The Project Gutenberg eBook of Fine Feathers

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Title: Fine Feathers

Author: George O. Smith

Illustrator: Frank Kramer

Release date: June 1, 2022 [eBook #68218]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Street & Smith Publications, Incorporated

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

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FINE FEATHERS ***

Fine Feathers

By GEORGE O. SMITH

Illustrated by Kramer

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from

Astounding Science-Fiction, January 1946.

Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that

the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Ara, the crow, was aware of the fact that he was a crow. This and this alone made him different from his fellow crows. Because he recognized the fact, it made him aware of the things that separated the crows from the pheasants that abounded across the meadow—and he admired their fine plumage and elegant ways.

He began to scorn the idea of being a crow, and resented the attitude of his fellows. They were satisfied to be crows, and could not understand his resentment nor his desires, and they even scorned the idea that he was above them because he wanted to be other than a crow. In fact, they did not even understand his concept of being anything else. They did not look up to him for thinking over their heads.

He should have left them and made his way alone. But he wanted to show them how much more he was than they, and so he decked himself in the plumage of one of the pheasants and then started to lord it over the rest of the crows....

—ÆSOP

Wanniston fixed the other man with a piercing gaze. "Sorry," he said. "Quite sorry. But it can not be done that way, you know. The whole proposition was your idea."

"I know," said the other man. He inspected Wanniston's large, well-proportioned frame, his strong features, and his absolute poise and wondered how any man, with all to recommend him, could be so utterly unsympathetic. The coldness in his face set him apart from one of the Galactic Ones. "The proposition was sensible enough—yet I failed. Even though I failed, my manipulations were properly done, you will agree."

Wanniston nodded.

"Where did I fail?"

"You struck a snag."

"It was not my fault."

"Are you crawling?" snapped Wanniston.

"Perhaps," said the other man bitterly. "I want to know how I failed."

Wanniston smiled deprecatorily. "Lincoln, you failed because you neglected to take everything into account. Before you succeed—before you can hope to plan without failure, you must learn to take everything into account."

"One cannot take everything into account."

"Yes, one can. It is quite possible—if you know how."

"Everything's easy," said Lincoln sourly, "once you know how."

"Certainly," laughed Wanniston.

"And because I made a mistake, I failed."

"Had you taken everything into account, you would have known that you could never succeed. You wouldn't have started, and now you wouldn't be a complete and broken failure."

"You may well gloat."

"I'm not gloating."

"I believe that," admitted Lincoln. "But that changes nothing."

"You understand our position, Lincoln. If we prevented you from trying, well, you might have succeeded, and we'd never know the benefits of your success. It was your idea, and you wanted to try. But don't feel too broken. Others have tried."

"Small consolation. Knowing that another man is starving will not put food in my belly." Lincoln stood up, dusted off his jacket, and left the office.

The report of a pistol echoed and re-echoed up and down the corridor, reverberating and hushing until it could be mistaken for a wild cackle of laughter.

Wanniston went into the small office beside his own, through an interconnecting door. The key to the outer door hung in the lock by the tongue, and the office was a sharp contrast to his spotless business office. Here was no clean desk, no bookcase bulging with erudition, no deep-pile carpet. Instead, the place was a litter of complicated equipment. Not messy, in the dirty sense of the word, but the standard neglect of any laboratory. Delicate instruments stood on the floor, a box was partly filled with discarded parts, and several pieces of partly disassembled apparatus lined the walls. On the desk, which was the cleanest spot in the room, there stood a small cabinet. It was not the precisely finished cabinet that comes with commercial equipment, but strictly functional. There was no pattern to the dials—at least there had been no attempt to arrange the controls in sensible pattern. They stuck out wherever they were needed—and the sides and top each had a knob or two.

Wanniston slid the headpiece over his temples and snapped the main switch. A split-second timer kicked in for less than one-tenth of a second, waited for ten seconds, and then repeated the dose. Four times it followed the sequence of keying the machine for a period of less than a tenth of a second, following with a ten-second pause. Finally it gave Wanniston a full one-second charge and then ceased.

The financier removed the temple set and sat thinking for a moment. There was a bit of resentment at the machine—not resentment, exactly, but a slight feeling of annoyance that he must take such microscopic doses of the machine.

He knew the story of Andrew Tremaine and how the publisher's attempts to use the machine had resulted in self-destruction because it had been too good. But, smiled Wanniston, he really had no intention of trying to lift the whole race to the level of the Ambassador of the Galactic Ones, the emissary Gerd Lel Rayne. Rayne had told him.

Not the complete story, of course. Rayne could never tell that. Nor if he did, Wanniston could not have understood it. But he did know that Tremaine had developed such a machine and had energized his mind with disastrous results.

Obviously, Tremaine could not have gone on living after that. Tremaine was pretty much of an extrovert who loved people and wanted them all to advance rapidly. Wanniston was self-centered and introverted and wanted nothing more than to run the show himself. Tremaine could not live in a world alone—and with his energized brain, he was in a world alone. Gerd Lel Rayne could be his only friend, he and Gaya, and their friendship must necessarily be one kept under cover. But Wanniston could, did, and liked a world alone. He had no intention of letting the world know.

That would be disastrous.

The world would rush to the machine, to partake of its offerings, in order to gain the benefit of the increased intelligence. They would not count the cost—and the cost was great.

The machine produced sterility.

So much for general usage.

But for individual usage? That was another matter. He would use it for himself alone and forget progeny. Wanniston wanted to run the show. He felt entitled to have a hand in it, for he knew that he was better equipped, mentally, to handle the complex problems of running the world than many others. He was aware of man's weaknesses. They were all glad to be just human, but it took a higher intellect to understand that there was something better than just being human.

Wanniston knew that, and Wanniston was going to do something about it. Wanniston, by knowing that there was something higher, and by being just that slight bit higher himself, was going to go all the way and make himself Gerd Lel Rayne's mental equal. He believed that he might even surpass the 260-odd I.Q. possessed by the emissary of the Galactic Ones, for he knew that Rayne was merely the lowest link in a long chain that led right up to the Grand Galactic Council.

"Wait until you see me kid brudder," grinned Wanniston. His lips were thin as he grinned, and there was more sardonicism than genuine humor in the situation.

Gerd Lel Rayne smiled amicably as Wanniston entered. "Good morning," he said with a booming, easy voice. The emissary was a large man, a living embodiment of poise and good will. "I sent for you, John. You're heading for trouble."

"It's my trouble," answered Wanniston.

Rayne shook his massive head slowly. "Not entirely. I'm concerned."

"It's my trouble and, if it blows up in my face, it's my grief."

Again there came that shake of the head. "No, Wanniston, you cannot shake yourself loose like that. You are not alone. I failed my superiors when I told you the tale of Andy Tremaine. I thought that the knowledge of what had happened to another who tried the same thing would deter you. Remember?"

"Yes, I remember. I asked you why it wouldn't be possible to energize the human brain so that it could use the whole thing instead of the usual ten percent. You countered with the yarn about Tremaine."

"Time alone will fill the brain, John. No machine will do it properly. It is forced."

"So?"

"John, you have been using a modification of Tremaine's gadget on yourself. I can only say that you are ambitious to the foolhardy stage. No good will come of it."

"Where is the danger? I care nothing for sterility. I only hope to become as intelligent as you are."

"If that were all," smiled Gerd, "I would look the other way. But again—I could not. For I am responsible for every Terran in the eyes of my superiors. I must try to protect even those who attempt mental suicide. Along that line lies oblivion, Wanniston."

"You do all right," snapped the financier.

"I," smiled Gerd Lel Rayne, "was ... born to this. I used nothing to enhance my ... native intellect."

"What's wrong with it, though? I can do without progeny."

"Civilization can not."

"Civilization will know nothing—"

"They will find out. I regret that I tried to dissuade you. In showing you the error of continuing this line of research, I gave you the hint that opened the corridor to you. That was a mistake.

"Be that as it may," continued Gerd, "I must now try to show you more of the future. You are slowly gaining in power, Wanniston, and you will eventually become the most hated man on Terra."

"A shame, I'm sure," snorted Wanniston.

"That attitude will cause you grief," admonished Gerd Lel Rayne. "You should use power wisely, not use it in sharpering your associates out of their rights."

"I've never cheated—"

"Not legally. But is it right for a man to set up traps? Is it good and moral for one of your present mental ability to figure the tertiary causes and effects and apply them to time limits? Not only do you make profit, Wanniston, but you set up your contracts so that you inevitably get forfeit-money as well. You think deeper and plan better—"

"And to the winner goes the spoils," laughed Wanniston. "I should lower myself to their level for the sake of helping them? Not I, Gerd Lel Rayne. I am your equal, and you know it."

"I know it. Yet I am not overly avaricious. I am comfortable, doing my job as best I can. I am unique, perhaps, but I do that which I am best fitted for, and I am helping civilization."

Wanniston smiled. "Tremaine wanted galactic power for Terra. Tremaine wanted the ultimate for mankind. He was a complete altruist, I believe. He wanted to raise the whole world to your level."

"An admirable idea, lacking in certain phases of which he could know nothing. Certain phases, Wanniston, of which you are equally ignorant!"

"I shall find out. I shall, if necessary, surpass you, Gerd."

"Quite possible," smiled the emissary. "Quite possible. The capacity of the brain is almost limitless. My race uses more than yours, Wanniston. Eventually we will fill ours more and more as the centuries pass. But remember that we are as much on the way up as your race is. No one should move too fast."

"Why?"

"Because, that way leads to—oblivion."

"Again, why?"

"Nature has her safeguards. She knows the dangers of becoming too wise too soon. Therefore she causes sterility. Strange thing, Wanniston, but there is absolutely no way in which to energize the brain without it. One must permit evolution to take its course. One must hope that his song will have greater native intelligence. Look, Wanniston. Your father, when a boy, played with toys of a technical nature not even known ten centuries before. You as a boy scorned making your construction toy operate as a prime mover, with anything so archaic as an atomic converter. You demanded the prime, the ultimate; the Solar Phoenix in miniature. Nowadays, the kids insist upon using miniature directive-generators.

"Directive power," continued Gerd, "is the daily work. Years ago it took men most of their lives to study it, today the kids play with it in toys. Tomorrow—perhaps one of your race will discover interstellar power—Galactic Power—and your sons and grandsons will demand minute galactic generators to run their gadgets. Ten centuries ago, children were toying with electricity—today they are playing with directives. That, Wanniston, is wisdom gained in the proper way."

"And what should I do?"

"Instead of using your power to gain the world, you might use that intellect to better mankind." Gerd stretched and stood up. "But you will not," he finished. "Your type will not."

"No, I will not."

Gerd led Wanniston to the door, and courteously showed him out. "I hope to see you again," he said honestly. Wanniston nodded; the financier understood. Despite a difference in attitude between the emissary and himself, he knew that having another with an equal intelligence was desirable. Wanniston did not require it, but the emissary was a friend to all, an extrovert, and required friendship.

Wanniston would return. Gerd Lel Rayne was covering something. There was more to Gerd Lel Rayne than met the eye, and he knew it. He understood, with Gerd, all that Gerd said regarding help for Terra in scientific matters. Rayne could advise, could occasionally point out minor errors or make suggestions, but could not openly state facts. Well, Wanniston wanted to know the secret. He'd be back.

Gaya Lel Rayne entered the room and caught her husband's mental distress, slight as it was. She came over beside him and added to the impact of her presence with him the powerful attraction of her. Gerd put a hand on her shoulder and they flowed together momentarily. Powerful were their minds, and powerful was the feeling between them; no Terran could have entertained a bitter thought within several hundred feet of their embrace.

"What is it, Gerd?" she asked.

"Wanniston."

"Still trying?"

"Succeeded."

"Dangerous." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes—and no," replied Gerd. "He will not willingly pass on his illegal knowledge. Terra would skin him alive if they knew that he was extracting their resources by foul means. Wanniston, on the other hand, knows that he could drag the temple down over all of Terra by merely announcing the machine."

"But isn't sterility enough of a deterrent?" asked Gaya.

"I don't know. Look, Gaya. Those who cared nothing for the future would indulge in mental energizing. They would outstrip those who cared for the future; those with the proper attitude would become slaves, practically. Within a century, every worthwhile thing would be in the hands of those who cared nothing for progeny."

"There is a saving factor," objected Gaya. "The new ones would come from the ranks of those who cared—"

"Of course," laughed Gerd. "But the optimistic philosophy of the Terran would die. One could take his choice. Either he has children or he fits in with those who have forsaken the future."

Gerd dropped his glance and worried visibly for a moment. "It is a gloomy philosophy, Gaya. Slavery or sterility. No future either way. Depressive philosophy—which would lead to planetary suicide."

"Couldn't one have children first and try the machine afterwards?" asked Gaya brightly.

"Uh-huh—but why? Those who wait will be behind those who did not. Of course there will be a place for all, just as there is now. I fear that the race would die out anyway, Gaya. The machine can not be circumvented; its effects may not be counteracted once it is used. Schoolboys and schoolgirls would try it once, throwing away their futures with the youthful willingness to take chances. They would stand above the others in their classes—until their fellows tried it. Forbid it? Like sin, Gaya, you can legislate against it but you can not make it unpopular. Ban it and you will have its effects smuggled in to the youth of Terra—who will try it if only because their folks forbid it. They will see the effects. They will see their parents in slavery.... Slavery, Gaya, entered into willingly—for the children themselves!"

He faced Gaya with a powerful gesture. "The children will see it. They will decide that slavery is no compensation for parenthood. Why waste time? Why sit in slavery for years while you indulge in the duty of bearing children, and then go to take up the job of making a financial start? No, once this is released, Terra may die."

"Destroy him—and his machine."

Gerd shook his head. "That I can no longer do," he said sadly. "He is our equal now. Tomorrow he will be our superiors, by a minute bit. Yet today he is powerful enough of mind to tell by my actions that I intend to destroy him. I can not—for once I try, I will lose, the Galactic Ones will lose, and Terra will lose. I can call for no help from Terra. I can ask the field representative when he arrives. I might even call for help—"

"It would be justified," said Gaya, earnestly.

"I have done nothing yet. I should try—"

"Try what?"

"I don't know."

Gaya nodded. "Call Yord Tan Verde. He will understand."

Into the penthouse went Gerd and Gaya, to call the field representative of the Galactic Ones. Verde answered at length, and listened to the entire story. He asked a number of questions that Gerd thought to have no connection, but Gerd answered. Then Yord Tan Verde laughed a bit and told Gerd Lel Rayne not to worry.

It was very unsatisfactory.

Will Conan stood up and faced the others at the table. "I won't kill myself," he shouted, banging his fist on the table. "I'll kill him first!"

"I tried that," remarked a tall man at the other end of the table.

Conan smiled wryly. "Peter Wilks tried it, all right," he told the rest. "Tell us what happened, Pete."

"I tried four times. Each time he stopped me in a bold way that seemed to be effortless. It was as though he knew—"

"Well, what else can we do? Can we ignore him?"

"Why not?"

"Is there a man here that does not have his finger in your business?"

Seventeen men shook their heads.

"Is there a man among us that has one microscopic shred of evidence to the fact that Wanniston is dishonest?"

There was not.

"O.K.—so how do we go about it?"

No one knew.

Conan sat down. "We can't squeeze him out, is that it?"

"We can not do anything at all," snarled another man. "No matter what we try, he betters us. He's a sharper. If we try something legal, he's our better. If we get dirty, he cleans us anyway—but the devil does it legally. You can't win."

"There were once twenty-three of us," said Peter Wilks. "Three are in jail—for crimes they did not commit. One is in jail for a crime that he did commit, the crime of trying to frame Wanniston. Two are dead—suicides because they could no longer take defeat after defeat at Wanniston's fine Machiavellian hand. He's a menace."

"We're like the mice that decided to hang a bell on the cat," laughed Conan bitterly. "Six of us have tried and failed. Must we try separately? Can he read minds?"

Wilks jumped to his feet. "I say he can!"

"Then he's more than a menace. He's a devil!"

"So what? We've appealed to Gerd Lel Rayne. And what did he say? He said that we should hang tight because Wanniston was headed for trouble."

"Do we wait until we are all dead before it happens?" snapped Wilks.

"I'm no prophet," growled Conan. "I know this. We're licked. Or is this any good. Can we run him out?"

"How?"

"Superman he may be. Superior to even Gerd Lel Rayne—Sorry, Lel Rayne," he said, seeing the emissary as Gerd opened the door. "You heard?"

Gerd nodded pleasantly. "Wanniston's intellect has increased. A fatal illness. He does not recognize it, nor would he believe it if he were told. Yet it is so; Wanniston's illness has caused an increase in the acuity of the brain, a definite increase in the intelligence quotient. He is quite capable of out-thinking any of you—of us, pardon me. I feel no self-reproach, though. I," and Gerd Lel Rayne laughed heartily—too heartily, though the Terrans did not know it, "have known men of my race who were superior to me, and have no animosity as long as I am well fitted to my position, and can do my job well, better than many others. I may not advance above my present level, yet I can be emissary to Terra where the bulk of my race would find it against their liking."

"Well, suppose you tell us what to do?"

"I don't know," admitted Gerd. "Isolate him. Can you do that?"

"No. He has a finger in every man's business here. We can do nothing unless he is permitted to pass on it. Furthermore, he will find it out in time to circumvent us if we try to operate without his approval. We do that and we land in jail, our life's ambitions stripped from us and dropped into his hands like a ripe plum."

"I know," said Gerd. "I know."

"He's your mental superior too?" asked Wilks uncertainly.

Gerd nodded. "I can try, though. My mental superior he may be, but I am possessed of the knowledge of certain arts of which he knows nothing. That is the heritage of my race: the things I played with as a child. I still ... occasionally ... like to play—"

Wanniston entered the basement workshop of Gerd Lel Rayne and watched while the emissary made adjustments on a bit of complex apparatus.

"Tricky gadget," said Wanniston.

"It is that."

"Energy collector—director, converter," said Wanniston. "You're about to release the secret of galactic power?"

"No, I was just tinkering," said Gerd. "I have no intention of telling Terra about it."

"I know about it now."

"You'd tell them?"

"You know better than that."

"Well?"

Wanniston grinned.

And then before he could say more, Gaya came to the workshop room with a group of policemen. "Gerd," she said, "they want to speak to Wanniston."

"Come ahead," called the financier.

"John Wanniston, I arrest you for the crime of murder. I warn you that any statements will be considered evidence."

"Murder? Me? Utterly fantastic!"

The police lieutenant smiled quietly. "We'll have to ask you to come with us."

"I've murdered who?"

"You'll find out. I may say nothing."

"I've murdered no one!"

"That is for the State to decide—the State and a jury of twelve good men and true."

"Judged by those who hate me? Why should I go?"

"Wanniston, you're a smart man. You must certainly know the implication of any rash move."

"But I'm innocent. Gerd—?"

"I can do nothing. If this is false, you can prove it simply enough. If it is true ... but why should it be true? You are a smart man, Wanniston. You can get anything you want without murder. That should be considered. I'll help, Wanniston, but remember, as emissary of the Galactic Ones, I must not interfere."

"Removed like a common criminal. I warn you, Lieutenant Alfred, that this is utterly false and I shall have compensation. I am both capable and willing to make you and all others pay for this outrage."

"You'll submit to a lie-detector test?"

"Certainly. I'll take it. I have committed no crime. I have murdered no one!"

Wanniston looked at Gerd Lel Rayne. Gerd shrugged. Wanniston's intellect was most certainly capable of telling the lie detector a lie and making the insensate machine believe it true. Gerd knew that Wanniston knew that—and Wanniston knew that Gerd knew it also. But Gerd was intelligent enough to know that Wanniston was smart enough to avoid murder or running afoul of any man-made law. Any killing would have come up immediately, and the evidence would be natural and honesty a matter of self-defense.

Wanniston was no fool.

They brought in the lie detector and Wanniston slipped the headset on, and grasped the handles.

The lieutenant said: "John Wanniston, did you murder Peter Wilks?"

Wanniston started. Wilks!

The magnitude of the plot amazed him. It was as nasty a frame as he could imagine. He knew that it would be as air-tight as the machinations of sixteen men could make it—and he wondered whether the operations of seventeen men might not be more like the truth. Wilks was ruined; had little to live for and knew it. He—and the rest—a sacrifice was not too unquestionable. Their crime—justified by themselves in the thought that better it be one of them than all of them.

Under suspicion himself, any moves he made would be viewed with distrust by the human race, who had cause to know him as the most hated man on earth. Any jury, hearing of his legal trickery, knowing and hearing the account of his masterful moves in business, which gained him fortune upon fortune as other men fell under his steam-roller tactics.

Any jury.

It was their crime. Yes.

But if, as, and when the truth came out truth? That was another angle and Wanniston cursed himself for not thinking with all of his 375 I.Q. The sixteen did not do it. Wilks must have framed murder out of suicide.

Without letting any of the others know!

For the lie detector would be used on each witness.

Even Gerd.

For he had been apprehended in Gerd Lel Rayne's home.

And Gerd would be asked the standard questions. Foolish, they were; utterly and stupidly foolish. They asked your name; they asked the identity of the suspected one; and—

They asked if the suspected one might be able to outwit a lie detector.

And Gerd Lel Rayne's answer would be a ringing, clear, and damning "Yes!"

This, which takes time to record; to read, passed through Wanniston's mind in no flash of staccato continuity, but as a pattern-plan. It was like thinking of a scotch plaid, or a linoleum pattern to the ordinary mortal; it came instantaneously to the energized intellect of John Wanniston, and he knew the whole futile thing from upper left to lower right before Lieutenant Alfred's voice had ceased to echo through Gerd Lel Rayne's workshop.

He was framed.

He was IT.

And as nicely a nasty bit of connivery as ever hit the sight.

HE was IT.

Wanniston moved with rattlesnake swiftness. He hit the light cord, pulled and twisted. A splurt of sparks came with blackness and Wanniston faded back and down to run, stooped, across the workshop floor avoiding the clutter of machinery and furniture by the faculty of eidetic memory.

By sensitivity of mind, he knew where Gerd Lel Rayne kept his spacecraft, and he went there immediately. A whoosh! of passing air and Wanniston was in the stratosphere, free and away. He dropped back again a few minutes later to his office where he bundled his mind machine into the spacecraft before he left Terra forever.

Terra.

A planetful of fools. They did not respect his superior intellect. They did not even admit it. They hated him for being able to get that which they could not get, and they resented the fact that he was capable of doing it to their misfortune. They gambled with him—and when they lost, they welshed, like stinking cry-babies.

But Wanniston was smart. He knew where he'd be appreciated. In the galaxy were men of intellect that would welcome him. Give him another month at the machine.

Gerd Lel Rayne. Now he knew the truth about Gerd. Emissary! Magnificent creature; supergenius!

Bah! One whose intellect was moronic compared to the Galactic Ones. One who had been placed on Terra because only a moron could be understood by Terrans. The Galactic Ones could understand Terrans after much painful, wearisome prodding and waiting while the Terrans, idiotlike, stumbled through their clumsy sentence structure. But no Terran could understand the pattern-plan of quadruple-ideas that passed from Galactic One to Galactic One—or even the most careful effort of the Galactic One to be patient and redundantly explicit when and if speaking to a Terran. That is why the inbetween—Gerd Lel Rayne.

Well, Wanniston was far superior to Gerd Lel Rayne, and another month would see him equal to any of the Galactic Ones.

Far, long light-years across the galaxy, Wanniston loafed along, taking accelerated treatments and seeking, idly, one of the main planets of the Galactic Ones. He found one, finally, and slid into the spaceport with all the boldness of a sector governor.

He decided to brazen it out—obviously the ship would be registered and his lack of license papers might be questioned. So he opened the space lock and stepped to the ground to face one of the attendants.

The attendant nodded and waved hands to an approaching crew. They nodded at Wanniston, too, and then swarmed through the ship, servicing it. Before Wanniston was at the registry office, the ship was lifted and slid over to the row upon row of parked spacecraft. Wanniston noted its position and then entered the register.

"Name?" asked the official.

"Wan Nes Stan," said he, putting the Galactic pronunciation to his own name.

"You have the ship formerly registered with Emissary Gerd Lel Rayne. Has he another?"

Wan Nes Stan was stopped momentarily, but his plan to brazen it out laid another pathway. "Not that I know of," he said.

"I'll see that another is delivered to him. You'll not be returning that way?"

"If I do," said Wan Nes Stan boldly, "I shall go in the way I got there before."

"Naturally."

Wan Nes Stan almost gulped visibly. He wondered for a moment whether the Galactic was having sport at his expense, or being sarcastic, or whether he was completely taken in by the boldness.

Wan Nes Stan entered his first Galactic city. To any Terran, it would have been nonunderstandable in scope, but to Wan Nes Stan it was beautiful as it should be, and yet not perfect. Color combinations were there beyond the concept of any Terran, all blended in a mad, ever-moving kaleidoscope of sheer symphony. Faint, stirring music emanated from everywhere—there seemed to be no focal point—and the blend of music with color matched exactly. Either would have been unfinished without the other, and both would have been incomplete without the senses of smell, taste, and feel that were excited ever so delicately.

There was no sign of the bustle and hustle of a mighty city. The indolent and the loafer all moved in a precision pattern that gave the impression of smooth machinery that wasted no motion in accomplishing its end.

Its end?

What could any such perfection need with an end? Was this not the end?

No, Wan Nes Stan knew that this was not the end. This was not perfection, any more than any Terran city was the ultimate in combined beauty and utility. This was not the least of the Galactic cities, nor was it the best. It—was average.

This was home.

He no longer looked down upon the crawling, struggling race of creatures that called themselves homo sapiens any more than any Terran looked derisively at a dog. They knew the dog's place in the scheme of things and Wan Nes Stan and the rest of the Galactic Ones knew homo sap's place. There was no scorn in his mind now. The fact that he had once aspired to rule Terra did not appear to him to be a lowly ambition; Wan Nes Stan knew that it was a laudable ambition at one time in his rise—

"... When he became of age he put away childish things."

Wan Nes Stan checked into a hotel, using his assumed name. It was accepted without question, which pleased him greatly since he had need of procuring some Galactic currency so that he could pay bills. It gave him a place to stay until he could swing a deal, make a move, or steal a pocketfull of whatever the Galactic Ones used for money.

Assuming that the Galactic Ones were running their hotels in a manner similar to Terran establishments, Wan Nes Stan ordered newspapers, a library list, and dinner. Ordering these, he found, was to his liking. There was complete rapport. The steak he ordered by projecting it as a whole, giving the waiter a complete mental impression from sight to texture. It was superb, just as he had pictured.

Then he addressed himself to the papers.

There was no price listed on the paper. He looked. He'd hoped to establish the parity value of a newspaper for price-scaling.

He sought the financial section. There was none. There were sports, news items that interested him not one bit because not one of them pertained to the robbery of anything—the latter would have given him an initial idea of the value of things.

The newspaper was thin and uninteresting. A society column listed the comings and goings of people and their associations. He found among the new arrivals column a notation of his own arrival—sketchy and uninformative—in Gerd Lel Rayne's ship; and a statement to the effect that Wan Nes Stan might be able to give some information as to the struggle of Terra in their advancement to the Galactic state.

The latter was too close to home for Wan Nes Stan. It sounded a little as though he might be known; that his masquerade was understood.

It was.

A knock came at the door an hour later, and as Wan Nes Stan opened the door, the Galactic who stood there smiled and said: "Wan Nes Stan? Formerly Terran of Terra?"

"I ... must admit it."

"Think nothing of it," replied the Galactic affably. "I am Len Dor Vale, sector overseer."

"My masquerade is known?"

The Galactic laughed. "Known and appreciated. Look, my friend, when the substitute becomes as efficient as the real thing, we no longer look down upon it. You are no longer a Terran, you are as much a Galactic One as the rest of us."

"I am?"

"Aren't you?"

Wan Nes Stan swallowed. "I've considered myself so."

"We don't object."

"I thought you might consider me presumptive—"

"Not in the least!" boomed Len Dor Vale.

"That makes it easier," said Wan Nes Stan.

"Trying to conceal your real identity is both impossible and ridiculous," laughed Len Dor Vale. "Now, Wan Nes Stan, how will you spend your Galactic life?"

"First, how long have I to live?"

"Your super-intellect will, of course, cause subconscious repair of your body. I'd say another six or seven hundred years. You understand, of course, that not being born one of us has cut your life expectancy. That is too bad. But—" and the overseer dismissed the subject with a wave and a shrug.

"I've been a business executive most of my life."

"You may have trouble doing anything of that nature here," said Len Dor Vale with a sad shake of his head. "We are not a competitive race, we Galactic Ones. I might suggest that you try the main line here; overseeing the myriad of uninformed planets comprises the major portion of our lives."

"That seems not too productive."

"No? We have all we need. Anything you want is supplied, you will find. Our philosophy is settled and stable; we are luckily the highest order of intelligence in this galaxy—and that fact we know. In other galaxies near by, we have found no race to compare with us. There are rising races in all of them, but our prime job is to bring about the completeness of this, the First Galaxy before we struggle with the rest. Our job, Wan Nes Stan, is to co-relate and to advise. Our compensation is the fulfillment of our every desire. We—must carry the burden of all intelligence. We are repaid by those races just below us who are enlightened enough to know what we are doing and who appreciate it.

"Terra is not yet one of these, but another Galactic year and they will be. Our plan is endless, Wan Nes Stan, a project that only we, the Galactics can appreciate in its entirety. You understand the magnitude of any plan of steering a galaxy of races into the full realization of their destiny—and then spreading out through the universe to the countless other galaxies to do likewise.

"The end-product? Yes, you will, as one of us, be able to appreciate this, too. We are still rising, ourselves. We do not know what we may be in another million galactic years—but we do know it will be interesting, and our regret is that we cannot live to see it. Yet our children may, and for them we must plan."

Wan Nes Stan nodded. Certain things penetrated deep during the speech; they rang home with response greater than others; a natural thing. But the one thing that flared in his mind was the statement:

We are not a competitive race.

Wan Nes Stan could and would go far in a culture like this.

"I want to know; how much training is necessary to join the ranks of your governmental service?"

"About a week will suffice. You will then be given an overseer's position. Perhaps you might enjoy being overseer in the sector that includes Sol."

Wan Nes Stan shook his head. "A prophet is not without honor save in his own country," he said.

He considered the idea of overseer's position and scorned it. He'd continue to use the mind machine.

They were still rising.

He could and would rise too. He would rise above them, he could and would become the high governor of all the great widespread race of Galactics. With intelligence above them, he could and would direct them wisely and well, and though none would live to carry his name onward, the name of Wan Nes Stan would go ringing down the halls of time.

But Wan Nes Stan cared little for the halls of time, really. He wanted a present, not a future. That his name might appear as a beacon to uncounted numbers of yet unborn Galactics was attractive; his basic purpose was still to enjoy the power and the glory that would be his.

He wanted the sensuous thrill of having the power that would place him among those whose names still ring though eons have passed.

He began to plan craftily.

"Len Dor Vale, have I your backing?" he asked.

"In two days you have proved yourself most able," agreed Vale.

"I have your backing."

"Need you receive it in words?" puzzled Len Dor Vale. "Must you have acclaim thrust upon you?"

Wan Nes Stan smiled in self-depreciation. "I want you to help me," he said quietly.

Len Dor Vale nodded. "What have you in mind?"

"I want your help in securing me a grand overseer's position."

"We'll see. It might be done."

"Who must we convince?"

"Convince? Only the aptitude machine."

"A machine?" asked Wan Nes Stan.

"Certainly. You are rated on your ability alone, and the aptitude machine has been devised to best select those with the greatest aptitude."

"I see."

Wan Nes Stan said no more. He spent more time in his mind machine, and he took increased and accelerated doses, checking each time to the maximum. He knew his machine to the last decimal place, and in six-hour-periods, Wan Nes Stan energized his brain; increasing its capacity by mighty leaps and bounds.

He took his aptitude test, then, and the result caused mild wonder. His name was bandied back and forth across the galaxy, and he was requested to appear at the great Grand Council of the Galactics.

"Len Dor Vale, what is the real meaning behind this request?" asked Wan Nes Stan, as the message was handed to him.

"You do not know?" laughed the overseer.

"Frankly, no. I suspect—but again I presume."

"Not at all. No man presumes when his statements and beliefs are fact."

"I have surpassed the tests required for this sector?"

"You have surpassed all tests," smiled Len Dor Vale.

"All tests?"

"All tests. You are to be installed into the office of the Galactic Governor."

"Galactic Governor?" gloated Wan Nes Stan.

"Oh no. Aptitude is not all. Your aptitude is the highest in our race. Therefore you are to be installed in the office of the Galactic Governor as Governor-select."

"And?"

"When your experience-ability factor exceeds that of the Galactic Governor, you will automatically be installed in office. You understand, of course, that higher ability will offset lacking factors in experience, but you must have experience, Wan Nes Stan—a wealth of it. You will gain it by being in the governor's office, working with him, studying his methods, and—well, gaining experience."

"As simple as that," said Wan Nes Stan, brushing his hands.

Len Dor Vale nodded.

"How long will it take?" asked Wan Nes Stan.

"That depends upon you—and you alone. It depends entirely upon the rapidity and accuracy you exhibit in forming correct evaluations."

"I've heard that last remark before," smiled Wan Nes Stan. "A psychiatrist once mentioned that philosophy—personal philosophy is a man's evaluation of personal data."

"Precisely."

Wan Nes Stan nodded complacently. Len Dor Vale then started to help Wan Nes Stan to pack his bag for the long journey across the galaxy to Planet One.

When they raced into space, Len Dor Vale went along as Wan Nes Stan's personal advisor.

"This is routine, but a necessary part of your training," explained Len Dor Vale. "I may as well tell you, I once was selected for a minor post in this office and was subsequently replaced by a better-equipped man. Therefore I know my way around here, and was selected to act as your advisor. Each governor-select enjoys a personal advisor, you know."

Wan Nes Stan smiled quietly. The job was strictly that of a super file clerk. This would not last long and he knew it. With Len Dor Vale's help, he rose swiftly, learning the intricate details with ease. By the month, Wan Nes Stan went from department to department, learning the basic function of each, and when his education was complete, Len Dor Vale took him to meet the governor of the Galactic Council.

"He is ready," said Len Dor Vale.

"I'm glad to meet you," said the governor.

He offered a hand, and as Wan Nes Stan took it, the grip was firm and honest. They shook, and Wan Nes Stan went swiftly over his emotions, asking himself the purpose of this heartiness.

He knew that the Galactic Governor was genuinely glad to meet him. That was against Wan Nes Stan's grain. To greet a possible—no, positive successor to such a position was not done with heartiness. It should be done with false heartiness, a completely counterfeit facade, behind which false front the machinery necessary to destroy was being brought to bear. Yet Wan Nes Stan knew that no such intent was in the governor's mind. Apparently the Galactic Governor was quite content to be replaced by a better man—and accepted the presence of the better man with good will and friendship.

Wan Nes Stan wondered whether the governor's henchmen might not lead him astray in his experience-gaining program so that he would get a false start, or even useless and detrimental data. His super-intelligence told him that this was not the case. Like all the rest of the Galactics, the governor was willing that a better man be found, and insisted that when, as, and if a better man is discovered, that he be placed properly, even though it meant stepping aside.

It was a philosophy that Wan Nes Stan never entertained. It was completely altruistic. It offered with no consideration of self, the most good for the greatest number. It was a fool's philosophy—but then, all the Galactics were fools.

The governor said: "You have shown a most magnificent level of intellectual aptitude. I congratulate you."

"You have no resentment?"

"Can a man resent that which he knows to be right and honest—unless he himself is unright and dishonest?"

"I suppose not," said Wan Nes Stan. He was safe. Continued use of his mind machine would keep him far and above all comers. "But the usual question comes: What are you going to do?"

"When that time arrives, I will become your aide—unless one better fitted for the position arrives first."

"Mind if I ask how I—"

"Replace me? I don't mind, at all. You replace me whenever you gain sufficient experience to balance your superior intelligence."

"How do I get experience?"

"By being governor," laughed the governor.

"Look," snorted Wan Nes Stan, "prerequisite for the position is experience in the position itself? That's a fool's statement."

"It is the rule of the Galactic Council."

"It remains a fool's rule."

"Is it not sensible," asked Len Dor Vale, "to demand experience before one is given the chance to rule a galaxy-wide civilization such as this?"

Wan Nes Stan could see no real objection to that and said so.

"Then is it a fool's rule?"

Wan Nes Stan thought. It was no fool's rule, really. But instead of making him operate as substitute during the governor's infrequent absences; handling the minor matters of state; and covering the lesser functions and passing rulings on the items of secondary importance, he should be placed in the governor's chair and advised intelligently. This advice should come from experienced men, and as the years rolled on, the advice should become less and less necessary until Wan Nes Stan was handling the entire proposition himself. They were doddling old fools, the entire cosmos of them.

He would change that ruling as soon as he could. There would be some changes made once he became governor—they must be shown the proper way to administrate. After all, it was an accepted fact that Wan Nes Stan had the highest intellect of them all. His judgment must be infallible; his decision would be correct. Their incompetent manner in this matter was an index of their own entire lack of integration. A period of teaching, perhaps, one that would give them better integration of thought, would be advisable.

The governor excused himself as the communicator buzzed, and Len Dor Vale took that moment to draw Wan Nes Stan out of the office. As they passed the door, the governor called after them:

"Good luck, Wan Nes Stan."

Len Dor Vale returned to the governor-select's quarters. "Wan Nes Stan," he said, "you realize that your machine has done its work."

The other nodded. "It has had practically no effect for a couple of weeks, now."

"Your mind is apt. In fact its increase in capacity surpasses even our greatest dreams. But like the untutored genius, you lack the manipulatory facility. Your mind—like the false fiction of the farmer that suddenly composes the brilliant symphony; the unlearned blacksmith that becomes world-acclaimed as a genius with the paintbrush; or the completely untutored grammar-failure that turns up with the galaxy's finest novel—is untrained. You do not want to be a flash in the pan, Wan Nes Stan.

"In order that you use that vast storehouse you have, you must fill it. It is like the galaxy's finest filing system—but it is empty. The drawer files haven't even collected dust, and the cross-index cries for its cards to be notated. Understand?"

"Of course. Intelligence is not sufficient. Experience can and will prepare a man for—"

"Be careful," smiled Len Dor Vale. "In gaining experience one gains also knowledge."

"My mind," said Wan Nes Stan sharply, "has the ability to contain ... a capacity for learning far above all. I know that the prime factor is the capacity. Without capacity, one cannot fill it with experience and knowledge. But get the knowledge—proper and well-balanced—and experience is really unnecessary."

"Providing that your knowledge is gained from one having the experience. Then you will get experience vicariously. The practise necessary to use that experience will come similarly. You are most fortunate, Wan Nes Stan. I want to know, can you keep yourself busy for a few days? I must make a short trip to a conference. I must not miss it. Can you—"

"I can, and will. I am going to see if I can make a machine that will transfer knowledge and experience from one mind to another. I shall convert my own gadget, here. I will not wait five centuries before I take my next step."

Len Dor Vale smiled in agreement. "I'd suggest that you take some time for amusement."

"Amusement? Spend my time in play when there are things to be done?"

"We think it best to balance the mind's work with the mind's ability to play. You'll find that our fun and games are just as advanced as are our aims and our day's work. You'll not be doing anything childish, Wan Nes Stan."

"Len Dor Vale, I eschewed a future long years ago. I gave up my right to wife and family. Women have little lure for me since all women per se look upon men as possible fathers for their children. Games have as their fundamental concept the desire to excel in the mind or the body as an exhibition of desirability to the female. I shall continue to work."

"Then I'll be returning as soon as I can. Sorry, but it is necessary."

"No resentment," smiled Wan Nes Stan affably. "I can get along."

Len Dor Vale smiled at the governor-select and left. He went to his quarters, packed, and within the hour was on his way into the depths of space.

Two days later, he was given the "come-in" signal at a distant planet on the rim of the galaxy. He dropped his ship quickly and obediently and made his way with deference through the city.

The Galactic waited until he was growing impatient before the attendant signaled him to enter the inner sanctum.

"Before you enter ... Len Dor Vale, is it?... you have the rules?"

"I have been here before," answered Len Dor Vale. "I have also reviewed the rules."

"Good. Be not disturbed if any of your questions go unanswered. Students will not reveal anything of dangerous nature and will remain silent rather than give false answer."

Len Dor Vale entered the apartment.

"I seek advice and knowledge."

"Ask."

"Wan Nes Stan is about to take his next step."

"I know."

"I ask, will it be violent?"

"There may be violence, but it will not be a major problem."

"Can I prevent violence?" asked Len Dor Vale.

"No."

Len Dor Vale nodded. "He is a violent man. I see no reason why violence should be permitted."

"Could you prevent it? You, admittedly, are psychologist number four among all the Galactics."

"I am here asking your advice."

"What is he doing now?"

"Attempting to convert his machine to a device that will transfer knowledge from one brain to another. He desires that he gain the governor's place as soon as possible."

"He wants the next step to come at once," mused the Student.

"As his psychologist—and number four of all—I know when the next step will take place. I know, or can predict fairly well how Wan Nes Stan's next move will manifest itself. Were I of his mental caliber to five percent, I would block it!"

"Along that road lies danger—cease following that thought!"

"I shall, immediately."

"Wan Nes Stan has obtruded his philosophy upon you already, Len Dor Vale. The next step will take place soon enough that no replacement of you will be necessary, that you know. Completion of his investigations on the conversion of the mind machine will bring about the next step—as you predict—sooner than it would if he were not so single-minded in his purpose."

"Why was Wan Nes Stan permitted to proceed?"

"Every man gets his chance. Every man must be permitted his opportunity to excel as long as he does no irreparable harm."

"His actions on Terra prior to being forced out were not beneficent or benevolent."

"There were no permanent scars," mused the Student. "As for his use of the machine—it has done all Students good. Evidence to the effect that the mind is limitless is valuable, Len Dor Vale."

"But his is not the type that should use such a machine."

"Agreed. One should have a purely theoretical mind before one uses the machine. Otherwise the mind becomes agile and capacious with nothing for it to do. A complete theorist cares nothing for reduction of theory into practice; manipulation of ultra-theoretical concepts into solution is the end-all for us, and the obtaining of impractical mathematics can be handled in a super-energized mind without unbalance.

"But Wan Nes Stan's philosophy includes violence where necessary, and there will be violence. But not dangerous violence. No man can do anything irreplaceably devastating."

"Frankly," offered Len Dor Vale, "I feared that in taking his next step he might take Planet One with him."

"Unless he can control all of the Galactic minds there, he will not cause change in any but himself. Have no fear, even for those within his reach."

"I thank you. I was worried."

The Student nodded, and turned away from Len Dor Vale by a slight amount. The Student's eyes closed part way as he immersed himself in thought. As Len Dor Vale turned to go, the Student aroused himself briefly—long enough to add:

"Wan Nes Stan will take his next step and the Galaxy will be a better place for it."

Wan Nes Stan shook his head with annoyance as the machine remained mute. For three days he had been working on it with all of his mind-capacity. In the empty crevasses of his capable mind, Wan Nes Stan was packing enormous quantities of information and education gained on the spot. With perfect memory, he stored the details away and reviewed them with perfection before he tried another change in the circuits of his machine. Sheer reasoning power had failed to solve his problem, not even unreal mathematics served. There was no solution to the problem of how to transfer knowledge from brain to brain.

What is knowledge? he asked himself again and again.

Knowledge is a matter of know-how. It is, in a sense, experience whether original or vicarious. A schoolboy need not perform the generation of calculus in order to study it; the myriad of false trails have been weeded out. Thus schooling can pack a lifetime of learning into a few short weeks by merely pointing the way instead of letting the schoolboy follow all the red-herring trails that the original thinker did. In semantics, the student is offered problems and if he fails to solve them properly, he is immediately prevented from basing other solutions on this false premise—pyramiding his illogic.

So Wan Nes Stan answered himself.

To trace the life-patterns of one brain onto another should not be hard. Yet no theory would permit it.

And a thought came to the governor-select. What is philosophy?

Philosophy is a man's personal evaluation of data.

Based upon what?

Evaluation of data based upon experience and knowledge and reason.

What is reason?

The ability to extrapolate beyond present experience and knowledge so as to apply the extrapolation correctly to a problem not yet filed in the realm of experience.

Then philosophy is to efficiently apply one's experience in evaluation of data.

And to apply it properly in guiding his actions.

Suppose then, I gain another man's experience and knowledge?

You will then reason like he did.

And your philosophy will be his.

Precisely.

But the Galactics are doddering old fools! With the galaxy at the tips of their fingers, they play games. An ounce of ambition in one of them would put that one in the governor's seat. Yet they prate about adaptability and aptitude and experience and juggle their figures, consult their computing tables and select a man for each job. Has ambition no place?

Ambition is a factor. To not-want the governor's position would reduce the aptitude factor.

Wan Nes Stan left the building where he lived and roamed idly through the streets. Galactics walked in the afternoon sun oblivious to him. Magnificent couples there were, walking through the trees that lined each street, hand in hand, complete in their own exclusive world of ecstasy. Others sat in self-satisfied contemplation of their problems or presented argument to one another on points and theory.

It was a quiet scene that Wan Nes Stan entered. Even argument seemed to be pro-rated and measured in intensity. Of earnest self-belief there was plenty, but on each evidence of self-conviction there was the soft stamp of willingness to permit the other his own belief. There was no scorn for a conflicting thought, but instead there was admiration for the other party, who had mentality enough to entertain a concept—and believe it—that was at variance with the philosophy of the first.

A galaxy full of mild-mannered little rabbits!

A decadent, sloppily-sentimental culture!

A race of men so blind that they could not see what awaited them once they achieved ambition—who were too busy lifting those below to reach above and lift themselves. Lazily satisfied to advance with the maddeningly-slow process of evolutionary development. What did it matter if Terra received no help?

A culture of missionary-minded altruists.

Owners of the galaxy—and so mentally soft that any man could wrest it from them single-handed.

Any man.

And yet he, Wan Nes Stan, who had the drive, the power, and the capability was blocked. Blocked until he could spend five centuries in service to gain the experience necessary. Five hundred years in the second-place chair. Half a millennium of inactivity before he could begin to take that which he should have now!

Frustrated by a machine. Frustrated by a galaxy full of fools!

"Fools!" he said aloud. No one heard him.

"You, there. Fool!"

"I?" asked the Galactic in surprise.

"You are a fool!"

"A concept I have often considered, but if you wish to belabor the point, I'll be most glad to maintain a stout defense."

"You are a fool!"

"Resolved," said the Galactic, "that I am not. You, as affirm—"

"Fool!"

"But parroting is not presenting argum—"

"Fool! You are a fool."

"By what standard?"

"By mine!" exploded Wan Nes Stan. "You are fools! All of you! You sit there idly, watching the years pass, with all the universe before you, and you do nothing!"

"And you can show us the way?" asked the Galactic. "Might I ask your philosophy, friend?"

"I'm no friend to fools. Show you the way? That I can. I am the only one among you that can show you the way—and you sit there and ignore me. That is why you are fools!"

"Show me and I'll follow," answered the Galactic. "Convince me and I'm your man."

"Bah! One logical, integrated mind in a veritable sea of moronic reason," shouted Wan Nes Stan. "Blocked by ignorance from that which should be mine. Forestalled from my rightful station by sheer numbers—as all great minds are restricted by the blind, mindless, unimaginative imbeciles about him. Blocked and barred from my rightful future—"

Wan Nes Stan leaped forward and snatched the Galactic's hand. He reached forward and clutched the jeweled pin from the Galactic's lapel. He struck the Galactic across the face and started to run from the scene.

Another glitter caught his eye and Wan Nes Stan leaped over to wrest a luminous, jeweled timepiece from around the throat of a woman.

"Give—" he screamed.

And he clutched at a handbag and bore it away in his mad flight.

"—or I take!"

An ornate brooch came free in his hands with a long strip of shimmering, diaphanous silk clinging to the pin. Her companion raced after Wan Nes Stan to remonstrate for the insult, but the madman struck him across the face.

He snatched the ring from the fallen man's finger.

And on he raced, through the bright afternoon sunlight, ever adding to his pile of loot. Galactics clustered behind him, talking to one another, in wondering, unbelieving tones.

But Wan Nes Stan, his lust to strive for power denied him, retreated within himself and substituted the childlike desire for glittering, beckoning things of jewel and credit. Denied even the chance to steal in this world where all was his for the asking, Wan Nes Stan returned to his youth and snatched things that had once been of value to himself and to those about him.

Worthless baubles!

But still he ran, clutching here and there and ever adding to his collection of gaudy junk.

And the final straw came when the Galactics, having no desire to be jostled or beaten, lined the broad sidewalk and quietly unfastened ornaments from jumper or dress or wrist or finger and held it out to Wan Nes Stan as he ran by.

"—I take!" he screamed, and then the scream became a whimper; they took from him the last pleasure of forcing them to part with the baubles and it broke him.

He threw the baubles to the ground. One of the Galactics stooped and scooped them into the handbag and offered it to him.

"I take," he blubbered, and as he saw the proffered bag, his hysteria broke and tears started from his eyes. His mouth pouted and he blubbered and cried like a whipped child. Sobs, deep and lung-shaking gripped his powerful frame and his utter lack of control extended to his motor nerves and he slumped like a rag doll.

Broken in spirit, Wan Nes Stan moved forward through the encircling crowd and left them wondering. They did not follow.

Tears streamed down his contorted face and his steps—laggard and weak—were dotted with drops of moisture as he made his broken way to his office.

He entered wearily, and sat down.

"Wan Nes Stan—megalomaniac!" he said bitterly. He turned at the sound of a step and saw Len Dor Vale watching him.

"Broken," he said.

Len Dor Vale fixed the other man with a piercing gaze. "Sorry," he said. "Quite sorry. But it can not be done that way, you know. The whole proposition was your idea."

"I know," said the other man. He inspected Len Dor Vale's large, well-proportioned frame, his strong features, and his absolute poise and wondered how any man, with all to recommend him, could be so utterly unsympathetic. The coldness in his face set him apart from one of the Galactic Ones. "The proposition was sensible enough, yet I failed. Even though I failed, my manipulations were properly done, you will agree."

Len Dor Vale nodded.

"Where did I fail?"

"You struck a snag."

"It was not my fault."

"Are you crawling?" snapped Len Dor Vale.

"Perhaps," said Wan Nes Stan bitterly. "I want to know how I failed."

Len Dor Vale smiled deprecatorily. "Wan Nes Stan, you failed because you neglected to take everything into account. Before you can succeed—before you can hope to plan without failure, you must learn to take everything into account."

"One cannot take everything into account."

"Yes, one can. It is quite possible—if you know how."

"Everything's easy," said Wan Nes Stan sourly, "once you know how."

"Certainly," laughed Len Dor Vale.

"And because I made a mistake, I'm ruined."

"Had you taken everything into account, you would have known that you could never succeed. You wouldn't have started, and now you wouldn't be a complete and broken failure."

"You may well gloat."

"I'm not gloating," objected Len Dor Vale.

"I believe that," admitted Wan Nes Stan. "But that changes nothing."

"You understand our position, Wan Nes Stan. If we prevented you from trying; well, you might have succeeded, and we'd never know the benefits of your success. It was your idea, and you wanted to try. But don't feel too broken. Others have tried."

"Small consolation. Knowing that another man is starving will not put food in my belly." Wan Nes Stan stood up, dusted his jacket carefully, and left the office.

The report of a pistol echoed and re-echoed up and down the corridor, reverberating and hushing until it could be mistaken for a wild cackle of laughter.

THE END.

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