FOG

Originally published in Thrilling Wonder Stories, June 1951.

It came on the second Tuesday in May, blanketing the city, shrouding the harbor, grounding everything at the airport. This city had known May fogs before and the inhabitants took the first few days of it in stride. It had been a depressing winter and there was some grumbling naturally—but fog was expected in May.

Thursday of that week Elmer Naper, a painter by trade, of 1365 N. Ellemore, committed suicide. His wife found him in the backyard when she came home from a card party. He’d blown most of his head off with a twelve gauge shotgun. He’d been complaining about the fog.

The backyard angle made sense for a man using a shotgun. The backyard and the fog were not connected in the minds of the officers investigating the suicide. The backyard and the shotgun were logical. Elmer didn’t want to mess up the house.

There have been suicides before.

On Friday morning there was another, a postal clerk named Servies. He hanged himself from a rafter in his garage. On Friday afternoon there were three, two men and one woman, in scattered sections of the city.

Suicides come in waves, the police knew. But four in one day—none of them in the house—all of them outside? There was nothing in the records like that.

In Washington the Old Man sent for Curt. He had a big map on his desk and he pointed at the spot which marked the fogbound city. Curt nodded and looked at the Old Man questioningly.

The Old Man shrugged his thin shoulders and his big head swiveled around to look out the window. In Washington it was clear and sunny.

“Why there?” Curt asked. “Why that city among all the others? You’re assuming it’s not a natural fog.”

“I’m not assuming anything, Curt. If I assume that, I assume an enemy. And who on this world is left to fight us?”

Who indeed? Russia was a desolate wasteland, still radioactive. England was a nation of shopkeepers again. The South American republics were allied finally, their mutual animosity confined to the legislative floor. Who on this Earth…?

Curt said, “Nobody on this planet. You’re right.”

* * * *

There had been no interplanetary travel yet. There was equipment for it—there was knowledge of life on Mars.

But in all the world there was only one strong country from a military standpoint and its strength was only comparative.

The Old Man said wearily, “Oh, Curt—Martians?” His smile was cynical.

“Venerians?” Curt suggested. “I was thinking of Venus, fogbound Venus.”

“You weren’t really thinking at all. You were dreaming, perhaps, Curt. You’re serious, I hope?”

“I’m serious. We’re so damned afraid of the unknown we’re living in the middle ages. We’re so sick of war we’re not allowing our natural curiosity to grow. Why haven’t they shot a ship to Mars? What are they waiting for?”

“For a resolute united people, free from confusion. We haven’t had that since nineteen hundred twenty-nine.”

“And we’re not getting any closer to it,” Curt said. “Because the people can’t catch up to science, science is retarded to their level. I can’t think of a better weapon than fog. They’ve been living in it for fifty years.”

“They?” the Old Man said. “You’ve some distinction in your mind, Curt? We aren’t people?”

Curt faced his superior squarely. “Not in the ordinary sense, I hope. Not like—like those jerks who read cowboy stories and pay three bucks to see a football game. Not Jerks with a capital ‘J.’ I hope I’m not.”

“Well,” the Old Man said. “Well, Curt.” He shook his head. “You’ll have us under fire by a loyalty board. Personal troubles, lad? Love or money, maybe?”

Curt expelled his breath and sat down, his face in his hands. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Overwork, maybe,” the Old Man said. “The department has a tendency to overload lads of your savvy, Curt. Overwork, we’ll call it. Take a month.”

Curt put his hands down, and shook his head. “I’ll go, sir. It was—adolescent, that outburst. I’m all right. I’ll go.”

The Old Man shook his head.

“Please, sir. It’s important, to me. I—like to think it’s important to the department too—and to the world.”

The Old Man’s lined face was grave. His big head with its tangled thatch of gray hair seemed too heavy for his thin body. He looked almost grotesque. “Are you trying to tell me something, Curt?”

“I—don’t understand you, sir.”

“All right. You’ve been close to me, Curt. I never married and my parents died when I was a child. You’ve been—like my family. If there’s anything troubling you…”

“Nothing, sir, nothing personal. Just an unreasonable resentment at the state of the world. I’m not Atlas, I realize now. You’ll arrange transportation, sir?”

“Navy X-one-seven-D.” The Old Man smiled. “You’ll actually get there, traveling west, before you leave here. It’s hardly off the drafting boards, that model. That make you feel better?”

“Some. I’m all right. I’m fine.”

“Okay. Don’t contact me tonight. I won’t be home.” He was smiling. “The Redskins are playing the Rams under the lights and I wangled a pair of tickets from Judge Aarons.”

“Me and my big mouth!” Curt said.

“I’m an old man and senile. Luck, Curt.”

In his apartment Curt packed leisurely, thinking of his outburst in the Old Man’s office. What was happening to him? He’d almost given the whole show away. He’d actually told the Old Man the true story. And the old boy had smiled.

Smiled— Curt paused in his packing. And wasn’t it coincidental that he, of all the agents, should be called in? He didn’t underestimate the Old Man. Very little escaped him—and this coincidence was too far out of the realm of possibility.

He sat down on the bed suddenly, his knees weak. The Old Man knew. He had to know. It didn’t make sense otherwise.

The red light at the foot of his bed was flashing. He was at the door when it buzzed. He opened it, and Vera stood there.

She was a beautiful girl, firm-bodied and slim, smooth-skinned and vibrant. Her oriental dark-brown eyes were mocking Curt. “You’re going to the Coast.”

He nodded. “Come in, darling. How did you know?”

“It was arranged. Did you think it was a coincidence?”

“Something more than that,” Curt said. “I’d forgotten about your—your thought control.”

“To put it simply—we don’t control people of that mental level, Curt.” She was smiling. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

Her lips were soft, her body pressing firmly into his. Curt drew away after a moment. “You don’t control people of that mental level? You mean that in the department there are other…?” He didn’t finish.

“Traitors?” She finished, for him. “Is that the word you were going to use?”

“Is that what I’m considered on your planet?”

“No. Curt, if you’re doubtful, if you feel some affinity with these—these comic-strip readers—you can—”

“Quit? Can I really, dear?”

She-was silent, her dark eyes studying him. He said, “I’ve only got a couple hours and I don’t imagine I’ll see you on the Coast. Come here, you temptress.”

“I’ll be out there,” she said. “But there’s now and that’s all we can be sure of today.” She came over to him.

* * * *

The Old Man hadn’t lied about the X17D. It was a smoothly contoured duralyte ship, resembling a saucer more than anything else. The entire outer shell revolved, rotated by the blast ports along its chromolux rim. The pilot’s soundproofed compartment was gyroscopically leveled, cushioned against the tremor of its supersonic blast speed.

There was room for one other besides the pilot and this one other, on tonight’s western trip, was Agent Curt Belfast of the Department of Science.

The pilot was Tom Allis. “Long time no see, Curt,” he said. “How do you like my new baby?”

“She looks sleek. Moves?”

“Moves. Remember, when we were kids and used to skip stones on a pond? That’s the way she moves through space, only a little quicker, of course. She should do over nineteen hundred.”

“We’ll be at the Coast before we leave here,” Curt said. “I’d have legal grounds for two suppers on the swindle sheet. All set, Tom?”

“If you are I am. Nervous, Curt?”

“No. Should I be?”

“No. But I am. And I’m the pilot. You always were a cold potato, laddie. Let’s go.”

They went. The take-off was all sound and fury but once in flight there was no sensation whatever. There was no vision except the radar-III screen; the controls were all automatic.

In their oxylite chairs Tom and Curt watched the red band of the rameter. Curt said, after a few minutes, “What did you mean, Tom, by cold potato?”

“Forget it. Maybe I was annoyed because you weren’t nervous.”

“No, I’m serious. Do you think I’m cold—I mean, without social consciousness?”

“Whatever the hell that is. I think you could live on an uninhabited island the rest of your life without fretting too much.”

“Oh, no. No, I couldn’t.”

“Well, with a blonde or two and an equipped lab then.”

“Oh, hell yes. Couldn’t you? Changing the lab for a really hot air-buggy and the blondes for whatever you relish in that field. Couldn’t you then, Tom?”

“Nope—I like people. I really do. All kinds of people. Even you, Curt, when you let your hair down.”

The red worm of the rameter crawled along its channel, almost a fourth of the trip already gone. It was at the halfway mark when Tom said, “What gives with this fog?”

“What fog?”

“Cut it out,” Tom said. “Science sends a man out tonight. State sent one out this afternoon to say nothing of the lads the Department of Agriculture’s got out there. What’s the gimmick?”

“I don’t know what they’re doing there. I’m going out to see my girl.”

“Sure, sure. All right, I’m just a chauffeur. All the medals won’t change that. And I was so proud of them.” He held a hand up for silence, watching the rameter ribbon. It was almost at the end of its long channel.

There was the sound of a buzzer, and Tom said into his phone, “Special Flight S, Special Flight S. Priority Top A.”

They were ground-controlled from here in.

The oxylite chairs rocked gently. Tom said, “I should have a change-maker and a blue uniform with brass buttons. And one of those gadgets to punch tickets. They don’t need a flier for this.”

“You’ve still got your medals,” Curt said. “And the memory of all those dead Russians.”

Tom’s glance was steady as his voice. “You’re a nice guy. You’ve got a damned cute sense of humor, haven’t you?”

The chairs had stopped rocking. Two blue lights appeared over the rameter ribbon.

Curt stood up. “I apologize. There’s a streak of the illegitimate in me. But you shouldn’t have called me cold, Tom. You shouldn’t have said that.”

The door was in the floor beneath them and opening now, under the pressure of the hydraulic openers. A ladder was coming up from below. Curt paused at the top of the ladder. “Friends, Tom?”

“What difference does it make to you, Mr. Belfast? You don’t need any friends.”

Curt smiled. “We used to be friends, Tom.”

“Not since we were twelve. We’re in different worlds, Curt. So long.” Curt smiled and went down into the fog. Only the ground-controlled planes could use the field and only the military had completely ground-controlled equipment.

At the bottom of the ladder Agent Alan Bentrey of State was waiting. “Some machine, eh? Navy?”

“Navy,” Curt said, “though it’s an outmoded term. They haven’t a single water-going vessel.”

“Tradition,” Bentrey said. “John Paul Jones and all that. We’re not alone, Curt.”

From the fog another shape materialized. Bentrey said, “Dr. Vitesman, this is Mr. Belfast.” And to Curt, “Dr. Vitesman’s the director of the local Air Pollution Control.”

They shook hands. Curt said, “What luck so far, Doctor?”

“None. We aren’t really equipped. Our micro-impacters are as ancient as the smog they were originally designed for and we haven’t had smog for thirty years. I was glad to get those new microscopes you sent. We were still using electronic microscopes in our lab.”

“And the new ones showed nothing?”

“Nothing.” Dr. Vitesman cleared his throat. “Did you expect we’d find something?”

Curt looked at Bentrey but the State man’s face was not visible in the fog. Curt said, “I could use some coffee. The restaurant on the flight deck operating?” They were walking toward the amber lights of the gate.

“Yes,” Dr. Vitesman said. “Their business is mostly local, anyway. Their coffee is nothing special.”

“But their waitresses are,” Curt said. “Doctor—what made you ask if we expected you to find something?”

“Because I can’t believe that what is in that fog is something a microscope would reveal. Even with a two-million magnification. Any more than it could reveal a rumor.”

“Psychiatrist, Doctor?”

“No but a number of my friends are.”

“And they…?”

“Are inclined to the psychic. I’m expecting them all to start wearing turbans any day now and trade in their Z-Rays for a crystal ball.”

“It’s a strange world we inhabit, Doctor.”

“Speak for yourself, young man. My world’s all right.”

Curt laughed. “Doctor, you’re a conservative. You and Alan, here, should get together.”

Dr. Vitesman led the way into the tunnel that led to the mammoth building at the north end of the field. They walked along quietly, the three of them, for seconds.

Then Dr. Vitesman said, “There’s a pernicious and universal guilt complex from the war. There isn’t a person in this city who doesn’t connect this blasted fog with it in one way or another. Even if it was an ordinary fog the depressing effect of it, combined with this mass neurosis—”

“Would cause a suicide wave,” Curt finished. “And those microscopes we sent have shown you it’s an ordinary fog. And how else could a scientific mind analyze it?”

“I don’t know,” the doctor said wearily. “There is knowledge of which we haven’t even the beginnings. There are things we don’t even suspect that our grandsons will take for granted. I can’t go into the unknown from nowhere. Nor can I follow my psychiatric brothers.”

“I can’t even follow you,” Curt said lightly. “You mean the fog is a sort of symbolism, a concrete embodiment of the universal state of mind?”

“That’s only part of it. Lord knows there aren’t many certainties left these days, are there?”

“The same as always,” Bentrey said. “Death and taxes.”

“The tax growth started in thirty-two,” Curt said, “but death managed to catch up by Forty-one and pass it in fifty-five. Those two certainties grow bigger every day, Doctor, and they were all we ever had, really.”

The Doctor sighed. “I should know better than to argue with two bright young men at the same time—government men, at that. If you lads are a sample of what we’re getting for our taxes I guess we aren’t getting cheated—much.”

“I’ll buy the coffee,” Curt said. “You’re a discerning man, Doctor.”

They came up into the bright lights of the lower deck and walked past the Eurasia ticket office to the escalator. Mike Elman’s Flight Deck Grille was about half empty this evening. They took a table near the big windows facing the field and ordered coffee.

Curt was facing the doorway when Vera entered. He stared, his hands rigid on the table, and Alan turned to follow his stare. Alan said, “I see what you mean. Mama manana. I could use some of that.”

“I know her,” Curt said.

“Knowing her wouldn’t constitute possession,” Alan answered. “Why don’t you wave or something?”

Dr. Vitesman said, “I’d like to remind you gentlemen that we have some rather important problems to discuss. As a local man, perhaps I overestimate the importance of this fog. But I’m sure your superiors don’t think so or they wouldn’t have sent you.”

Curt said, “I’m sorry, Doctor. I was—shocked. She’s a rather close friend and I didn’t expect to see her here.”

They talked. They discussed the fog in all its aspects and covered all the theories thus far advanced. What else could they do but talk? The stuff had been analyzed—and found to be fog. The suicides had been investigated—and found to be suicides.

They drank coffee and talked. And near the door Vera sat at a small table, nursing Martinis.

The doctor said, “Well, after five cups of coffee and a few thousand words we’re right where we started. I rather expected, when you gentlemen came, there’d be something new on it from Washington. It’s obvious you’re as puzzled as we are.”

Alan said, “Is that right, Curt? Are we all as puzzled as Doctor Vitesman?”

Curt frowned. “Aren’t you?”

“Almost—and you?”

Curt rubbed his forehead. “Oh, there are theories. But we’ve had enough theories. I’m waiting for a message.” Both of them were intent on him, now.

“Message?” Dr. Vitesman said.

Curt looked at Alan. “Isn’t that what State’s waiting for?”

Alan said quietly, “We don’t know but we’re waiting.”

Dr. Vitesman said slowly, “Am I to infer there’s some—some outside agent involved in this mystery? Are you gentlemen implying an enemy?”

Curt nodded. Dr. Vitesman snorted. “Oh, Lord! The Miami Chamber of Commerce, perhaps? Washington will go to any lengths to promote a war scare, won’t they? I retract my statement about our taxes not going to waste. Gentlemen, would you mind naming the enemy?”

“We don’t know the enemy,” Curt said. “We do suggest that all the inhabitants who aren’t involved in essential services stay home. Ninety percent of the homes in this city are air-conditioned. We don’t know if that will help or not. But all the suicides have been outside. That doesn’t follow the suicide pattern. Doctor, you said yourself that there is knowledge of which we haven’t even the beginning.”

“That I did—but I didn’t expect my words to come back and bite me.” He rose. “You gentlemen have accommodations in town? I’ve plenty of room at my house.”

“I’m a motel man, myself,” Curt said. “Reminds me of my childhood.”

Alan was grinning. “I think our friend wants to be alone. Doctor. Introverted men of science, you know. I’ll go into town with you.” He turned to Curt. “Lunch, tomorrow? I’m staying at the Capistrano.”

“I’ll see you there.”

Curt waited until they were gone before taking the empty chair across from Vera. “How did you do it?” he said. “Tom tells me that ship will do nineteen hundred but I happen to know we were close to three thousand. And I arrive to find you here.”

“I came on my broom.” She mocked him. “Did all the words do any good?”

“None.” He studied her. “I thought the physical sciences weren’t a Venerian strong point.”

“I’m here. Twelve more suicides today. Tomorrow there’ll be a hundred.”

“And nothing tangible.”

“Just the fog. You see, Curt, there are the metaphysical sciences, too.”

His smile was bitter. “With physical agents. Darling, no one would call your charms metaphysical.”

“Thank you. But we can be destroyed physically. Fourteen of us could scarcely fight the world—physically.”

“Fourteen,” he said. “You mean, on all Venus, there are only fourteen—of—of you?”

“Surprised? Fourteen is all—and we’ll rule Terra. Fifteen with you. You’ve no idea what an ideal situation that will be. Fifteen people with over two billion slaves.”

Curt was silent. Vera said quietly, “And after that—Mars. With Terra’s industrial strength and knowledge, with our will and thought control, we’ll be—invincible.”

“Maybe. We can’t be too sure of Mars.”

“Even with Herculo seven?”

Three people on Earth knew about Herculo seven and Curt was one of them. It was the new super-explosive without critical mass. A ton of it would disintegrate any planet in the heavens.

After a few moments Curt said, “Yes, with Herculo seven even Mars would—I think I’ll have a drink.”

His remark about liking motels had been more than a gag. His mother had died when he was born and his father was a man who liked to travel. Curt had seen America from the windows of a thousand motels. His dad had died when Curt was fifteen and there had been nobody after that, nobody important—excepting himself and his work.

Tonight the fog was all around his cabin and his thoughts were all around the universe. Tonight he kept going back to the scene in the Old Man’s office. He saw again the lined tired face and heard again, “You’ve been—like my family. If there’s anything troubling you…”

The seeds of treason are usually planted early. They flourish in a world without affection. The numerous ladies of Curt Belfast’s outer life had never satiated his hunger for affection. The Old Man, with his few lonely words, had scored beyond any of them.

But he was in this thing now—up to the neck. The world could fight any foe with tangible weapons. The world couldn’t fight the fog of Venus without destroying the fourteen inhabitants of that metaphysical land and the world had no weapons against fear. Nor, seemingly, against confusion.

In the morning he asked her, “How did you get out here so fast?”

“Is it important?”

“Faith is important to me, faith between us.”

“Then you shouldn’t ask. I’m here, Curt. In New Mexico the ship is ready.”

That too was supposedly secret. “The Mars ship?” Curt asked.

“We’ll call it the Venus ship. You and I, in that, taking the answer back to my people.”

“The answer?”

“The answer. The head of your department will have the question tomorrow. The Secretary of State will have it. And the President.”

“Aren’t you rushing things? A hundred suicides aren’t going to panic men of that caliber.”

“We can give them a thousand—or a million. Or more.”

“You’re telling me the truth, Vera?”

“Shall I prove it?”

He didn’t answer. He went to the window and saw the fog and came back to pour a drink.

“Curt Belfast,” she said. “King of the Universe. If the mantle’s too big, Curt, say so now.”

A million or more… In the last war eighty million had died. Death was becoming commonplace. But slavery…

He said, “I’ve got to think. Fourteen—I thought, of course… Are they all here? Or…?”

“On Venus. I can stand the atmosphere here but they haven’t evolved to that yet.”

Evolved, evolved… He said, “You’re here alone?”

She smiled. “Faith—you said before? Are you really going to think or have you decided?”

“I’ve got to think,” he repeated.

“All right. I won’t distract you. I’ll be back.”

He didn’t look up until the door closed. Then he poured another drink. Then he unpacked his short wave twain-ra. It was no bigger than a table radio and not nearly as gaudy as most of them. He plugged it in and pressed the twin red buttons. He heard the hum and then the Old Man’s secretary. “Come in.”

“Curt Belfast. The Chief in?”

“Just a second, Curt. He’s been waiting.”

Then the Old Man’s voice. “We’ve got your Vera, laddie. Picked her up when she left your apartment yesterday afternoon.”

Curt said nothing, his heart pounding, his stomach pitching.

“Playing your own game, were you, Curt?”

A pause, a deep breath and, “Yes, sir.”

“Dangerous business, boy. You’re not equipped for it. Luckily it was our men who grabbed her. And I’ve told them I was aware of it all. You were working under my orders.”

Curt said, “Sir, I—”

“Never mind. I’ll ride with you on it. You’ve always been my boy, Curt. If you want to confess, confess to me or your God. I understand you. I’m a lot like you.”

“But, sir, Vera was just here. She—”

“I’m not an authority on genetics,” the old man said, “but I wouldn’t doubt if they were all Veras. They’ve evolved into a standard identical type. Mystics, aren’t they?”

“I don’t know what the hell they are except possibly embodied evil. They’re beyond me, sir.”

“Well, this one says there are twelve left back there and holding her isn’t going to do anything but incur their wrath. I think they’re scientific morons myself.”

“And metaphysical giants,” Curt answered.

“We’ll compromise on freaks,” the Old Man said. “Tom Allis is ready to take the answer back.”

“That means you’ve got the question. They want me to take the answer back, sir. What do they demand?”

“In a word, slavery.”

“And you’ve an answer?”

“I’ve just come from the President, Curt. We’ve an answer.” A pause. “Tom’s on his way to New Mexico now.”

“They want me, sir—Vera and me. This Vera out here will do. They can increase the power of that fog, sir. We haven’t the right to—”

“Curt—Tom can be trusted,”

“And I can’t?”

A silence.

Then Curt said, “Vera told me they planned to kill a hundred today. If there are more, substantially more, it will be because they know what’s happened in Washington. If I go it will look as if their wishes are being carried out. It will save lives, sir.”

A pause and then, “I’ll get another audience with the President. Hang on, Curt.”

* * * *

He sat there, not drinking, not smoking, thinking of the Old Man and how he’d underestimated him—and overestimated himself. Sweat ran down the backs of his hands, dropped onto the floor. The door opened, and Vera came in.

He forced a smile. “I know how you did it, sweet. Your twin’s being held in Washington.”

“So…?” Her eyes were searching, her face without expression.

“Are you all alike?”

“All but the seven men. You’re in contact with Washington?”

Curt snapped off the twain-ra. “No.”

“Faith, lover? Turn it on again.”

A test, really. He paused only a second before pressing the twin red buttons.

Then the Old’ Man’s voice. “Okay, Curt. You win. The ship’s waiting in New Mexico. Tom will come to pick you up. He’ll take you there. He’d like to go along though.”

“Just Vera and I,” Curt said. “Isn’t that right, Vera?”

“That’s right,” she said and smiled. “There won’t be any more suicides after we leave—not any we impelled. The quicker the better.”

The Old Man said. “How about me? I could be useful.”

“You’ll be useful—later,” Vera said. “There are so many things we don’t know.”

The Old Man chuckled. Curt snapped it off. Vera said suspiciously, “He doesn’t seem disheartened or defeated.”

“I’ve given up trying to figure him out. Tell me something—are you real? Or are you just real in my mind?”

“Any complaints?”

“No, just my natural curiosity. What kind of a place is Venus?”

“Venus is real. It gives us all reality. You’ll find me there but I won’t be any different than this projection of me you’re looking at now. Without Venus there wouldn’t be this me or the other one.”

“And I wouldn’t find you different on Venus? That’s an Earth body you’re wearing.” And then ho paused. “It’s an Earth body you’re both wearing ”

“How clever of you! The body of Miss Amelia Dickerson of Devers, Montana. Not bad either, is it?”

Freaks, the old man had called them. Monsters was a better word. Curt stood up. “We’d better get ready to go.”

Tom was waiting at the airport when they got there. Tom said, “It’s going to be kind of cramped, chum.”

“Chums now, huh?”

“If it’s all right with you.” Tom’s hand was out.

Curt took it and said, “I don’t think you know the whole story, Tom.”

“I don’t need to know the rest. Look at my medals. I can tell a hero when I see one.” He was grinning.

“But can you tell a heel?”

Vera looked questioningly at Curl and he smiled at her, winked and shrugged. She smiled.

Tom said, “Well, what are we waiting for?”

* * * *

On the concrete-and-lead crater that housed the Venus ship there was a ladder, leading up the sheer walls to the compartment amidships.

Tom paused at the foot of the ladder. Tom said, “I hope you understand this baby, Curt.”

Curt’s smile was bleak. “I understand it—all of it. Tom, I helped design it and build it. Give my regards to the gang.”

Dr. Reslone was coming along from the radio tower. He said, “The fog’s lifting, Curt. I guess it’s the word.” He came over to grip Curt’s hand.

Curt said, “You lads act like I’m not coming back. I’m in the hands of friends. At least one. Right, Vera?” Tom looked at her and back at Curt. Then he turned abruptly and walked off.

Curt said, “Tom’s sentimental. Loaded and ready, Doctor?”

“Loaded and ready. I—well…” He too turned and walked away.

Vera said, “What’s the matter with them?”

“They just don’t have faith in you, honey. But I do. And you have faith in me, haven’t you?”

“Complete faith,” she said. “What other course have you—lover?”

They went up the ladder together and into the passenger compartment. Below them, a mile down the plain, the control operator set the first phase of the propulsive blast into operation. Then, seconds later, the giant rocket-shaped sheath of glowing admium began to leave its crater.

Then the white glare of its propulsive tail blast, brightening the entire county. And then it was a comet in the sky, growing smaller and smaller and smaller.

* * * *

In his office there were tears in the Old Man’s eyes. His lined face was twisted in anguish.

His secretary said, “Some reporters, sir.”

He nodded. “I’ll talk to them.”

The first one said, “Sir, we’ve a story regarding some kind of rocket that left the New Mexico—”

“A space-ship,” the Old Man said, “carrying one of our agents. One of our best agents, gentlemen. And a martyr.”

“Martyr?” One of the writers said. “You mean, sir…?”

“I mean he’s directing the space-ship with a ton of a new explosive in its nose. An explosive, gentlemen, that will blast a planet into gas. The planet is Venus and when the ship reaches it there will be no more Venus. And that’s all I have to say today.”

“But, sir…”

The Old Man raised his hand. “Gentlemen, he’s been—he’s been all the son I’ve ever known. And though I’m proud of him today you’ll understand, I hope, there are times when a man has no words.”

They left and his secretary came in. She said, “He knew, then, about the explosive?”

“He knew. He was a strange lad, Donna. A little too big and a little too bright for our world. And too much alone. He couldn’t have any destiny but this.”