"Still young?" Goodman repeated blankly.
"Of course," the man said. "A woman doesn't age in the derrsin field."
"But the whole thing is ghastly," said Goodman. "My wife would still be a young woman when I was old."
"That's just when you'd appreciate a young woman," Janna said.
"But how about you?" Goodman asked. "Would you appreciate an old man?"
"He still doesn't understand," the man said.
"Marvin, try. Isn't it clear yet? Throughout your life, you would have a young and beautiful woman whose only desire would be to please you. And when you died — don't look shocked, dear; everybody dies — when you died, I would still be young, and by law I'd inherit all your money."
"I'm beginning to see," Goodman said. "I suppose that's another accepted phase of Tranaian life — the wealthy young widow who can pursue her own pleasures."
"Naturally. In this way, everything is for the best for everybody. The man has a young wife whom he sees only when he wishes. He has his complete freedom and a nice home as well. The woman is relieved of all the dullness of ordinary living and, while she can still enjoy it, is well provided for."
"You should have told me," Goodman complained.
"I thought you knew," Janna said, "since you thought you had a better way. But I can see that you would never have understood, because you're so naïve — though I must admit it's one of your charms." She smiled wistfully. "Besides, if I told you, I would never have met Rondo."
The man bowed slightly. "I was leaving samples of Greah's Confections. You can imagine my surprise when I found this lovely young woman out of stasis. I mean it was like a storybook tale come true. One never expects old legends to happen, so you must admit that there's a certain appeal when they do."
"Do you love him?" Goodman asked heavily.
"Yes," said Janna. "Rondo cares — for me. He's going to keep me in stasis long enough to make up for the time I've lost. It's a sacrifice on his part, but Rondo has a generous nature."
"If that's how it is," Goodman said glumly, "I certainly won't stand in your way. I am a civilized being, after all. You may have a divorce."
He folded his arms across his chest, feeling quite noble. But he was dimly aware that his decision stemmed not so much from nobility as from a sudden, violent distaste for all things Tranaian.
"We have no divorce on Tranai," Rondo said.
"No?" Goodman felt a cold chill run down his spine.
A blaster appeared in Rondo's hand. "It would be too unsettling, you know, if people were always swapping around. There's only one way to change a marital status."
"But this is revolting!" Goodman blurted, backing away. "It's against all decency!"
"Not if the wife desires it. And that, by the by, is another excellent reason for keeping one's spouse in stasis. Have I your permission, my dear?"
"Forgive me, Marvin," Janna said. She closed her eyes. "Yes!"
Rondo leveled the blaster. Without a moment's hesitation, Goodman dived head-first out the nearest window. Rondo's shot fanned right over him.
"See here!" Rondo called. "Show some spirit, man. Stand up to it!"
Goodman had landed heavily on his shoulder. He was up at once, sprinting, and Rondo's second shot scorched his arm. Then he ducked behind a house and was momentarily safe. He didn't stop to think about it. Running for all he was worth, he headed for the spaceport.
Fortunately, a ship was preparing for blastoff and took him to g'Moree. From there he wired to Tranai for his funds and bought passage to Higastomeritreia, where the authorities accused him of being a Ding spy. The charge couldn't stick, since the Dingans were an amphibious race, and Goodman almost drowned proving to everyone's satisfaction that he could breathe only air.
A drone transport took him to the double planet Mvanti, past Seves, Olgo and Mi. He hired a bush pilot to take him to Bellismoranti, where the influence of Terra began. From there, a local spaceline transported him past the Galactic Whirl and, after stopping at Oyster, Lekung, Pankang, Inchang and Ma-chang, arrived at Tung-Bradar IV.
His money was now gone, but he was practically next door to Terra, as astronomical distances go. He was able to work his passage to Oume, and from Oume to Legis II. There the Interstellar Travelers Aid Society arranged a berth for him and at last he arrived back on Earth.
Goodman has settled down in Seakirk, New Jersey, where a man is perfectly safe as long as he pays his taxes. He holds the post of Chief Robotic Technician for the Seakirk Construction Corporation and has married a small, dark, quiet girl, who obviously adores him, although he rarely lets her out of the house.
He and old Captain Savage go frequently to Eddie's Moonlight Bar, drink Tranai Specials, and talk of Tranai the Blessed, where The Way has been found and Man is no longer bound to The Wheel. On such occasions, Goodman complains of a touch of space malaria — because of it, he can never go back into space, can never return to Tranai.
There is always an admiring audience on these nights.
Goodman has recently organized, with Captain Savage's help, the Seakirk League to Take the Vote from Women. They are its only members, but as Goodman puts it, when did that ever stop a crusader?
The Battle
Supreme General Fetterer barked “At ease!” as he hurried into the command room. Obediently, his three generals stood at ease. “We haven’t much time,” Fetterer said, glancing at his watch. “We’ll go over the plan of battle again.” He walked to the wall and unrolled a gigantic map of the Sahara Desert. “According to our best theological information, Satan is going to present his forces at these co-ordinates.” He indicated the place with a blunt forefinger. “In the front rank there will be the devils, demons, succubi, incubi, and the rest of the ratings. Bael will command the right flank, Buer the left. His Satanic Majesty will hold the centre.”
“Rather medieval,” General Dell murmured.
General Fetterer’s aide came in, his face shining and happy with the thought of the Coming. “Sir,” he said, “the priest is outside again.”
“Stand to attention, soldier,” Fetterer said sternly. “There’s still a battle to be fought and won.”
“Yes sir,” the aide said, and stood rigidly, some of the joy fading from his face.
“The priest, eh?” Supreme General Fetterer rubbed his fingers together thoughtfully. Ever since the Coming, since the knowledge of the imminent Last Battle, the religious workers of the world had made a complete nuisance of themselves. They had stopped their bickering, which was commendable. But now they were trying to run military business.
“Send him away,” Fetterer said. “He knows we’re planning Armageddon.”
“Yes sir,” the aide said. He saluted sharply, wheeled, and marched out.
“To go on,” Supreme General Fetterer said. “Behind Satan’s first line of defence will be the resurrected sinners, and various elemental forces of evil. The fallen angels will act as his bomber corps. Dell’s robot interceptors will meet them.”
General Dell smiled grimly.
“Upon contact, MacFee’s automatic tank corps will proceed towards the centre of the line. MacFee’s automatic tank corps will proceed towards the centre,” Fetterer went on, “supported by General Ongin’s robot infantry. Dell will command the H bombing of the rear, which should be tightly massed. I will thrust with the mechanised cavalry, here and here.”
The aide came back, and stood rigidly at attention.
“Sir,” he said, “the priest refuses to go. He says he must speak with you.”
Supreme General Fetterer hesitated before saying no. He remembered that this was the Last Battle, and that the religious workers were connected with it. He decided to give the man five minutes.
“Show him in,” he said.
The priest wore a plain business suit, to show that he represented no particular religion. His face was tired but determined.
“General,” he said, “I am a representative of all the religious workers of the world,
the priests, rabbis, ministers, mullahs, and all the rest. We beg of you, General, to let us fight in the Lord’s battle.”
Supreme General Fetterer drummed his fingers nervously against his side. He wanted to stay on friendly terms with these men. Even he, the Supreme Commander, might need a good word, when all was said and done …
“You can understand my position,” Fetterer said unhappily. “I’m a general. I have a battle to fight.”
“But it’s the Last Battle,” the priest said. “It should be the people’s battle.”
“It is,” Fetterer said. “It’s being fought by their representatives, the military.”
The priest didn’t look at all convinced. Fetterer said, “You wouldn’t want to lose this battle, would you? Have Satan win?”
“Of course not,” the priest murmured.
“Then we can’t take any chances,” Fetterer said. “All the governments agreed on that, didn’t they? Oh, it would be very nice to fight Armageddon with the mass of humanity. Symbolic, you might say. But could we be certain of victory?”
The priest tried to say something, but Fetterer was talking rapidly.
“How do we know the strength of Satan’s forces? We simply must put forth our best foot, militarily speaking. And that means the automatic armies, the robot interceptors and tanks, the H bombs.”
The priest looked very unhappy.
“But it isn’t right,” he said. “Certainly you can find some place in your plan for people?”
Fetterer thought about it, but the request was impossible. The plan of battle was fully developed, beautiful, irresistible. Any introduction of a gross human element would only throw it out of order. No living flesh could stand the noise of that mechanical attack, the energy potentials humming in the air, the all-enveloping fire power. A human being who came within a hundred miles of the front would not live to see the enemy.
“I’m afraid not,” Fetterer said.
“There are some,” the priest said sternly, “who feel that it was an error to put this in the hands of the military.”
“Sorry,” Fetterer said cheerfully. “That’s defeatist talk. If you don’t mind —”
He gestured at the door. Wearily the priest left.
“These civilians,” Fetterer mused. “Well gentlemen, are your troops ready?”
“We’re ready to fight for Him,” General MacFee said enthusiastically. “I can vouch for every automatic in my command. Their metal is shining, all relays have been renewed, and the energy reservoirs are fully charged. Sir, they’re positively itching for battle!”
General Ongin snapped fully out of his daze. “The ground troops are ready, sir!”
“Air arm ready,” General Dell said.
“Excellent,” General Fetterer said. “All other arrangements have been made. Television facilities are available for the total population of the world. No one, rich or poor, will miss the spectacle of the Last Battle.”
“And after the battle —” General Ongin began, and stopped. He looked at Fetterer. Fetterer frowned deeply. He didn’t know what was supposed to happen after the Battle. That part of it was, presumably, in the hands of the religious agencies.
“I suppose there’ll be a presentation or something,” he said vaguely.
“You mean we will meet — Him?” General Dell asked.
“Don’t really know,” Fetterer said. “But I should think so. After all — I mean, you know what I mean?”
“But what should we wear?” General MacFee asked, in a sudden panic.
“I mean, what does one wear?”
“What do the angels wear?” Fetterer asked Ongin.
“I don’t know,” Ongin said.
“Robes, do you think?” General Dell offered.
“No,” Fetterer said sternly. “We will wear dress uniform, without decorations.”
The generals nodded. It was fitting. And then it was time. Gorgeous in their battle array, the legions of Hell advanced over the desert. Hellish pipes skirled, hollow drums pounded, and the great host moved forward. In a blinding cloud of sand, General MacFee’s automatic tanks hurled themselves against the satanic foe. Immediately, Dell’s automatic bombers screeched overhead, hurling their bombs on the massed horde of the damned. Fetterer thrust valiantly with his automatic cavalry. Into this mêlée advanced Ongin’s automatic infantry, and metal did what metal could. The hordes of the damned overflowed the front, ripping apart tanks and robots. Automatic mechanisms died, bravely defending a patch of sand. Dell’s bombers were torn from the skies by the fallen angels, led by Marchocias, his griffin’s wings beating the air into a tornado. The thin battered line of robots held, against gigantic presences that smashed and scattered them, and struck terror into the hearts of television viewers in homes around the world. Like men, like heroes the robots fought, trying to force back the forces of evil. Astaroth shrieked a command, and Behemoth lumbered forward. Bael, with a wedge of devils behind him, threw a charge at General Fetterer’s crumbling left flank. Metal screamed, electrons howled in agony at the impact. Supreme General Fetterer sweated and trembled, a thousand miles behind the firing line. But steadily, nervelessly, he guided the pushing of buttons and the throwing of levers. His superb corps didn’t disappoint him. Mortally damaged robots swayed to their feet and fought. Smashed, trampled, destroyed by the howling fiends, the robots managed to hold their line. Then the veteran Fifth Corps threw in a counter-attack, and the enemy front was pierced. A thousand miles behind the firing line, the generals guided the mopping up operations.
“The battle is won,” Supreme General Fetterer whispered, turning away from the television screen. “I congratulate you, gentlemen.”
The generals smiled wearily. They looked at each other, then broke into a spontaneous shout. Armageddon was won, and the forces of Satan had been vanquished. But something was happening on their screens.
“Is that — is that —” General MacFee began, and then couldn’t speak. For The Presence was upon the battlefield, walking among the piles of twisted, shattered metal. The generals were silent. The Presence touched a twisted robot. Upon the smoking desert, the robots began to move. The twisted, scored, fused metals straightened. The robots stood on their feet again.
“MacFee,” Supreme General Fetterer whispered. “Try your controls. Make the robots kneel or something.”
The general tried, but his controls were dead. The bodies of the robots began to rise in the air. Around them were the angels of the Lord, and the robot tanks and soldiers and bombers floated upward, higher and higher.
“He’s saving them!” Ongin cried hysterically. “He’s saving the robots!”
“It’s a mistake!” Fetterer said. “Quick. Send a messenger to — no! We will go in person!”
And quickly a ship was commanded, and quickly they sped to the field of battle. But by then it was too late, for Armageddon was over, and the robots gone, and the Lord and his host departed.
Skulking Permit
Tom Fisher had no idea he was about to begin a criminal career. It was morning. The big red sun was just above the horizon, trailing its small yellow companion. The village, tiny and precise, a unique white dot on the planet's green expanse, glistened under its two midsummer suns.
Tom was just waking up inside his cottage. He was a tall, tanned young man, with his father's oval eyes and his mother's easygoing attitude toward exertion. He was in no hurry; there could be no fishing until the fall rains, and therefore no real work for a fisher. Until fall, he was going to loaf and mend bis fishing poles.
"It's supposed to have a red roof!" he heard Billy Painter shouting outside.
"Churches never have red roofs!" Ed Weaver shouted back.
Tom frowned. Not being involved, he had forgotten the changes that had come over the village in the last two weeks. He slipped on a pair of pants and sauntered out to the village square.
The first thing he saw when he entered the square was a large new sign, reading: NO ALIENS ALLOWED WITHIN CITY LIMI
TS. There were no aliens on the entire planet of New Delaware. There was nothing but forest, and this one village. The sign was purely a statement of policy.
The square itself contained a church, a jail and a post office, all constructed in the last two frantic weeks and set in a neat row facing the market. No one knew what to do with these buildings; the village had gone along nicely without them for over two hundred years. But now, of course, they had to be built.
Ed Weaver was standing in front of the new church, squinting upward. Billy Painter was balanced precariously on the church's steep roof, his blond mustache bristling indignantly. A small crowd had gathered.
"Damn it, man," Billy Painter was saying, "I tell you I was reading about it just last week. White roof, okay. Red roof, never."
"You're mixing it up with something else," Weaver said. "How about it, Tom?"
Tom shrugged, having no opinion to offer. Just then, the mayor bustled up, perspiring freely, his shirt flapping over his large paunch.
"Come down," he called to Billy. "I just looked it up. It's the Little Red Schoolhouse, not Churchhouse."
Billy looked angry. He had always been moody; all Painters were. But since the mayor made him chief of police last week, he had become downright temperamental.
"We don't have no little schoolhouse," Billy argued, halfway down the ladder.
"We'll just have to build one," the mayor said. "We'll have to hurry, too." He glanced at the sky. Involuntarily the crowd glanced upward. But there was still nothing in sight.
"Where are the Carpenter boys?" the mayor asked. "Sid, Sam, Marv — where are you?"
Sid Carpenter's head appeared through the crowd. He was still on crutches from last month when he had fallen out of a tree looking for threstle's eggs; no Carpenter was worth a damn at tree-climbing.
"The other boys are at Ed Beer's Tavern," Sid said. "Where else would they be?" Mary Waterman called from the crowd.
"Well, you gather them up," the mayor said. "They gotta build up a little schoolhouse, and quick. Tell them to put it up beside the jail." He turned to Billy Painter, who was back on the ground. "Billy, you paint that schoolhouse a good bright red, inside and out. It's very important."
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