Men, Women, Space, Sex.

By S. H. Marpel

The oldest relationships in history have been between man and woman.
So what would be much different than finding out that these continue to explore and resolve (mis)understandings out on remote planets through out our solar system and beyond?
After all, it's not like we got things all sorted out on Earth.
Still, in the middle of an adventure, things do get exciting.
Sample these authors from the heady days of Golden Era Space Opera and see if they didn't get it right - or would you do different in those situations?

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:

• The Birds and the Bees by David E. Fisher
• Until Life Do Us Part by Winston K. Marks
• Miracle by Price by Irving E. Cox
• Bargain Basement by Charles L. Fontenay
• Friend Island by Francis Stevens
• After Some Tomorrow by Mack Reynolds
• A Husband for My Wife by William W. Stuart
• Beyond Light by Nelson S. Bond
• Venus is a Man's World by William Tenn
• Thy Name Is Woman by Bryce Walton
• Matchmaker by Charles L. Fontenay
• Chimera World by Wilbur S. Peacock
• Sentiment, Inc. by Poul Anderson
• Bodyguard by H. L. Gold
• Sargasso of Lost Starships by Poul Anderson

Scroll Up and Get Your Copy Now

• Language: English
• Publisher: Midwest Journal Press
• Release date: Jan 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9791220248983

Book preview

book...)

THE BIRDS AND THE BEES

BY DAVE E. FISHER

Which goes to prove that, in some instances, being heroic is easy!

I WAS WANDERING AMONG the tall grass of the slopes, listening to the soft whistling of the wind; allowing the grass to caress my toga and thighs. It was a day soft and clear; a day accepted by the young, cherished by we old. Across the gently undulating hills stood the magnificent Melopolis, encradling the Oracle of Delni. I do not, of course, believe in the gods per se; still there is a grandeur in the very stones that transcends their human sculptors, and it is no wonder to me that many cling tenaciously, and ignorantly, to the old religion. Cling to the gods of old, who drew man upward from wherever he began. In whose names Man killed and plundered, while struggling up. In whose names Man finally left this earth, to seek his cousins among the stars.

But of course there were no cousins. There was nothing. And Man returned, and settled down to live. Saddened, but resigned and content to live in peace with his knowledge and his power. Gone now are all the ancient evils, wars, emergencies.

Sias! Sias— And they were upon me.

That is, Xeon was upon me. But I knew that where Xeon is, Melia must soon appear. And indeed it was but a moment before Melia slipped through the high grass to stand at his side. Their youthful voices were babbling in excitement.

Melia was a She, with the swelling breasts that were, so tradition states, quite prevalent among members of the race long ago, and are seldom seen today. Indeed, Melia was on this account made the butt of many jokes and, I fear, would have had a lonely life of it had it not been for the friendship of Xeon.

Sias, they were saying, the Maternite’s gone.

I stared in amazement.

Gone? It cannot be gone. It has always been—

Oh my gods! Xeon shouted. I tell you it’s gone! Will you—

Melia interrupted him quietly. Xeon, will you lose all respect for the Elder? Then turned to me, and said calmly, The watcher at the Maternite Machine, it appears, has been drunk. The heat rose above the warning, continued to rise, and then—poof. Everything has evaporated in Maternite. All the Prelife is gone.

All of it? I asked.

There is nothing left, Melia insisted. Can more be made? And if not, what will happen with no more children?

That is for the priests to say, not I, I replied. In moments of emergency, it is wise to speak with caution. That is, I suppose so. I have never before been in a real emergency.

A MAN MY AGE DOES NOT hurry in the heat of the midday sun—maddugs nenglishmin go out in the midday sun, as the ancients say, although I often wonder why—but Xeon and Melia ran all the way down to the city. They are of an age to enter manhood, and have all the energy such young men do.

As we entered the city, we were surrounded by confusion and consternation. And can the simple people be blamed? They were aware that they stood in the midst of an unprecedented happening; indeed, an emergency. For a machine had failed!

Not in the memory of the eldest among us has a machine failed. They were created so long ago, indeed, that the ignorant believe them to have been constructed by the gods themselves. And never, so far as I know, has one failed. Small wonder that the watcher had been negligent. Indeed, the watcher is more a tradition than a necessity. Besides, had he been sober, he would not have known what to do. For who knows the mysterious workings of the machines?

I HASTENED TO THE CITY Hall and found the Conclave assembled, waiting for me to bring them to order. Xeon and Melia stopped as I mounted the steps, but I smiled and motioned them in. They accompanied me past the marble pillars into the cool recesses of the Hall, then seated themselves on the floor as I took my place by the great table.

Well, you know how these things are. At such a time, many men feel impelled to make speeches, and one must not be disrespectful. Prayers and supplications were offered to the gods, priests were sent to sacrifice, and finally, as the light of the sun was falling between the pillars, the High Priest of the Maternite Machine was heard.

He rambled through the customary opening remarks and then, continually smoothing his white beard—of which he is excessively proud—approached the crux of the matter and the Conclave finally heard the facts it had assembled to hear. By this time, unfortunately, many of the Conclave had departed for home and supper. Yet perhaps it is for the best, for those left were the most earnest and intelligent.

I would not bore you, he said, with details of which only the gods are sure. Know, then, that once granted a few cells of Prelife, it is an easy matter for the Maternite Machine to add more and more; thus assuring us, as has always been, a continuous source of Prelife to be born by the Generating Machine as children. The machines bear the exact number of children each year to balance the number of us whom the gods claim. Such it has always been from time immemorial.

A murmur of assent and approval of these virtuous words whispered around the Hall.

But now, he continued, however, with less assurance and indeed with even a stutter here and there, an unprecedented situation has arisen. Indeed, I might call it an emergency. For the M-Maternite Machine has actually failed.

Cries of Treason sprang up, and I fear it might have gone hard for the priest had I not been able to insure order.

That is not the worst, he cried, as if in defiance. All the Prelife has been dried up. It will not function. There is no more. And there will be no more children!

At this I feared the Conclave was about to riot. It is at such times that I most revere the wisdom of the ancients, who decreed seventy years the minimum age for a member of the Conclave. They shouted and began to beat their fists, but for how long can a man of seventy years roar like a youngster? They quieted, breathing heavily, and I asked,

"Is there no way, then, to produce more Prelife in order that the machines may produce more children for us?

As I have said, he replied, give the machines but a bit of Prelife and they will produce more. But take away that least bit, and they are helpless.

Such heresy could have brought a sad end to the priest had not the Conclave been so exhausted by the events of the day. We leaned back to think.

Rocsates leaned forward and asked, Must there not—must there not have been a beginning to Prelife? For the Machine, it seems, cannot make it; and yet it came from somewhere.

Riddles are not called for, I answered severely.

Are not riddles often the beginning of knowledge? he asked, in that irritating dumber-than-thou attitude of his. Must there not, long ago, have been a source of Prelife: a source now forgotten? And may it not even now—should we discover it—be available to us? I am reminded of the story of the animals of old—

I fear your mind is wandering, Rocsates, I was forced to interrupt. I know well the legend of the animals, but what does it have to do— The heads of the Conclave were turning to me, quizzically. I hastened to explain the legend of the animals. It is said that many thousands of years ago, time without reckoning, there existed on the earth creatures who were alive like us, and yet not like us. It is said they had four legs or more, and no arms, were covered with hair, and although not mute, they could not speak.

Rocsates’ voice made itself heard. It is true. Such creatures did indeed exist. It is recorded most scientifically in the films.

If it be so, I said, quieting the hub-bub that followed, and I would not doubt your word, Rocsates, for all know you are the wisest of men—if it were so, then, what of it?

May it not be, Rocsates put in, that these animals had no machines to reproduce their kind? For surely the gods would not grant machines to such creatures. And indeed, if they had Maternite Machines, why then we would yet have these animals among us.

And how, then, did these animals reproduce? I asked.

How, indeed? And is there not a legend—admitted only a legend—that says there was a time before the machines, and before the Maternite Machine, and that at such a time both the animals and Men reproduced from within their own bodies?

At this two members of the Conclave fell immediately into a faint, and I would gladly have joined them. I hoped that the youngsters, Xeon and Melia, had not heard, but as I turned they were listening most attentively to Rocsates, who, amid cries of Heresy and Treason, went on:

I should like to ask the Conclave for permission to search the ancient records, in the hope of finding some such knowledge that would prove or disprove my words.

You wish to search the films— I began.

Not the films, Sias, but the books.

Gods, this Rocsates! The books, as well he knows, are so ancient, and so delicate, that they are kept in an air-tight tomb; lest, being handled, they be destroyed and all knowledge within them lost. Therefore, they have not been read in the known history of our race. And Rocsates has been anxious for an excuse—

Sias, he went on, if there exists such knowledge as I seek, is it not indeed lost to the memory of Man? And if so, are not the books the only place where it may be found?

Rocsates, it is suspected, will never ask a question unless he knows the answer beforehand. And so I acquiesced, and agreed, and granted permission. And with much misgiving and foreboding of evil, the Conclave adjourned.

SEVERAL WEEKS ELAPSED before Rocsates requested that the Conclave meet. I called the meeting at dawn and so it was yet early in the afternoon when formalities were concluded and Rocsates granted leave to speak.

Some of those among you are She’s, he began. "And you know you are different from the rest of us. To the advantage, your skin is fairer and your features more often handsomer than ours. To the disadvantage, your excretory system is not so mechanically dextrous as ours. And, you may say, why should this not be so? There is, indeed, no reason why we should all be identical. Perforce you have the advantage, perforce we do. Yet there is one other distinction.

Some among you She’s have the swelling of the breasts. And does there exist no reason for this? Was there not, perhaps in ancient times, a cause for this? Do you not wonder, She’s, whence you come and for what reason?

Rocsates, I interrupted. All this is fascinating, of course. But if you could be quick—

Of course, he replied. "In the course of my reading I have read many books, and while they are all vague on the subject, this I have discovered:

That there was indeed a time before the machines, in fact the books were created in that time, for not one of them mentions the machines. Then reproduction was carried on by individuals, without help of the then nonexistent machines. The She’s are not wanderers from another land, but they have lived with us for all time; they are not another race, but we are all types of one race. And the fact of reproduction is somehow intimately related to the physical distinctions of the She’s!

These last sentences were shouted to be heard above the roar of the crowd. Yet when Rocsates stopped, so also did the noise, so shocked and amazed at his words were they. And I confess, myself also.

In fact, Rocsates added, sitting down, this process of reproduction seems to have been so simple that there was once a problem of over-population.

Order was lost among the Conclave as each man turned to speak to his neighbor, and for some time I could not restore order. I realized that something had to be done to save Rocsates before the outrage of the assembled overwhelmed him.

It seems, I shouted, that there is a flaw in your logic. For if such there was, I was hopeful of dismissing the entire affair with no harm done. For if people reproduced too often, why then this reproduction must have been a pleasant thing to do; otherwise they would not have done so to excess. And if it was a pleasant thing to do, where is the necessity for the machines, and why were they created?

Rocsates seemed perplexed by this problem, whereupon Xeon, who together with Melia were at the Conclave without permission, shouted, Perhaps the process of reproduction was of such a pleasure that the Conclave ruled it to be a sin? And therefore the machines were necessary!

At this impudence the Conclave dissolved in an uproar, and I was beyond power to restrain them from placing Xeon under arrest. Privately, however, I had to admit that his supposition was a possibility, and thus I authorized Rocsates to continue his search.

NOW INDEED I WAS SORELY worried concerning Xeon, for he must languish in the dungeon until the Conclave is satisfied to release him, and this they cannot do until they meet again.

I needed a sufficient excuse to call a meeting of the Conclave, whereupon I might argue for the lad. When I heard that Rocsates again desired audience, I immediately proclaimed a meeting of the Conclave to be held the next day at dawn, and so that night slept well.

The Conclave had come to order and formalities had been initiated when Rocsates entered and took his place. He clutched under one shoulder a thin, rectangular object, but that is not what impressed me. His appearance—he looked as if he had not slept of late, nor eaten either. His eyes were sunken, and his features had doubled in age. He was bent and tired. But it was his eyes. There was a horror in them.

I was shocked, and could not help staring at him. And then the formalities were over. I intended to speak for Xeon, but Rocsates was on his feet and I gave way.

I have indeed discovered the secret of reproduction, he began. After many searchings, I came upon this— and he held forth the object he had carried in. It is a book. It is entitled, ‘Living a Normal Sex Life.’ It seems to be some sort of a do-it-yourself pamphlet. He dropped the book on the table and rubbed his hands over his eyes.

There was something in the man’s behavior that commanded everyone’s attention. He went on, speaking low. The word ‘Sex’ is not defined, but it seems to mean.... His words trailed off. He was obviously unsure of how to continue. I had better start at the beginning, I suppose, he said. You see, once upon a time there were birds and bees....

WHEN HE FINISHED THE Conclave sat in horrified silence. His words, with all their horror, had the ring of truth and there were no cries of ‘Heresy’. There was only stunned disbelief and the beginnings of nausea.

It is the mark of honor that a leader shall carry on when others fear to move. I cleared my throat.

Shall not these organs which you mention have atrophied by now? With no use throughout all these generations, will they not have evolved into nothingness?

I do not think so, Rocsates replied after a while. What to us is an eon, to evolution is but an instant. And then the swelling of the breasts, I believe, proves that there is still reproductive activity in some, at least, of the She’s.

We sat shaking our heads, bowed under terrible reality.

Then we must experiment, I said. But whom could we ask to submit to such horror?

I have already taken the liberty of asking for volunteers, Rocsates replied. The She, of course, must be one with the swelling of the breasts. Melia has volunteered, on condition that Xeon be released from dungeon. Are there any objections?

There were none, of course. Who would refuse a boon to one who would undergo such an ordeal for the City?

And who will be the partner? I asked.

In all honor, could Xeon allow Melia to surpass him in courage? It shall be he, Rocsates said. And with his word the two entered the Hall and stood, noble and naked.

Rocsates gestured to the table, and Melia started to climb upon it, but Xeon stepped forward.

My lords, he said, would not better results be obtained were we to conduct the experiment in the fields before the Oracle of Delni, that the gods may help us?

His glance reached into my soul, and I was proud of Xeon. A true friend, he thought even now of the comfort of Melia. The marble table was indeed hard, and from Rocsates’ description it seemed that Melia’s position would be as uncomfortable as it would be undignified. The soft fields might be some slight help.

I voiced my assent, and the entire Conclave adjourned to the fields.

IT WAS NEARLY DARK when we walked home, Rocsates and I, arm in arm. It had been a horrible day. The inhuman indignity, the cries—

We tarried before my home, leaned on the stone, stared at the first stars.

They seemed finally to accomplish all the book described, I muttered.

They may indeed have succeeded, Rocsates replied. There is mentioned a time lapse which is necessary. The child does not appear immediately.

It doesn’t matter, I said disconsolately. Who could ask them to go through such an ordeal again?

And then I looked down to earth again, and saw them standing before me. Melia cast her eyes down, and would not raise them. Xeon held his arm about her shoulders, as if to protect her, but I know not from whom.

Sias, he said. Then stopped, embarrassed.

I waited, and Rocsates was silent, and he continued.

Sias, we come to tell.... We will.... He raised his eyes to mine and said manfully, We shall try again.

I am afraid that tears came to my eyes. Such sacrifice—

We beg one favor, Xeon went on. We are agreed that—Well, we should like to be left alone, in private, to try.

Of course, I replied. Anything they might want they could have. My relief and gratitude must have showed, for Xeon took a deep breath and spoke again.

We do not deserve praise, Sias, he said. The truth is, we ... we sort of enjoy it.

I watched them turn and wander off together under the stars.

My heart has a warmth in it, and I no longer fear for the future of our race when our young people can show such nobility and sacrifice.

UNTIL LIFE DO US PART

BY WINSTON MARKS

It’s a long life, when you’re immortal. To retain sanity you’ve got to be unemotional. To be unemotional, you can’t fall in love....

IT WAS A DEATHLESS world, but a woman was dying.

Anne Tabor lay limp and pale, her long, slender limbs making only shallow depressions on the mercury bath which supported her. Webb Fellow stood over her awaiting the effects of the sedative to relieve her pain.

His title was Doctor, but almost everyone in this age had an M. D. certificate with several specialties to his credit. Webb Fellow was simply one who continued to find interest and diversion in the field of physiological maintenance.

He stood tall and strong above her, lean-bellied, smooth-faced and calm appearing, yet he didn’t feel especially calm. As the agony eased from Anne’s face he spoke softly.

I’m glad you came to me, Anne.

She moistened her lips and spoke without opening her eyes. It was you or Clifford—and Cliff hasn’t practiced for a century or more. It’s—it’s quite important to me, Webb. I really want to live. Not because I’m afraid of dying, but....

I know, Anne. I know.

Everyone in Chicago knew. Anne Tabor was the first female of that city to be chosen for motherhood in almost a decade. And in the three days since the news had flashed from Washington, Anne Tabor had generated within the blood-stream of her lovely, near-perfect body, a mutated cancerous cell that threatened to destroy her. Mutant leukemia!

Just relax, dear. We have the whole city of Chicago to draw on for blood while we work this thing out.

He touched a cool hand to her fevered forehead, and the slight motion stirred the golden halo that her hair made on the silvery surface of the mercury.

THE WORD, DEAR, ECHOED strangely in his ears once he had said it. Her eyes had opened at the expression of sentiment, and now they were wide and blue as they examined him. A tiny smile curved her pale lips. Did I hear correctly?

Yes, dear. He repeated the word deliberately, and for the first time since his student days he felt the web of his emotions tighten and twist into a knot of unreason.

She mustn’t die ... not now!

Her smile widened with her look of mild amazement. Why Webb, I do believe you mean it!

You have always been high in my affections, Anne.

Yes, but—it’s a long life. Such a long life!

That damned phrase again! The essence of sanity, they called it. The cliche of cliches that under-scored this whole business of immortality. Be not concerned for the frustrations of the moment. All obstacles are transient—all obstacles and all emotions. The price of immortality is caution, patience, temperance. Deep personal attachments lead to love, love leads to jealousy, jealousy to un-saneness, insanity to violence, violence to—

All he had said was that she was high in his affections, but no one spoke of such things any more. When one did, it was considered that more than conventional promiscuity was involved in his intentions.

He turned away abruptly and studied the dials that registered her blood-pressure, pulse and metabolism. Incredible how even women three hundred years old remained sensitive to the slightest sign of infantile passion in their men. And more fantastic yet, that he, Webb Fellow, of the original generation of immortals some seven hundred years old, should find the destructive spark of possessiveness still alive in his semantically adjusted nervous system.

Mechanically he noted the systole and diastole lines on the revolving chart and ordered an attendant to administer whole blood. Before he left her he turned back for a moment. It shouldn’t be more than 24 hours, Anne, and I promise you there won’t be any impairment of your maternal capacity.

He was startled to note that tears welled into her eyes. Thank you, Webb. Clifford was worried that I might be disqualified.

Nonsense! Clifford hasn’t kept up on things. He strode away without further comment, but as he stepped from surgery into pathology he was troubled. Why was Clifford so worried about her? Did Clifford think that Anne would choose him to father her child?

The thought struck like a snake. Before he could block it the fangs were deep, and the venom of adolescent jealousy raced from brain to endocrines to blood-stream, poisoning his whole nervous system.

It’s a long life!

He resorted to the old antidote himself, despising his weakness as he breathed the words. They came out as a sigh. He discovered that he was searching his memory to determine whether he or Clifford could lay claim to Anne by seniority.

Seniority? What damned nonsense was that? Anne had traded back and forth between Clifford and him for at least 250 years—with uncounted, trivial alliances with how many other men?

But the others didn’t count. It was he and Clifford whom Anne preferred, just as he and Clifford had discussed on countless occasions Anne’s perpetual attraction to them both. Anne was Clifford’s favorite, and he’d made no secret of it.

Over here, Webb. We have it! It was Porter, the head staff pathologist holding out a small vial of crimson-clear liquid. This ferric-protein salt should cure our famous lady quite quickly. It played sudden hell in the culture.

Oh, yes? Fine. Thank you, Porter. Thank you very much!

The narrow-shouldered pathologist gave him a second look. Certainly. Don’t mention it. He paused then asked bluntly, Did she name you for paternity?

Webb managed to hold the vial steady to the light, but his voice was a shade too taut and high. Not yet—that is, we haven’t discussed it. It’s a possibility, I suppose.

I suppose, Porter mocked gently. You with the highest genetic-desirability rating in the State, give or take a couple of counties.

Yes, there were a couple other males in Illinois with as high a genetic rating as Webb Fellow, and one of them was Clifford Ainsley.

The obvious question thrust itself upon Webb for the first time. Was that why Anne Tabor had seemed to concentrate her favors upon him and Clifford? Had she actually anticipated the eventuality of being chosen for motherhood, and had her criterion for male companionship been simply a high genetic rating?

It’s a long life. Even with such unlikely odds against the contingency, he supposed any qualified female secretly nurtured the hope that someday—

With the inexplicable tension mounting in him he passed the vial along to an assistant with instructions for administering it. Anne would be in no condition to discuss the matter for another day or two.

But he must know. He must know whether she had already chosen Clifford.

He slipped into a light street-jacket, caught an express to top-side and engaged a taxi. His finger was poised over the destination dial before he realized with a start that he had forgotten the five-digit number for Clifford’s address. It had been that long since he had called on his old friend.

Friend? The concept seemed suddenly strange. How long since their friendship had actually dissolved into an unacknowledged rivalry?

Nonsense. He and Clifford had both been uncommonly busy with their respective professions. And since Clifford had branched from medicine into robotics, their paths and interests had simply diverged. Alternating almost weekly between the two men, Anne Tabor had kept each more or less informed of the other’s activities, but somehow he and Clifford had ceased looking each other up.

The directory gave him Clifford’s number, and he dialed it. The small vehicle lifted quickly, slipped into the invisible traffic pattern and began applying the dialed code-address to the electronic grid that cross-hatched Chicago like a mammoth waffle. As traffic cluttered ahead on one particular striation, the taxi banked smoothly and right-angled to the next parallel course and proceeded.

Neat, safe, fool-proof. Perfect transportation within proscribed geometrical limits, Webb thought. An infinite number of routes from one point to another—like the course of a human life—but all within certain proscribed limits.

It’s a long life.

The course of a man’s life could be considered a passage with infinite possibilities only if he were allowed to backtrack occasionally. Was that what he was doing? Had life grown so dull that he was seeking the diversion of immaturity again?

Immortality.

Was it really so important? Once there had been a time when love, open, unashamed love had been accepted as one of life’s strongest motivations. And it wasn’t just a feeling of jealous possessiveness. There was a feeling of mutuality in it, a tenderness, an unselfishness and closeness of communion between man and woman.

How had this exalted condition become debased into the casual association that now existed between the sexes? Debased? That was a loaded term. What was the matter with him? Anne Tabor was a lovely, desirable creature, but no more lovely, no more desirable than a hundred other females he knew.

An odd, almost unique feeling of shame swept over him as his cab sank to the landing strip on Clifford’s apartment building. He must conceal his state of mind from Clifford or be judged a complete imbecile.

WELL, WEBB! THIS IS a surprise. Cliff’s face was entirely without emotion. Anne! It’s about Anne, isn’t it?

Anne will be fine.

Good, good! You startled me, standing there in the door like a messenger of doom. I thought for a moment—well, things wouldn’t be the same without little Annie, would they?

They had moved into Cliff’s apartment, and Webb shrugged out of his jacket. The spacious quarters and expensive appointments reminded Webb of Clifford’s wealth.

The robot business must be thriving, Webb remarked. Anne didn’t mention such luxury over here.

The girl is tactful, my friend. Tactful, sweet, intelligent.

Webb looked up quickly. He had seated himself, and Clifford stood before him in a stiff, almost challenging pose. Am I welcome here? the physician asked bluntly.

Certainly, certainly. We’ll always welcome you here. Nothing need be changed just because Anne is to have a child. Nothing, that is, except the customary observance of monogamous convention until the child is born and raised.

A pound of lead sagged in Webb’s stomach. Then—Anne has named you for paternity?

Clifford’s slender, well-made body lost itself in the precise center of an over-size chair, he looked at Webb thoughtfully. Well, practically. We were discussing it the other night when she had the first symptoms of this attack. He rubbed his hairless chin. Why? Did you especially aspire to the noble station of parenthood?

The lazy sarcasm was salt in the wound. With difficulty, Webb kept his face expressionless. When I heard the news, naturally I gave the possibility some consideration. That’s why I came over here.

I see. Anne didn’t tell you.

She was in considerable distress when they brought her in. I—I didn’t ask her.

In spite of the raven-black hair and youthful face, there was something about Clifford that Webb didn’t like, a hardness, a lack-luster indifference verging on boorishness. The thought of losing Anne completely for more than eighteen years to this man was more painful even than Webb had anticipated.

Impulsively he said, For old time’s sake, Cliff, will you do me a big favor?

The engineer stared at him and waited.

Take a vacation. Disappear for a few months.

The dark eyebrows remained in a straight line. And run out on Anne? You aren’t serious.

I am.

Clifford laughed without smiling. You’d better head for hormone harbor and take yourself a vacation, old man. You’re becoming senile.

Then you won’t withdraw?

Of course not. You’re asking more than a favor. You’re asking me to offend Anne. These things are important to females.

It’s important to me, too, Cliff.

Well, I’ll be— The smaller man rolled to his feet and put his hands on his hips. I never thought to see the day when honored Elder Webb Fellow would come muling around like a sub-century freshman. Of all the anachronistic drivel!

You see? Webb said eagerly, It isn’t important to you at all. Why can’t you do this for me, Cliff? I—I just can’t stand the thought of being without Anne all those years.

Relax, Webb. It’s a long life. Anne will be back in circulation before you know it. He paced to a low desk and extracted a small address book from a drawer. If you’re short of female acquaintances at the moment you can have these. I won’t be needing them for awhile.

He flipped the book at Webb. By chance the cover opened, caught the air and slanted the book up in its course so it struck the physician’s cheek with a slap. The faint sting was the detonator that exploded all the careful restraint of seven centuries.

Webb arose to his feet slowly and moved toward Clifford. So medicine was too elementary for you? Human physiology and behaviour has no unsolved problems in it, you said once. So you went into robotics—positronic brains—infinite variety of response, with built in neuroses and psychoses. Human behaviour was too stereo-typed for you, Clifford. Everyone was predictable to seven decimal places. You were bored.

You have it about right, the engineer said insolently. He let his arms drop to his sides, relaxed, unconcerned at the tension in the physician’s voice.

You build fine chess-playing machines, I hear, Webb said softly, gradually closing the distance between them. Your mechanical geniuses have outstripped our finest playwrights and novelists for creativity and originality. You’ve probed every conceivable aberrated twist of human nature with your psychological-probabilities computers. You’ve reduced sociology and human relations to a cipher—

Clifford shrugged. Merely an extension of early work in general semantics—the same work that gave us mental stability to go with physical immortality. Certainly you don’t disparage—

I’m disparaging nothing, Webb broke in. I’m merely pointing out your blind spot, your fatal blind spot.

Fatal?

Yes, Clifford, fatal. I’m going to kill you.

The words seemed to have no effect. Not until Webb’s powerful surgeon’s hands closed about his neck did Clifford go rigid and begin his futile struggle.

Webb did not crush the larynx immediately. He squeezed down with slow, breath-robbing pressure, feeling for the windpipe under his thumbs. Clifford gasped, ‘Sa long life, Webb ... don’t ... commit suicide.

It’s a long life, but not for you, my stupid friend. Sure, they’ll execute me. But you won’t have her. Never again, do you hear?

Clifford’s eyes were closed now, and Webb knew that the roaring in his victim’s ears would be blotting out all external sound. The knowledge infuriated him, and he screamed, You fool, I pleaded with you. I took your insults and gave you every clue you needed—didn’t you recognize my condition? You fool! You brilliant, blind fool!

Clifford collapsed to his knees, and Webb let him go with one final, irrevocable wrench that certified his death.

Clifford’s death and his own. The penalty for murder was still capital punishment, and in his own case Webb acknowledged the logic and necessity of such harsh consequences.

If there was one activity that immortal, 28th Century Man could no longer afford, it was the luxury of falling in love....

WEBB STOOD BACK AND looked down at his crumpled victim. The heavy pressure was subsiding from his temples, and the gray film of irrational hate faded from his vision.

Cliff—I— Then full horror closed in on him and he choked off. His hands felt slick and slippery, but it was his own sweat, not blood. The tactile memory of his fingers squeezing, crushing Clifford’s throat, fed details of touch, texture and temperature to his tortured but clear brain.