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So you see . . . he said. Just sensible precautions. Theres no trick to it. You’re a military man—and what’s that mean? Superior strength. Superior tactics. That’s all. So I outpower your strength, outnumber you, make your tactics useless—and what are you? Nothing.” He put his glass carefully aside on the table with the decanter. “But I’m not Brian. I’m not afraid of you. I could do without these things if I wanted to.” Dont let them hurt you, Wally Toes! The Dangerous Ladies Affair Readers of previous S-F annuals will remember Theodore L. Thomass The Far Look and “Satellite Passage” particularly for the vivid personal realism of his near-future portraits of man in space. Mr. Thomas, who first trained as a chemical engineer and now practices law as a patent attorney, started his writing career under the pseudonym of Leonard Lockhard, and still uses that by-line for his series of humorous-instructive tales about the patent pursuits of Mr. Saddle and Mr. Spardleton. He led Hitchcock from the testing rooms to a small, file-jammed office. The files were a primitive type, as if the scientists here had never heard of memory crystals. Muller bent over the librarians console and punched out a combination. A folder dropped into the delivery slot. Had was glad he still wore his prot-suit when a couple of chemical explosions burst close to the cable line, presumably by chance, only fifty meters below him. He was even more glad of it when flying material from a third broke the cable itself well downslope and the emergency cable stopped him at the next pylon. He slid down the pylons lift and spoke with his transceiver close to the telephone at the foot. He was told to make west two miles to the next cable-car line. His interlocutor, he supposed, must be speaking from an exchange more or less on the same latitude as that of his pylon, since communication even here was still almost impossible north-south except at ranges of some meters. Even so, there was a squeaky sound about the other voice and its speech came out clipped and rapid. He supposed his own voice would sound gruff and drawled to the other. Then, he was lying at the foot of the escalator. His head rested on the cold metal of the base plate and he was looking at his hand, the fingers of which were pressed into the creviced grill. One after another, in perfect order, the steps of the escalator slipped into these crevices, tread in groove, rasping at his fingertips, occasionally tearing away a sliver of his flesh. Some blue liquid, a fairly large air bubble and a glob of black-speckled jelly in a transparent globe, the size of an eyeball; it was set in two metal rings, one within the other, pivoted so die globe turned in all directions. Mounted on the outside ring was a curved tongue of metal at the top of which was a small tube with a pin-sized lens. The tube was threaded into a bushing, and I guess you used it to look at what was going on in the sphere. You cant be too careful, he said. He’s well guarded here?” But a half million years ago, when Earths half-apes gamboled in an eternal nightmare spring, did civilizations rear temples, forums and ocean cities across Mars? Have those peoples gone to dust, or perhaps burrowed underground to escape the bitter weather? It had been shot, in case youre interested, at the Temple of the Sun, Konarak. An awkward place to reach, Hartford told me, “but decidedly worth the trouble.” I’ve since looked it up; it’s on the Orissa coast, about twenty-five miles northeast of Puri. The reference books are pretty mealy-mouthed; some apologize for the “obvious” impossibility of providing illustrations, but Percy Brown’sIndian Architecture minces no words. The carvings, it says primly, are of“a shamelessly erotic character that have no parallel in any known building.” A sweeping claim, but I can believe it after seeing that movie. Van Eyck waved me away. "Talk to Nolan, major. Im not responsible for his air piracy." He stood in the cockpit, gazing over the cars as the shreds of fabric fell around him. So here I am, warden-in-charge, fattening them up for our leader, Tommy Fango; here I am laying on the banana pudding and the milkshakes and the cream-and-brandy cocktails, going about like a technician, gauging their effect on haunch and thigh when all the time it is I who love him, I who could have pleased him eternally if only life had broken differently. But I am scrawny now, I am swept like a leaf around corners, battered by the slightest wind. My elbows rattle against my ribs and I have to spend half the day in bed so a gram or two of what I eat will stay with me, for if I do not, the fats and creams will vanish, burned up in my own insatiable furnace, and what little flesh I have will melt away. Going to the sexiatrist was the call-up day for coming-of-age even more than ones initiation into the forces came through the medical examination. It was with mixed feelings that I faced the ceremony, having had an enjoyable childhood with no great attraction urging me into manhood. I reported at the Center, and a nurse took my particulars. I signed an agreement that I was prepared to undertake the responsibilities of adulthood; all rather vague, as it was a matter of contracting out to avoid the consequences rather than contracting in. Had I refused, I should have had twenty forms to sign and dozens of conditions written in in fine print. Either that, I had heard, orI ended up in a harsh institution for the backward. Well, I think its fairly obvious, Bill, that— Its your money, I replied. But what do you want me to do?” Never. The doorbell put an end to these thoughts. Sabina hurried downstairs. Callers at 8:00 A.M. were rare; not even John had had occasion to stop by at such an early hour. The last person who had was the nasty muckraking journalist Homer Keeps, during the Spook Lights Affair. There had been no recent case sufficiently sensational for Keeps or any of his ink-stained brethren to be bothering her, but then members of the Fourth Estate were notoriously unpredictable..
