When Deplorables Revolt, Volume 1: Golden Age Space Opera Tales

By R. L. Saunders

Revolts, Revolutions, and Riots are messy things.
Especially when they happen on another planet or out in space.
But that's what you get when you tick enough people off by stealing elections and when the courts and media hide the evidence.
So there's going to be some hurt feelings along the way.
Of course, these stories haven't really happened yet, and many are "impossible". Yet they were written before many of us were born, and most of their authors already long gone.
"Deplorables" isn't a new term. It happens all the time when some elite muckety-muck has too much Chardonnay and lets loose in an unguarded moment.
That won't change the fact that enough gets to be enough. And a good, old-fashioned revolt is the next obvious move...

Space Opera is a subgenre of science fiction that emphasizes space warfare, melodramatic adventure, interplanetary battles, chivalric romance, and risk-taking. Set mainly or entirely in outer space, it usually involves conflict between opponents possessing advanced abilities, futuristic weapons, and other sophisticated technology.
The term has no relation to music, as in a traditional opera, but is instead a play on the terms "soap opera", a melodramatic television series, and "horse opera", which was coined during the 1930s to indicate a formulaic Western movie. Space operas emerged in the 1930s and continue to be produced in literature, film, comics, television, and video games.

The Golden Age of Pulp Magazine Fiction derives from pulp magazines (often referred to as "the pulps") as they were inexpensive fiction magazines that were published from 1896 to the late 1950s. The term pulp derives from the cheap wood pulp paper on which the magazines were printed. In contrast, magazines printed on higher-quality paper were called "glossies" or "slicks". (Wikipedia)
The pulps gave rise to the term pulp fiction. Pulps were the successors to the penny dreadfuls, dime novels, and short-fiction magazines of the 19th century. Although many writers wrote for pulps, the magazines were proving grounds for those authors like Robert Heinlein, Louis LaMour, "Max Brand", Ray Bradbury, Philip K. Dick, and many others. The best writers moved onto longer fiction required by paperback publishers. Many of these authors have never been out of print, even long after their passing.  

Anthology containing:

• 1,492,633 Marlon Brandos by Vance Aandahl
• Misrule by Robert Scott
• Double-Cross by Frederik Pohl
• The Outer Quiet by Herbert D. Kastle
• The Patriot by Charles L. Fontenay
• Race Riot by Ralph Williams
• The Raider by Don Berry
• Zurk by Richard O. Lewis
• The Great Potlatch Riots by Allen Kim Lang
• Conspiracy on Callisto by Frederik Pohl
• Revolt on the Earth-Star by Carl Selwyn
• Revolt on Io by Nelson S. Bond
• Revolution by Mack Reynolds
• My Lady Greensleeves by Frederik Pohl
• Tonight the Stars Revolt! by Gardner F. Fox
• Industrial Revolution by Poul Anderson
• Revolt in the Ice Empire by Ray Cummings

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Midwest Journal Press
• Release date: Jan 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9791220244800

Book preview

book...)

ONE MILLION FOUR HUNDRED NINETY TWO THOUSAND SIX HUNDRED THIRTY THREE MARLON BRANDOS

BY VANCE AANDAHL

She liked the Brando type. The more there was of it, the better!

CHESTER MCRAE. GOOD old Chet, best man in Accounting. Six feet tall, brown hair, brown eyes. Full of vim and vigor, that was good old Chet.

God! he screamed. They’re strangling me, the skunks! He rose from bed, his face dripping with sweat and his hands trembling like a frightened child’s. They’re killing me! He ran to the bathroom and vomited. His wife was standing by the door when he finished, but he walked past her as if she didn’t exist.

Why, Chester! What’s the matter with you? she asked, trailing him into the bedroom. I’ve never heard you talk like that before! For a moment she stood watching him in numb silence. For goodness’ sake, Chester, why are you getting dressed at three o’clock in the morning?

None of your business, he mumbled, setting a firm upper lip and gazing at her with lizard-cold Marlon Brando eyes. He picked up his tie, laughed at it with careless ease and threw it across the room. See you around, baby, he hissed, zipping up his trousers and walking past her.

Chester McRae! Where are you going at this time of night? You’ve got to go to work tomorrow! Don’t you love me any more? Chester....

But her words echoed emptily through Chester McRae’s pleasant little suburban home. Chester was no longer present.

BARTHOLOMEW OLIVER. Good old Barth, best man on a duck hunt since the guy who invented shotguns. Five foot ten, weak chin, gambler’s mustache. Good man with small-town girls, too.

Hey, Thelma, he said. You know what I think?

Go to sleep.

I think it’d be funnier than hell if I left you flat.

What kind of wisecrack is that? And what do you think you’re doing?

I’m getting dressed....

It’s three o’clock in the morning.

So? I don’t give a damn.

You’ll come back. Drunken louse.

He laughed softly and smiled at her in the darkness with ice-white Marlon Brando teeth. Then he was gone.

OSWALD WILLIAMS. GOOD old Ozzie, best man in the whole philosophy department. Five foot two, one hundred and seven pounds, milky eyes. Wrote an outstanding paper on the inherent fallacies of logical positivism.

Louise, he whispered, I feel uneasy. Very uneasy.

His wife lifted her fatty head and gazed happily down at Oswald. Go to sleep, she said.

If you’ll excuse me, I think that I shall take a walk.

But, Oswald, it’s three o’clock in the morning!

Don’t be irrational, he whispered. If I want to take a walk, I shall take a walk.

Well! I don’t think you ought to, or you might catch a cold.

He rose and dressed, donning a tee-shirt and tweed trousers. With snake-swift Marlon Brando hands, he tossed his plaid scarf in her face.

Excuse me, Louise, he whispered, but I gotta make it....

Then, laughing softly, he strode from the room.

AT THREE O’CLOCK IN the morning, even a large city is quiet and dark and almost dead. At times, the city twitches in its sleep; occasionally it rolls over or mutters to itself. But only rarely is its slumber shattered by a scream....

Johnny! Hey, Johnny! cries Chester McRae, his eyes as dull and poisonous as two tiny toads.

Let’s make it, man ... let’s split.... whispers Bartholomew Oliver, one finger brushing his nose like a rattler nosing a dead mouse.

I don make no move without my boys, says Oswald Williams, his hands curled like scorpion tails.

Together they walk down the street, moving with slow insolence, their lips curled in snarls or slack with indifference, their eyes glittering with hidden hatreds. But they are not alone in the city. The college boys are coming, in their dirty jeans and beer-stained tee-shirts; so too are the lawyers, in dusty jackets and leather pants; so come the doctors and the businessmen, on stolen motorcycles; the bricklayers and gas station attendants, the beatniks and dope pushers, the bankers and lifesaving instructors, the butchers, the bakers, the candlestick makers... they are all coming, flocking into the city for reasons not their own, wandering in twos and threes and twenties, all of them sullen and quiet, all of them shuffling beneath darkly-hued clouds of ill intent, all of them proud and deadly and virile, filling the streets by the thousands now, turning the streets into rivers of flesh....

Hey, Johnny, says Chester, let’s cool this dump.

Man, let’s make it with the skirts, says Bartholomew.

I don see no skirts, says Chester.

You pig, snarls Ozzie.

The mob is monstrous now, like a pride of lion cubs, beyond count in their number, without equal in their leonine strength, above the common quick in their immortal pride, milling through the hot black veldt, swarming in the city streets. Millions of them, more than the eye can see or the mind can bear. It seems that no man sleeps, that every male in the great city must walk tonight.

Johnny, says Chester, I don dig no chicks on the turf.

Eeee, colay. What a drag, whispers Bartholomew.

You goddam logical positivist, snarls Ozzie.

AN UNEASY SOUND RIPPLES through the mob, like the angry hiss of an injured ego, moving from street to street and swelling upward in a sudden, angry roar ... they want their women, the dance-hall girls, the young waitresses, the nowhere chicks in five dollar dresses, the Spanish girls with eyes as dark as the Spanish night. And then, as though by accident, one man looks up at the starry sky and sees her—sees her standing on a balcony far above them, twenty stories above them, up where the wind can blow her hair and billow her blue dress like an orchid of the night.

She laughs gently, without fear, gazing down at the mindless mob of rebels.

They laugh too, just as gently, their quiet eyes crawling over the sight of her body, far above.

Thass my chick, whispers Chester.

Cool it, daddy, says Bartholomew, slipping into a pair of dark glasses and touching his lips with the tip of his tongue. That skirt is private property.

You boys may walk and talk, says Ozzie, but you don play. You don play with Rio’s girl.

Suddenly, angry words and clenched fists erupt from the proud, quiet millions that flood the streets. Suddenly, a roar like the roar of lions rises up and buffets the girl in blue, the girl on the balcony. She laughs again, for she knows that they are fighting for her.

A figure appears on the balcony, next to the girl. The figure is a man, and he too is dressed in blue. Suddenly, just as suddenly as it began, the fighting ceases.

My God, whispers Chester, his cheeks gone pale, what am I doing out here?

Maybe I got the D.T.s, whispers Bartholomew, but maybe I don’t.... He sits down on the curb and rubs his head in disbelief.

Oswald does not speak. His shame is the greatest. He slinks into the darkness of an alley and briefly wishes for an overcoat.

The pride of lion cubs has been routed, and now they scatter, each one scrambling for his private den of security, each one lost in a wild and nameless fear. In twos and threes and twenties they rush back to their homes, their wives, their endless lives.

Far above, in the apartment with the balcony, a man in blue is chiding a girl in blue.

That was scarcely reasonable, Dorothy.

But Daddy, you promised to let me have them for the entire night!

Yes, but....

I wasn’t really going to let them hurt themselves! Really, I wasn’t!

But, Dorothy—you know these things can get out of hand.

Oh, but Daddy, you know how I adore strong, quiet, proud men. Rebellious men like Marlon.

Yes, and you know how I adore order and peace. There shall be no more riots! And tomorrow our little puppets shall go back to their ‘dull’ lives, as you so wittily put it, and everything shall be as I wish.

THREE HOURS LATER, Chester McRae arose at the sound of the alarm, dressed in a stupor and stumbled into his kitchen for breakfast.

My goodness, Chester, said his wife, who had already arisen, you look grouchier than usual! Ha, ha!

He smiled wanly and opened the morning paper.

Halfway across town, Bartholomew Oliver was still asleep, casually lost in the pleasures of an erotic dream. But Professor Oswald Williams, his tiny jaw unshaven and his eager eyes shot through with fatigue, had been hard at work for three hours, scribbling down his latest exposure of the logical positivists.

MISRULE

BY ROBERT SCOTT

Glen Wheatley thanked his lucky stars for his good fortune every day of his life ... every day, that is, but one!

THE BRICK SMASHED THROUGH the window and skittered across the top of Glen Wheatley’s desk. He had already removed most of the breakables, but it caught a large plastic ash tray and sent it caroming off his cheekbone. A thin trickle of blood crept down his face.

Good God, aren’t they starting a little early this year? Bert Hillary, who shared Wheatley’s office, was obviously not expecting an answer. He had been making it clear for the past hour (they had all got to their desks an hour earlier for this day) that he was an old hand, while this was Glen’s first experience of People’s Day.

Glen knew that Hillary had been in the Civil Service only five or six years. He himself could hardly be accused of being an expert on the every-four-years Day. Still, he waited for the older man to make the first move.

Hillary got up and peered cautiously out the shattered window. Yeah, they’re already boiling around the outer wall like yeast in a vat. That guy with the brick must have quite a pitching arm. Sweat stood out on his forehead. He was clearly much more frightened than he pretended to be.

Glen noticed this with some satisfaction. At least, he wasn’t the only one. Come on, Wheatley. Us lower-level boys have got to be on the hop. You’d be surprised how fast that mob can get up here.

Glen unfolded the map of Government House that had been placed on his desk that morning. He stared grimly at it, dabbing at his cheek with a rather grubby handkerchief meanwhile. The bleeding did not show any signs of stopping.

Hillary hurried to the door. Come on! He was openly nervous now. It’s no good studying that map for safety-holes now. You should have been doing that ever since we got here this morning.

As a matter of fact, Glen had been doing just that, whenever Hillary’s flow of words had momentarily run dry. But he had not yet got the location of all the nearby hidden cubbies clearly in his mind. Government House is such a maze, he said defensively.

And we’re damned lucky it is, Hillary said from the doorway. Anyway, how do you know that map you’ve got there isn’t just what they’ve been hawking in People’s Square all this past week? He gave a slightly sick leer.

You know those maps are inaccurate. They’re just a sop, just to give the mob an extra thrill. Government House plants most of them. He could sound like an old hand, too, Glen thought with a certain smugness.

Nuts to that. Some of them are amazingly accurate. There are a hell of a lot of non-Government people in here from year to year, and some of them aren’t here just on business. Let’s get going. Hillary pulled Glen through the door, and then locked it. Glen raised his eyebrows at this. Oh, sure, his co-worker said wryly. Gives the People something to work off steam on. He patted the flimsy door. This will cave in under a few hard shoulders. Not like the safety-hole panels. We hope.

But they don’t unlock for another half hour in this area.

Thirty-eight minutes, to be exact, Hillary said, glancing at his watch. And of course the ones deeper in and higher up open even later. We’re supposed to give them a run for their taxes.

THE CORRIDOR WAS EMPTYING out rapidly. Glen could hear smashing noises from the ground floor.

Apparently the People were already in the building, beginning their day of destruction. He thought gratefully of his private apartment, tucked away in the impregnable heart of Government House. Of course, it was closed off to him too on this day; but at least it was safe from the mob. They would get mainly the chaff to destroy.

I’m heading for the upper levels, Hillary said. Even if the safeties open later up there, it takes longer for the mob to penetrate. There’s enough breakable and burnable stuff at the first few levels to keep them busy for a while. Coming?

Glen had just seen Joan Bourne emerge from her office and lock the door. He headed toward her. I’m going to stay near some out-of-the-way safety in this area and hop in when it first opens. I don’t feel like running from the People, he called back with a bravado he did not really feel.

Suit yourself. Hillary was already at the stairs. He paused for a moment. And good luck.

Thanks, Glen said. Good hiding.

Joan had been listening, and met him in the middle of the corridor. I think you’ve got the right idea, Glen. Want some company?

He smiled, and brushed her cheek with his lips. You know the answer to that, Joan. For life.

This is hardly the day to bring that up again. She took his arm, and they turned off down a side corridor. Besides, I thought our relationship was very nice as it is, she pouted.

It is. I’m just greedy.

The side passageway took them deeper into the labyrinth that was Government House. Glen had hardly ever been out of it. He had been born and brought up in the great central area that surrounded Government Park, now sealed off from both the People and the Civil Servants. Apart from a vacation trip to another city’s Government House, this had been Glen’s entire world. And two years ago he had passed the Examinations and become a full-fledged CS, with all the privileges—and perils, he was now realizing—that that entailed.

They turned into another corridor, went past a bank of elevators—turned off for the day, as all the elevators were in the official section of the building—and went up a long flight of stairs.

Glen stopped at the third level.

This looks like as good a spot as any to wait for the first safety-holes to open. It’s out of the way. And there’s a hole right here, according to the map. It’ll be opening in twenty minutes. The mob should be busy down there for longer than that. They located the almost invisible key square, and Glen pressed his Class-6 key to it. Just on the chance they might have given us a break, he said half apologetically.

Apparently they haven’t, Joan murmured. Let’s see if my Class-5 has any better luck. She pressed her own key to the square, but the panel still refused to slide back. Class-5 shelters in this area were often combined with those for Class-6.

GLEN LOOKED AT HER quizzically. Joan, we graduated at the same time, and you’re already Class-5—Job Consultation—while I’m still Class-6—Secondary School Allocation. How do you do it?

Brains, personality and talent. Hadn’t you noticed? She pressed close to him.

He kissed her. Mmm, yes. But I still don’t see....

Darling, she said, Joan Bourne is a young lady destined to go far. And fast.

You seem so different from the other girls here though, Joan. He blushed. You didn’t happen to come from ... Outside. Er ... from the People, that is?

I grew up in Block 6, Section A, overlooking the statue of Martyr Sherman Adams in Government Park. Just two blocks down from you, if I remember your records correctly.

You’ve had access to my records?

Class-5 always does to Class-6’s. And I took a special interest in you, my dear. She stroked his cheek.

Then you’re forgiven the snooping, Glen smiled. But to think I was being so polite and discreet about asking your origins!

Not many take the Exams and come to Civil Service from Outside any more, sweet. Just as not many from here decide to go out and try their luck in the big world. Generally we stay on our side of the fence, and they stay on theirs. Except for the Day, of course. And then it’s all one-way traffic.

But I’ve heard some CS people go Outside for their vacation. I never have, of course, but....

Oh, yes, quite a few do. You’re taken in a CS plane to another Government House, where you won’t be known in the city outside. You are given appropriate papers and emerge from the House during business hours. You mingle with the People, just like one of them. And when vacation’s over, back to the House for Job Consultation or Welfare Benefits or whatever you want to trump up. Show your true papers, and you’re whisked back to your own cozy womb. She smiled reminiscently. Outside is an interesting experience.

This annoyed Glen obscurely. He put his arm around her. I don’t want you going Outside again. At least, not without me.

Oh, the People are just people. Except for today....

WELL, WELL, THE BOURNE from which no traveler returneth! Hope I’m not interrupting anything, my dear. Anything important, that is. At this unexpected voice, Glen let go of Joan and spun to face the intruder. It was a Class-2 High Official named Duckpath, whom he had heard speak at a few Government banquets. He dropped his fists, which he had unconsciously raised.

Mustn’t be so nervous, young man, Duckpath said, swaying slightly. He was obviously quite drunk. How are you, Joanie? He patted her rump affectionately and gave her a smacking kiss. Joan looked both annoyed and amused. Glen flushed, but said nothing.

After a moment of contemplating the new arrival, Joan said, Well, Ducks, what brings you down to the lower echelons?

Oh, pleasure, pleasure, my dear. Wanted to see all the fun and games. Usually pretty dull on top, you know. He winked at her, then cocked an ear. Sounds like the rabble are getting warmer, too.

Glen listened, and realized he had been hearing all along a dim muttering which was now clearly getting louder. A distinct crash sounded, and he was sure he smelled smoke.

Come on, Joan, he said, tugging at her arm. Let’s get into the shelter. It must be time now.

Young man, you are obstreperous, aren’t you? Duckpath interposed himself between Glen and Joan. Be calm, be calm. As you may know, my key will open any of the lower echelon’s shelters, and at any time. Yours is not due to open for five minutes yet, for example, but at the touch of this— he flashed his Class-2 key—all barriers will fall before us. And I like the scent of danger. Just the scent, of course. Now— he motioned to Glen—if you will just stand by that stairway, you will be able to see them in plenty of time for us all to get into shelter. You two shall be my guests. It will be very cozy. He giggled.

Glen scowled, but did as he was told.

It was true that the stairs were the obvious place for the onslaught. They led both up and down. He assumed Duckpath had come down them, but of course the People were still below, although apparently working their way rapidly to the stairs. The only other way up to this area was through one of the secret passageways, which the mob would not know about.

Another crash echoed up the stairwell, much louder this time. A wisp of smoke curled lazily in the air in front of him.

Glen fingered the caked blood on his cheek. Things he had never questioned before seemed utterly meaningless and cruel now. His irritation with Duckpath bubbled over, and he said sourly, What madness! This whole procedure is incredibly stupid and wasteful.

Joan glanced at Duckpath with raised eyebrows, but said nothing. That gentleman at first stiffened, then relaxed and said blandly, I wouldn’t criticize the Government too much, my boy. It gives us all we have. And it can take it away also. He smiled. This is not madness, but sheer sanity. You must have been neglecting your Political Science courses.

Sanity! It’s murder and destruction, Glen muttered.

You know very well, young man, that all that is being destroyed is easily replaced. Will be replaced tomorrow, in fact. Ours is an opulent, productive society. Duckpath’s smile deepened into a smirk. All the important documents, all the valuables, are safely locked away in the central section. And the good that is being done today! He became rapturous. The People are led by us, led by the nose. We decide where they will go to school, where they will live, which job they will get, how many children they may have. Soon we will decide when they are to die. We have the power. His eyes glistened.

And in return we give them security. The population is balanced, the country productive, the old cared for; there is medical service for all. Everything is arranged for the best by the great complex of Government Houses all over the world. Everything is in the hands of the Government. Duckpath was panting slightly. Everything is in our hands.

IF EVERYTHING IS SO perfect, why this? Glen gestured toward the cloud of smoke seeping through the entrance to the stairway.

It’s only the office furnishings. The building itself won’t burn, Joan murmured.

Duckpath gave her a little squeeze. Our callow young friend is talking about the hatred, I believe, Joanie. The urge of the People to destroy and kill. Well, it is only natural. He belched softly. "These People are aware that their lives are woven from threads held in Government House. And though they are well cared for, they resent it. They resent having to file into this building and be allocated to this and that. They want someone to take care of them, but they resent their loss of freedom. They resent our power.

So this is their day. It comes once every four years. The day that gives them the illusion that they have some control over us, the day of Mob Rule. This is the day they can express all their locked-up frustrations, all their fury at the State which feeds and clothes them and watches over them. They can batter down and smash and burn. Duckpath stared at Glen and seemed to sober a little. Yes, they can even kill. They cannot bring guns or knives here, but they can use fire and fists and stones. And that is even better for boiling away their hostilities. The hotheads among the People will go so far as to kill, and that will cool them. But they will get only the fumble-fingered and feeble-witted. The rest will take care of themselves. He paused for a moment, breathless. Do you realize we haven’t had even the sniff of a revolution in four hundred years? No civil strife at all. No change of any kind. He laughed. This is Sheep’s Day ... their day to be wolves.

Glen, you’d better watch the stairs, Joan said, her face taut.

Glen started. Duckpath’s harangue had distracted him, and somehow chilled him too. He peered down the stairwell. There were People at the end of the lower corridor, milling around and shouting.

We’ve got to get to shelter, he said, hurrying toward Joan.

Duckpath began to talk again. This is nothing new. The Romans had a word for it, and a day for it, too. A day when the laws were abandoned and society was turned upside down. A day when the people cast off the bonds of civilization and order. A day of Misrule. They even had a King of Misrule. I rather like that. I might be such a King. He struck a pose. King of Misrule! He turned with a grand gesture to Joan. And you are my....

A rock crashed against the side of his head. Another exploded on the wall next to Glen.

The secret passageways, Glen! Joan screamed. They’ve come up the other way. The maps must have been accurate this time.

There was a knot of men at the far bend of the corridor. They carried torches, and clumps of stones in sacks at their waists. Obviously they were not the dilettantes of People’s Day. They were after more than the crash of furniture.

Get the dame, boys! one of them yelled. They charged forward. Duckpath was lying across the entrance to the shelter, and the mob was almost on him.

We’ve got to take the stairway, Joan! Glen cried, fumbling at her arm.

His key, his key! She knelt beside Duckpath and pulled the key out of his hand. The High Official stirred, but did not speak. An amazing amount of blood had already accumulated on the floor around him.

A BRICK GRAZED GLEN’S shoulder, sending him spinning toward the stairway. Joan rushed after him, and they pounded the stairs together. I can get in anywhere with this, she gasped, holding up the key.

Presumably the half-conscious Duckpath had made the oncoming men pause. Ripping sounds could be heard, and a horrible strangled cry. They were relieving the High Official of his personal belongings—and probably of his life.

But the People from the floor below were now surging up the stairs, joined by four men from the crowd that had first seen Joan. Get the dame! Government meat! The cry came booming up to Glen and Joan.

They stumbled into the corridor at the next landing, realizing they would never make it up the next flight before the mob reached them. They were both fumbling with their maps. There’s a small Class-3 right around here, Joan waved her map in his face. She raced along the wall for a few yards and then clapped Duckpath’s key to it. A panel slid back and she slipped inside. Thank God! She glanced around her. Darling, it’s only a single. Too bad.

There was obviously no room for another person, Glen saw with dismay. Joan and the air-freshening apparatus took up all the space.

Hurry and find another, sweets. She pitched him the Class-2 key, and blew him a kiss as the door slid shut. It would open again only after sundown, when People’s Day was officially over.

A mass of screaming People burst from the stairway, and raised a great shout on seeing Glen. He dashed down the corridor, turned left, and then turned right at the next passageway. He was in a long corridor ending in a large window opening on the outside.

Glen squinted at his map through eyes that refused to focus. He suddenly realized they were streaming with tears.

There was a Class-4 shelter several paces along on the left. He rushed to it and pressed the High Official’s key to the square. A dim red light glowed through the plastic of the key. Full.

He pounded on the panel. Of course it was soundproof. Of course the shelter was full of wise Civil Servants. Only the fumble-fingered and the feeble-witted, only the chaff....

The People came pouring around the corner as Glen backed toward the end of the corridor. A stone sang past him and smashed through the window. Another caught him in the ribs. He backed faster, now completely blinded by tears. The growl of hatred from the mob grew louder. A heavy blow struck his collarbone and he lurched backward. His knees caught, and then he was flipping over. Out and down.

He sailed through the air.

The pressure of the mob was gone. There was no time to think. There was just an exhilarating sense of flight, of space, of freedom.

EDITORIAL FROM THE Albany Evening Star:

A MOST SUCCESSFUL PEOPLE’S DAY

People’s Day is over again. For four more years peace and order reign over the land.

We feel that this year’s Day was one of the most successful in history. The damage seemed to be substantially less than usual. Among those no longer with us are:

Oliver Duckpath: Class-2 High Official. Deeply valued, he will be missed, as those whom he cared for in his work as Supervisor will testify.

Lizabeth Brennan: Class-6 Religion Consultant.

Glen Wheatley: Class-6 Secondary School Allocator.

Thurmond Christian: Class-6....

DOUBLECROSS

BY JAMES MAC CREIGH

Revolt was brewing on Venus, led by the descendant of the first Earthmen to land. Svan was the leader making the final plans—plotting them a bit too well.

THE OFFICER OF THE Deck was pleased as he returned to the main lock. There was no reason why everything shouldn’t have been functioning perfectly, of course, but he was pleased to have it confirmed, all the same. The Executive Officer was moodily smoking a cigarette in the open lock, staring out over the dank Venusian terrain at the native town. He turned.

Everything shipshape, I take it! he commented.

The OD nodded. I’ll have a blank log if this keeps up, he said. Every man accounted for except the delegation, cargo stowed, drivers ready to lift as soon as they come back.

The Exec tossed away his cigarette. If they come back.

Is there any question?

The Exec shrugged. I don’t know, Lowry, he said. This is a funny place. I don’t trust the natives.

Lowry lifted his eyebrows. Oh? But after all, they’re human beings, just like us—

Not any more. Four or five generations ago they were. Lord, they don’t even look human any more. Those white, flabby skins—I don’t like them.

Acclimation, Lowry said scientifically. They had to acclimate themselves to Venus’s climate. They’re friendly enough.

The Exec shrugged again. He stared at the wooden shacks that were the outskirts of the native city, dimly visible through the ever-present Venusian mist. The native guard of honor, posted a hundred yards from the Earth-ship, stood stolidly at attention with their old-fashioned proton-rifles slung over their backs. A few natives were gazing wonderingly at the great ship, but made no move to pass the line of guards.

Of course, Lowry said suddenly, there’s a minority who are afraid of us. I was in town yesterday, and I talked with some of the natives. They think there will be hordes of immigrants from Earth, now that we know Venus is habitable. And there’s some sort of a paltry underground group that is spreading the word that the immigrants will drive the native Venusians—the descendants of the first expedition, that is—right down into the mud. Well— he laughed—maybe they will. After all, the fittest survive. That’s a basic law of—

The annunciator over the open lock clanged vigorously, and a metallic voice rasped: Officer of the Deck! Post Number One! Instruments reports a spy ray focused on the main lock!

Lowry, interrupted in the middle of a word, jerked his head back and stared unbelievingly at the tell-tale next to the annunciator. Sure enough, it was glowing red—might have been glowing for minutes. He snatched at the hand-phone dangling from the wall, shouted into it. Set up a screen! Notify the delegation! Alert a landing party! But even while he was giving orders, the warning light flickered suddenly and went out. Stricken, Lowry turned to the Exec.

The Executive Officer nodded gloomily. He said, You see!

YOU SEE?

Svan clicked off the listening-machine and turned around. The five others in the room looked apprehensive. You see? Svan repeated. From their own mouths you have heard it. The Council was right.

The younger of the two women sighed. She might have been beautiful, in spite of her dead-white skin, if there had been a scrap of hair on her head. Svan, I’m afraid, she said. Who are we to decide if this is a good thing? Our parents came from Earth. Perhaps there will be trouble at first, if colonists come, but we are of the same blood.

Svan laughed harshly. They don’t think so. You heard them. We are not human any more. The officer said it.

The other woman spoke unexpectedly. The Council was right, she agreed. Svan, what must we do?

Svan raised his hand, thoughtfully. One moment. Ingra, do you still object?

The younger woman shrank back before the glare in his eyes. She looked around at the others, found them reluctant and uneasy, but visibly convinced by Svan.

No, she said slowly. I do not object.

And the rest of us? Does any of us object?

Svan eyed them, each in turn. There was a slow but unanimous gesture of assent.

Good, said Svan. Then we must act. The Council has told us that we alone will decide our course of action. We have agreed that, if the Earth-ship returns, it means disaster for Venus. Therefore, it must not return.

An old man shifted restlessly. But they are strong, Svan, he complained. They have weapons. We cannot force them to stay.

Svan nodded. No. They will leave. But they will never get back to Earth.

Never get back to Earth? the old man gasped. Has the Council authorized—murder?

Svan shrugged. The Council did not know what we would face. The Councilmen could not come to the city and see what strength the Earth-ship has. He paused dangerously. Toller, he said, do you object?

Like the girl, the old man retreated before his eyes. His voice was dull. What is your plan? he asked.

Svan smiled, and it was like a dark flame. He reached to a box at his feet, held up a shiny metal globe. One of us will plant this in the ship. It will be set by means of this dial— he touched a spot on the surface of the globe with a pallid finger—to do nothing for forty hours. Then—it will explode. Atomite.

He grinned triumphantly, looking from face to face. The grin faded uncertainly as he saw what was in their eyes—uncertainty, irresolution. Abruptly he set the bomb down, savagely ripped six leaves off a writing tablet on the table next him. He took a pencil and made a mark on one of them, held it up.

We will let chance decide who is to do the work, he said angrily. Is there anyone here who is afraid? There will be danger, I think....

No answer. Svan jerked his head. Good, he said. Ingra, bring me that bowl.

Silently the girl picked up an opaque glass bowl from the broad arm of her chair. It had held Venus-tobacco cigarettes; there were a few left. She shook them out and handed the bowl to Svan, who was rapidly creasing the six fatal slips. He dropped them in the bowl, stirred it with his hand, offered it to the girl. You first, Ingra, he said.

She reached in mechanically, her eyes intent on his, took out a slip and held it without opening it. The bowl went the rounds, till Svan himself took the last. All eyes were on him. No one had looked at their slips.

Svan, too, had left his unopened. He sat at the table, facing them. This is the plan, he said. We will go, all six of us, in my ground car, to look at the Earth-ship. No one will suspect—the whole city has been to see it already. One will get out, at the best point we can find. It is almost dusk now. He can hide, surely, in the vegetation. The other five will start back. Something will go wrong with the car—perhaps it will run off the road, start to sink in the swamp. The guards will be called. There will be commotion—that is easy enough, after all; a hysterical woman, a few screams, that’s all there is to it. And the sixth person will have his chance to steal to the side of the ship. The bomb is magnetic. It will not be noticed in the dark—they will take off before sunrise, because they must travel away from the sun to return—in forty hours the danger is removed.

There was comprehension in their eyes, Svan saw ... but still that uncertainty. Impatiently, he crackled: Look at the slips!

Though he had willed his eyes away from it, his fingers had rebelled. Instinctively they had opened the slip, turned it over and over, striving to detect if it was the fatal one. They had felt nothing....

And his eyes saw nothing. The slip was blank. He gave it but a second’s glance, then looked up to see who had won the lethal game of chance. Almost he was disappointed.

Each of the others had looked in that same second. And each was looking up now, around at his neighbors. Svan waited impatiently for the chosen one to announce it—a second, ten seconds....

Then gray understanding came to him. A traitor! his subconscious whispered. A coward! He stared at them in a new light, saw their indecision magnified, became opposition.

Svan thought faster than ever before in his life. If there was a coward, it would do no good to unmask him. All were wavering, any might be the one who had drawn the fatal slip. He could insist on inspecting every one, but—suppose the coward, cornered, fought back? In fractions of a second, Svan had considered the evidence and reached his decision. Masked by the table, his hand, still holding the pencil, moved swiftly beneath the table, marked his own slip.

In the palm of his hand, Svan held up the slip he had just marked in secret. His voice was very tired as he said, I will plant the bomb.

THE SIX CONSPIRATORS in Svan’s old ground car moved slowly along the main street of the native town. Two Earth-ship sailors, unarmed except for deceptively flimsy-looking pistols at their hips, stood before the entrance to the town’s Hall of Justice.

Good, said Svan, observing them. The delegation is still here. We have ample time.

He half turned in the broad front seat next to the driver, searching the faces of the others in the car. Which was the coward? he wondered. Ingra? Her aunt? One of the men?

The right answer leaped up at him. They all are, he thought. Not one of them understands what this means. They’re afraid.

He clamped his lips. Go faster, Ingra, he ordered the girl who was driving. Let’s get this done with.

She looked at him, and he was surprised to find compassion in her eyes. Silently she nodded, advanced the fuel-handle so that the clumsy car jolted a trace more rapidly over the corduroy road. It was quite dark now. The car’s driving light flared yellowishly in front of them, illuminating the narrow road and the pale, distorted vegetation of the jungle that surrounded them. Svan noticed it was raining a little. The present shower would deepen and intensify until midnight, then fall off again, to halt before morning. But before then they would be done.

A proton-bolt lanced across the road in front of them. In the silence that followed its thunderous crash, a man’s voice bellowed: Halt!

The girl, Ingra, gasped something indistinguishable, slammed on the brakes. A Venusian in the trappings of the State Guard advanced on them from the side of the road, proton-rifle held ready to fire again.

Where are you going? he growled.

Svan spoke up. We want to look at the Earth-ship, he said. He opened the door beside him and stepped out, careless of the drizzle. We heard it was leaving tonight, he continued, and we have not seen it. Is that not permitted?

The guard shook his head sourly. No one is allowed near the ship. The order was just issued. It is thought there is danger.

Svan stepped closer, his teeth bared in what passed for a smile. It is urgent, he purred. His right hand flashed across his chest in a complicated gesture. Do you understand?

Confusion furrowed the guard’s hairless brows, then was replaced by a sudden flare of understanding—and fear. The Council! he roared. By heaven, yes, I understand! You are the swine that caused this— He strove instinctively to bring the clumsy rifle up, but Svan was faster. His gamble had failed; there