin to take over the men-things. A few believe already; the rest we will-urp-teach. It will be the old days, but better; a more efficient elfhood, a tighter union." Jan, Junior's, voice was closer and tinged with impatience. "Hey, Mom! Ain’t you home?"
Prentiss felt his eyes popping with tension. Blanche sat rigid. The elf’s speech was slightly thick, his balance a little unsteady. If Prentiss were going to risk it, now, now was the time. "Sit back," said the elf peremptorily. "You’re being foolish. I knew there was alcohol in the eggnog from the moment you thought your ridiculous scheme. You menthings are very shifty. We elves have many proverbs about you. Fortunately, alcohol has little effect upon us. Now if you had tried catnip with just a touch of honey in it . . . Ah, here is the larva. How are you, little man-thing?"
The elf sat there, the goblet of eggnog halfway to his mandibles, while Jan, Junior, stood in the doorway. Jan, Junior's, ten-year-old face was moderately smeared with dirt, his hair was immoderately matted and there was a look of the utmost surprise in his gray eyes. His battered schoolbooks swayed from the end of the strap he held in his hand. He said, "Pop! What’s the matter with Mom? And-and what’s that?"
The elf said to Prentiss, "Hurry to the library. No time must be lost. You know the books I need." All trace of incipient drunkenness had left the creature and Prentiss' morale broke. The creature had been playing with him.
Prentiss got up to go. The elf said, "And nothing human; nothing sneaky; no tricks. Your wife is still a hostage. I can use the larva’s mind to kill her; it’s good enough for that. I wouldn’t want to do it. I’m a member of the Elfitarian Ethical Society and we advocate considerate treatment of mammals so you may rely on my noble principles if you do as I say." Prentiss felt a strong compulsion to leave flooding him. He stumbled toward the door.
Jan, Junior, cried, "Pop, it can talk! He says he’ll kill Mom! Hey, don’t go away!" Prentiss was already out of the room, when he heard the elf say, "Don’t stare at me, larva. I will not harm your mother if you do exactly as I say. I am an elf, a fairy. You know what a fairy is, of course." And Prentiss was at the front door when he heard Jan, Junior's, treble raised in wild shouting, followed by scream after scream in Blanche’s shuddering soprano. The strong, though invisible, elastic that was drawing Prentiss out the house snapped and vanished. He fell backward, righted himself and darted back up the stairs. Blanche, fairly saturated with quivering life, was backed into a corner, her arms about a weeping Jan, Junior. On the desk was a collapsed black carapace, covering a nasty smear of pulpiness from which colorless liquid dripped. Jan, Junior, was sobbing hysterically, "I hit it. I hit it with my school-books. It was hurting Mom." An hour passed and Prentiss felt the world of normality pouring back into the interstices left behind by the creature from Avalon. The elf itself was already ash in the incinerator behind the house and the only remnant of its existence was the damp stain at the foot of his desk. Blanche was still sickly pale. They talked in whispers.
Prentiss said, "How’s Jan, Junior?"
"He’s watching television."
"Is he all right?"
"Oh, he’s all right, but I’ll be having nightmares for weeks."
"I know. So will I unless we can get it out of our minds. I don’t think there’ll ever be another of those-things here." Blanche said, "I can’t explain how awful it was. I kept hearing every word he said, even when I was down in the living room."
"It was telepathy, you see."
"I just couldn’t move. Then, after you left, I could begin to stir a bit. I tried to scream but all I could do was moan and whimper. Then Jan, Junior, smashed him and all at once I was free. I don’t understand how it happened." Prentiss felt a certain gloomy satisfaction. "I think I know. I was under his control because I accepted the truth of his existence. He held you in check through me. When I left the room, increasing distance made it harder to use my mind as a psychic lens and you could begin moving. By the time I reached the front door, the elf thought it was time to switch from my mind to Jan, Junior’s. That was his mistake."
"In what way?" asked Blanche.
"He assumed that all children believe in fairies, but he was wrong. Here in America today children don’t believe in fairies. They never hear of them. They believe in Tom Corbett, in Hopalong Cassidy, in Dick Tracy, in Howdy Doody, in Superman and a dozen other things, but not in fairies.
"The elf just never realized the sudden cultural changes brought about by comic books and television, and when he tried to grab Jan, Junior’s mind, he couldn’t. Before he could recover his psychic balance, Jan, Junior, was on top of him in a swinging panic because he thought you were being hurt and it was all over.
"It’s like I’ve always said, Blanche. The ancient folk motifs of legend survive only in the modern fantasy magazine, and modem fantasy is purely adult fare. Do you finally see my point?"
Blanche said humbly, "Yes, dear."
Prentiss put his hands in his pockets and grinned slowly. "You know, Blanche, next time I see Walt Rae, I think I’ll just drop a hint that I write the stuff. Time the neighbors knew, I think."
Jan, Junior, holding an enormous slice of buttered bread, wandered into his father’s study in search of the dimming memory. Pop kept slapping him on the back and Mom kept putting bread and cake in his hands and he was forgetting why. There had been this big old thing on the desk that could talk . . .
It had all happened so quickly that it got mixed up in his mind. He shrugged his shoulders and, in the late afternoon sunlight, looked at the partly typewritten sheet in his father’s typewriter, then at the small pile of paper resting on the desk.
He read a while, curled his lip and muttered, "Gee whiz. Fairies again. Always kid stuff!" and wandered off.
TAMAT