PREFACE

I will define science fiction, first, by saying what sf is not. It cannot be defined as ‘a story (or novel or play) set in the future,’ since there exists such a thing as space adventure, which is set in the future but is not sf: it is just that: adventures, fights and wars in the future in space involving super-advanced technology. Why, then, is it not science fiction? It would seem to be, and Doris Lessing (e.g.) supposes that it is. However, space adventure lacks the distinct new idea that is the essential ingredient. Also, there can be science fiction set in the present: the alternate world story or novel. So if we separate sf from the future and also from ultra-advanced technology, what then do we have that can be called sf?

We have a fictitious world; that is the first step: it is a society that does not in fact exist, but is predicated on our known society; that is, our known society acts as a jumping-off point for it; the society advances out of our own in some way, perhaps orthogonally, as with the alternate world story or novel. It is our world dislocated by some kind of mental effort on the part of the author, our world transformed into that which it is not or not yet. This world must differ from the given in at least one way, and this one way must be sufficient to give rise to events that could not occur in our society—or in any known society present or past. There must be a coherent idea involved in this dislocation; that is, the dislocation must be a conceptual one, not merely a trivial or bizarre one—this is the essence of science fiction, the conceptual dislocation within the society so that as a result a new society is generated in the author’s mind, transferred to paper, and from paper it occurs as a convulsive shock in the reader’s mind, the shock of dysrecognition. He knows that it is not his actual world that he is reading about.

Now, to separate science fiction from fantasy. This is impossible to do, and a moment’s thought will show why. Take psionics; take mutants such as we find in Ted Sturgeon’s wonderful More Than Human. If the reader believes that such mutants could exist, then he will view Sturgeon’s novel as science fiction. If, however, he believes that such mutants are, like wizards and dragons, not possible, nor will ever be possible, then he is reading a fantasy novel. Fantasy involves that which general opinion regards as impossible; science fiction involves that which general opinion regards as possible under the right circumstances. This is in essence a judgment-call, since what is possible and what is not possible is not objectively known but is, rather, a subjective belief on the part of the author and of the reader.

Now to define good science fiction. The conceptual dislocation—the new idea, in other words—must be truly new (or a new variation on an old one) and it must be intellectually stimulating to the reader; it must invade his mind and wake it up to the possibility of something he had not up to then thought of. Thus ‘good science fiction’ is a value term, not an objective thing, and yet, I think, there really is such a thing, objectively, as good science fiction.

I think Dr Willis McNelly at the California State University at Fullerton put it best when he said that the true protagonist of an sf story or novel is an idea and not a person. If it is good sf the idea is new, it is stimulating, and, probably most important of all, it sets off a chain-reaction of ramification-ideas in the mind of the reader; it so-to-speak unlocks the reader’s mind so that that mind, like the author’s, begins to create. Thus sf is creative and it inspires creativity, which mainstream fiction by-and-large does not do. We who read sf (I am speaking as a reader now, not a writer) read it because we love to experience this chain-reaction of ideas being set off in our minds by something we read, something with a new idea in it; hence the very best science fiction ultimately winds up being a collaboration between author and reader, in which both create—and enjoy doing it: joy is the essential and final ingredient of science fiction, the joy of discovery of newness.

PHILIP K. DICK
(in a letter)
May 14, 1981

The difference between a short story and a novel comes to this: a short story may deal with murder; a novel deals with the murderer, and his actions stem from a psyche which, if the writer knows his craft, he has previously presented. The difference, therefore, between a novel and a short story is not length; for example, William Styron’s The Long March is now published as a ‘short novel’ whereas originally in Discovery it was published as a ‘long story.’ This means that if you read it in Discovery you are reading a story, but if you pick up the paperback version you are reading a novel. So much for that.

There is one restriction in a novel not found in short stories: the requirement that the protagonist be liked enough or familiar enough to the reader so that, whatever the protagonist does, the readers would also do, under the same circumstances … or, in the case of escapist fiction, would like to do. In a story it is not necessary to create such a reader identification character because (one) there is not enough room for such background material in a short story and (two) since the emphasis is on the deed, not the doer, it really does not matter—within reasonable limits, of course—who in a story commits the murder. In a story, you learn about the characters from what they do; in a novel it is the other way around: you have your characters and then they do something idiosyncratic, emanating from their unique natures. So it can be said that events in a novel are unique—not found in other writings; but the same events occur over and over again in stories, until, at last, a sort of code language is built up between the reader and the author. I am not sure that this is bad by any means.

Further, a novel—in particular the sf novel—creates an entire world, with countless petty details—petty, perhaps, to the characters in the novel, but vital for the reader to know, since out of these manifold details his comprehension of the entire fictional world is obtained. In a story, on the other hand, you are in a future world when soap operas come at you from every wall in the room … as Ray Bradbury once described. That one fact alone catapults the story out of mainstream fiction and into sf.

What an sf story really requires is the initial premise which cuts it off entirely from our present world. This break must be made in the reading of, and the writing of, all good fiction … a made-up world must be presented. But there is much more pressure on an sf writer, for the break is far greater than in, say, ‘Paul’s Case’ or ‘Big Blonde’—two varieties of mainstream fiction which will always be with us.

It is in sf stories that sf action occurs; it is in sf novels that worlds occur. The stories in this collection are a series of events. Crisis is the key to story-writing, a sort of brinkmanship in which the author mires his characters in happenings so sticky as to seem impossible of solution. And then he gets them out … usually. He can get them out; that’s what matters. But in a novel the actions are so deeply rooted in the personality of the main character that to extricate him the author would have to go back and rewrite his character. This need not happen in a story, especially a short one (such long, long stories as Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice are, like the Styron piece, really short novels). The implication of all this makes clear why some sf writers can write stories but not novels, or novels but not stories. It is because anything can happen in a story; the author merely tailors his character to the event. So, in terms of actions and events, the story is far less restrictive to the author than is a novel. As a writer builds up a novel-length piece it slowly begins to imprison him, to take away his freedom; his own characters are taking over and doing what they want to do—not what he would like them to do. This is on one hand the strength of the novel and on the other, its weakness.

Philip K. Dick
(from The Preserving Machine)
1968

STABILITY

Robert Benton slowly spread his wings, flapped them several times and sailed majestically off the roof and into the darkness.

He was swallowed up by the night at once. Beneath him, hundreds of tiny dots of light betokened other roofs, from which other persons flew. A violet hue swam close to him, then vanished into the black. But Benton was in a different sort of mood, and the idea of night races did not appeal to him. The violet hue came close again and waved invitingly. Benton declined, swept upward into the higher air.

After a while he leveled off and allowed himself to coast on air currents that came up from the city beneath, the City of Lightness. A wonderful, exhilarating feeling swept through him. He pounded his huge, white wings together, flung himself in frantic joy into the small clouds that drifted past, dived at the invisible floor of the immense black bowl in which he flew, and at last descended toward the lights of the city, his leisure time approaching an end.

Somewhere far down a light more bright than the others winked at him: the Control Office. Aiming his body like an arrow, his white wings folded about him, he headed toward it. Down he went, straight and perfect. Barely a hundred feet from the light he threw his wings out, caught the firm air about him, and came gently to rest on a level roof.

Benton began to walk until a guide light came to life and he found his way to the entrance door by its beam. The door slid back at the pressure of his fingertips and he stepped past it. At once he began to descend, shooting downward at increasing speed. The small elevator suddenly stopped and he strode out into the Controller’s Main Office.

‘Hello,’ the Controller said, ‘take off your wings and sit down.’

Benton did so, folding them neatly and hanging them from one of a row of small hooks along the wall. He selected the best chair in sight and headed toward it.

‘Ah,’ the Controller smiled, ‘you value comfort.’

‘Well,’ Benton answered, ‘I don’t want it to go to waste.’

The Controller looked past his visitor and through the transparent plastic walls. Beyond were the largest single rooms in the City of Lightness. They extended as far as his eyes could see, and farther. Each was—

‘What did you want to see me about?’ Benton interrupted. The Controller coughed and rattled some metal paper-sheets.

‘As you know,’ he began, ‘Stability is the watchword. Civilization has been climbing for centuries, especially since the twenty-fifth century. It is a law of nature, however, that civilization must either go forward or fall backward; it cannot stand still.’

‘I know that,’ Benton said, puzzled. ‘I also know the multiplication table. Are you going to recite that, too?’

The Controller ignored him.

‘We have, however, broken that law. One hundred years ago—’

One hundred years ago! It hardly seemed as far back as that when Eric Freidenburg of the States of Free Germany stood up in the International Council Chamber and announced to the assembled delegates that mankind had at last reached its peak. Further progress forward was impossible. In the last few years, only two major inventions had been filed. After that, they had all watched the big graphs and charts, seen the lines going down and down, according to their squares, until they dipped into nothing. The great well of human ingenuity had run dry, and then Eric had stood up and said the thing everyone knew, but was afraid to say. Naturally, since it had been made known in a formal fashion, the Council would have to begin work on the problem.

There were three ideas of solution. One of them seemed more humane than the other two. This solution was eventually adopted. It was—

Stabilization!

There was great trouble at first when the people learned about it, and mass riots took place in many leading cities. The stock market crashed, and the economy of many countries went out of control. Food prices rose, and there was mass starvation. War broke out … for the first time in three hundred years! But Stabilization had begun. Dissenters were destroyed, radicals were carted off. It was hard and cruel but seemed to be the only answer. At last the world settled down to a rigid state, a controlled state in which there could be no change, either backward or forward.

Each year every inhabitant took a difficult, week-long examination to test whether or not he was backsliding. All youths were given fifteen years of intensive education. Those who could not keep up with the others simply disappeared. Inventions were inspected by Control Offices to make certain that they could not upset Stability. If it seemed that they might—

‘And that is why we cannot allow your invention to be put into use,’ the Controller explained to Benton. ‘I am sorry.’

He watched Benton, saw him start, the blood drain from his face, his hands tremble.

‘Come now,’ he said kindly, ‘don’t take it so hard; there are other things to do. After all, you are not in danger of the Cart!’

But Benton only stared. At last he said,

‘But you don’t understand: I have no invention. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘No invention!’ the Controller exclaimed. ‘But I was here the day you entered it yourself! I saw you sign the statement of ownership! You handed me the model!’

He stared at Benton. Then he pressed a stud on his desk and said into a small circle of light,

‘Send me up the information on number 34500-D, please.’

A moment passed, and then a tube appeared in the circle of light. The Controller lifted the cylindrical object out and passed it to Benton.

‘You’ll find your signed statement there,’ he said, ‘and it has your fingerprints in the print squares. Only you could have made them.’

Numbly, Benton opened the tube and took out the papers inside. He studied them a few moments, and then slowly put them back and handed the tube to the Controller.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that’s my writing, and those are certainly my prints. But I don’t understand, I never invented a thing in my life, and I’ve never been here before! What is this invention?’

‘What is it!’ the Controller echoed, amazed. ‘Don’t you know?’

Benton shook his head. ‘No, I do not,’ he said slowly.

‘Well, if you want to find out about it, you’ll have to go down to the Offices. All I can tell you is that the plans you sent us have been denied rights by the Control Board. I’m only a spokesman. You’ll have to take it up with them.’

Benton got up and walked to the door. As with the other, this one sprang open to his touch and he went on through into the Control Offices. As the door closed behind him the Controller called angrily,

‘I don’t know what you’re up to, but you know the penalty for upsetting Stability!’

‘I’m afraid Stability is already upset,’ Benton answered and went on.

The Offices were gigantic. He stared down from the catwalk on which he stood, for below him a thousand men and women worked at whizzing, efficient machines. Into the machines they were feeding reams of cards. Many of the people worked at desks, typing out sheets of information, filling charts, putting cards away, decoding messages. On the walls stupendous graphs were constantly being changed. The very air was alive with the vitalness of the work being conducted, the hum of the machines, the tap-tap of the typewriters, and the mumble of voices all merged together in a quiet, contented sound. And this vast machine, which cost countless dollars a day to keep running so smoothly, had a word: Stability!

Here, the thing that kept their world together lived. This room, these hard-working people, the ruthless man who sorted cards into the pile marked ‘for extermination’ were all functioning together like a great symphony orchestra. One person off key, one person out of time, and the entire structure would tremble. But no one faltered. No one stopped and failed at his task. Benton walked down a flight of steps to the desk of the information clerk.

‘Give me the entire information on an invention entered by Robert Benton, 34500-D,’ he said. The clerk nodded and left the desk. In a few minutes he returned with a metal box.

‘This contains the plans and a small working model of the invention,’ he stated. He put the box on the desk and opened it. Benton stared at the contents. A small piece of intricate machinery sat squatly in the center. Underneath was a thick pile of metal sheets with diagrams on them.

‘Can I take this?’ Benton asked.

‘If you are the owner,’ the clerk replied. Benton showed his identification card, the clerk studied it and compared it with the data on the invention. At last he nodded his approval, and Benton closed the box, picked it up and quickly left the building via a side exit.

The side exit let him out on one of the larger underground streets, which was a riot of lights and passing vehicles. He located his direction, and began to search for a communications car to take him home. One came along and he boarded it. After he had been traveling for a few minutes he began to carefully lift the lid of the box and peer inside at the strange model.

‘What have you got there, sir?’ the robot driver asked.

‘I wish I knew,’ Benton said ruefully. Two winged flyers swooped by and waved at him, danced in the air for a second and then vanished.

‘Oh, fowl,’ Benton murmured, ‘I forgot my wings.’

Well, it was too late to go back and get them, the car was just then beginning to slow down in front of his house. After paying the driver he went inside and locked the door, something seldom done. The best place to observe the contents was in his ‘consideration’ room, where he spent his leisure time while not flying. There, among his books and magazines he could observe the invention at ease.

The set of diagrams was a complete puzzle to him, and the model itself even more so. He stared at it from all angles, from underneath, from above. He tried to interpret the technical symbols of the diagrams, but all to no avail. There was but one road now open to him. He sought out the ‘on’ switch and clicked it.

For almost a minute nothing happened. Then the room about him began to waver and give way. For a moment it shook like a quantity of jelly. It hung steady for an instant, and then vanished.

He was falling through space like an endless tunnel, and he found himself twisting about frantically, grasping into the blackness for something to take hold of. He fell for an interminable time, helplessly, frightened. Then he had landed, completely unhurt. Although it had seemed so, the fall could not have been very long. His metallic clothes were not even ruffled. He picked himself up and looked about.

The place where he had arrived was strange to him. It was a field … such as he had supposed no longer to exist. Waving acres of grain waved in abundance everywhere. Yet, he was certain that in no place on earth did natural grain still grow. Yes, he was positive. He shielded his eyes and gazed at the sun, but it looked the same as it always had. He began to walk.

After an hour the wheat fields ended, but with their end came a wide forest. He knew from his studies that there were no forests left on earth. They had perished years before. Where was he, then?

He began to walk again, this time more quickly. Then he started to run. Before him a small hill rose and he raced to the top of it. Looking down the other side he stared in bewilderment. There was nothing there but a great emptiness. The ground was completely level and barren, there were no trees or any sign of life as far as his eyes could see, only the extensive bleached out land of death.

He started down the other side of the hill toward the plain. It was hot and dry under his feet, but he went forward anyway. He walked on, the ground began to hurt his feet—unaccustomed to long walking—and he grew tired. But he was determined to continue. Some small whisper within his mind compelled him to maintain his pace without slowing down.

‘Don’t pick it up,’ a voice said.

‘I will,’ he grated, half to himself, and stooped down.

Voice! From where! He turned quickly, but there was nothing to be seen. Yet the voice had come to him and it had seemed—for a moment—as if it were perfectly natural for voices to come from the air. He examined the thing he was about to pick up. It was a glass globe about as big around as his fist.

‘You will destroy your valuable Stability,’ the voice said.

‘Nothing can destroy Stability,’ he answered automatically. The glass globe was cool and nice against his palm. There was something inside, but heat from the glowing orb above him made it dance before his eyes, and he could not tell exactly what it was.

‘You are allowing your mind to be controlled by evil things,’ the voice said to him. ‘Put the globe down and leave.’

‘Evil things?’ he asked, surprised. It was hot, and he was beginning to feel thirsty. He started to thrust the globe inside his tunic.

‘Don’t,’ the voice ordered, ‘that is what it wants you to do.’

The globe was nice against his chest. It nestled there, cooling him off from the fierce heat of the sun. What was it the voice was saying?

‘You were called here by it through time,’ the voice explained. ‘You obey it now without question. I am its guardian, and ever since this time-world was created I have guarded it. Go away, and leave it as you found it.’

Definitely, it was too warm on the plain. He wanted to leave; the globe was now urging him to, reminding him of the heat from above, the dryness in his mouth, the tingling in his head. He started off, and as he clutched the globe to him he heard the wail of despair and fury from the phantom voice.

That was almost all he remembered. He did recall that he made his way back across the plain to the fields of grain, through them, stumbling and staggering, and at last to the spot where he had first appeared. The glass globe inside his coat urged him to pick up the small time machine from where he had left it. It whispered to him what dial to change, which button to press, which knob to set. Then he was falling again, falling back up the corridor of time, back, back to the graying mist from whence he had fallen, back to his own world.

Suddenly the globe urged him to stop. The journey through time was not yet complete: there was still something that he had to do.

‘You say your name is Benton? What can I do for you?’ the Controller asked. ‘You have never been here before, have you?’

He stared at the Controller. What did he mean? Why, he had just left the office! Or had he? What day was it? Where had he been? He rubbed his head dizzily and sat down in the big chair. The Controller watched him anxiously.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m all right,’ Benton said. There was something in his hands.

‘I want to register this invention to be approved by the Stability Council,’ he said, and handed the time machine to the Controller.

‘Do you have the diagrams of its construction?’ the Controller asked.

Benton dug deeply into his pocket and brought out the diagrams. He tossed them on the Controller’s desk and laid the model beside them.

‘The Council will have no trouble determining what it is,’ Benton said. His head ached, and he wanted to leave. He got to his feet.

‘I am going,’ he said, and went out the side door through which he had entered. The Controller stared after him.

‘Obviously,’ the First Member of the Control Council said, ‘he had been using the thing. You say the first time he came he acted as if he had been there before, but on the second visit he had no memory of having entered an invention, or even having been there before?’

‘Right,’ the Controller said. ‘I thought it was suspicious at the time of the first visit, but I did not realize until he came the second time what the meaning was. Undoubtedly, he used it.’

‘The Central Graph records that an unstabilizing element is about to come up,’ the Second Member remarked. ‘I would wager that Mr Benton is it.’

‘A time machine!’ the First Member said. ‘Such a thing can be dangerous. Did he have anything with him when he came the—ah—first time?’

‘I saw nothing, except that he walked as if he were carrying something under his coat,’ the Controller replied.

‘Then we must act at once. He will have been able to set up a chain of circumstance by this time that our Stabilizers will have trouble in breaking. Perhaps we should visit Mr Benton.’

Benton sat in his living room and stared. His eyes were set in a kind of glassy rigidness and he had not moved for some time. The globe had been talking to him, telling him of its plans, its hopes. Now it stopped suddenly.

‘They are coming,’ the globe said. It was resting on the couch beside him, and its faint whisper curled to his brain like a wisp of smoke. It had not actually spoken, of course, for its language was mental. But Benton heard.

‘What shall I do?’ he asked.

‘Do nothing,’ the globe said. ‘They will go away.’

The buzzer sounded and Benton remained where he was. The buzzer sounded again, and Benton stirred restlessly. After a while the men went down the walk again and appeared to have departed.

‘Now what?’ Benton asked. The globe did not answer for a moment.

‘I feel that the time is almost here,’ it said at last. ‘I have made no mistakes so far, and the difficult part is past. The hardest was having you come through time. It took me years—the Watcher was clever. You almost didn’t answer, and it was not until I thought of the method of putting the machine in your hands that success was certain. Soon you shall release us from this globe. After such an eternity—’

There was a scraping and a murmur from the rear of the house, and Benton started up.

‘They are coming in the back door!’ he said. The globe rustled angrily.

The Controller and the Council Members came slowly and warily into the room. They spotted Benton and stopped.

‘We didn’t think that you were at home,’ the First Member said. Benton turned to him.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry that I didn’t answer the bell; I had fallen asleep. What can I do for you?’

Carefully, his hand reached out toward the globe, and it seemed almost as if the globe rolled under the protection of his palm.

‘What have you there?’ the Controller demanded suddenly. Benton stared at him, and the globe whispered in his mind.

‘Nothing but a paperweight,’ he smiled. ‘Won’t you sit down?’

The men took their seats, and the First Member began to speak.

‘You came to see us twice, the first time to register an invention, the second time because we had summoned you to appear, as we could not allow the invention to be issued.’

‘Well?’ Benton demanded. ‘Is there something the matter with that?’

‘Oh, no,’ the Member said, ‘but what was for us your first visit was for you your second. Several things prove this, but I will not go into them just now. The thing that is important is that you still have the machine. This is a difficult problem. Where is the machine? It should be in your possession. Although we cannot force you to give it to us, we will obtain it eventually in one way or another.’

‘That is true,’ Benton said. But where was the machine? He had just left it at the Controller’s Office. Yet he had already picked it up and taken it into time, whereupon he had returned to the present and had returned it to the Controller’s Office!

‘It has ceased to exist, a non-entity in a time-spiral,’ the globe whispered to him, catching his thoughts. ‘The time-spiral reached its conclusion when you deposited the machine at the Office of Control. Now these men must leave so that we can do what must be done.’

Benton rose to his feet, placing the globe behind him.

‘I’m afraid that I don’t have the time machine,’ he said. ‘I don’t even know where it is, but you may search for it if you like.’

‘By breaking the laws, you have made yourself eligible for the Cart,’ the Controller observed. ‘But we feel that you have done what you did without meaning to. We do not want to punish anyone without reason, we only desire to maintain Stability. Once that is upset, nothing matters.’

‘You may search, but you won’t find it,’ Benton said. The Members and the Controller began to look. They overturned chairs, searched under the carpets, behind pictures, in the walls, and they found nothing.

‘You see, I was telling the truth,’ Benton smiled, as they returned to the living room.

‘You could have hidden it outside someplace,’ the Member shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter, however.’

The Controller stepped forward.

‘Stability is like a gyroscope,’ he said. ‘It is difficult to turn from its course, but once started it can hardly be stopped. We do not feel that you yourself have the strength to turn that gyroscope, but there may be others who can. That remains to be seen. We are going to leave now, and you will be allowed to end your own life, or wait here for the Cart. We are giving you the choice. You will be watched, of course, and I trust that you will make no attempt to flee. If so, then it will mean your immediate destruction. Stability must be maintained, at any cost.’

Benton watched them, and then laid the globe on the table. The Members looked at it with interest.

‘A paperweight,’ Benton said. ‘Interesting, don’t you think?’

The Members lost interest. They began to prepare to leave. But the Controller examined the globe, holding it up to the light.

‘A model of a city, eh?’ he said. ‘Such fine detail.’

Benton watched him.

‘Why, it seems amazing that a person could ever carve so well,’ the Controller continued. ‘What city is it? It looks like an ancient one such as Tyre or Babylon, or perhaps one far in the future. You know, it reminds me of an old legend.’

He looked at Benton intently as he went on.

‘The legend says that once there was a very evil city, it was so evil that God made it small and shut it up in a glass, and left a watcher of some sort to see that no one came along and released the city by smashing the glass. It is supposed to have been lying for eternity, waiting to escape.

‘And this is perhaps the model of it,’ the Controller continued.

‘Come on!’ the First Member called at the door. ‘We must be going; there are lots of things left to do tonight.’

The Controller turned quickly to the Members.

‘Wait!’ he said. ‘Don’t leave.’

He crossed the room to them, still holding the globe in his hand.

‘This would be a very poor time to leave,’ he said, and Benton saw that while his face had lost most of its color, the mouth was set in firm lines. The Controller suddenly turned again to Benton.

‘Trip through time; city in a glass globe! Does that mean anything?’

The two Council Members looked puzzled and blank.

‘An ignorant man crosses time and returns with a strange glass,’ the Controller said. ‘Odd thing to bring out of time, don’t you think?’

Suddenly the First Member’s face blanched white.

‘Good God in Heaven!’ he whispered. ‘The accursed city! That globe?’

He stared at the round ball in disbelief. The Controller looked at Benton with an amused glance.

‘Odd, how stupid we may be for a time, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘But eventually we wake up. Don’t touch it!’

Benton slowly stepped back, his hands shaking.

‘Well?’ he demanded. The globe was angry at being in the Controller’s hand. It began to buzz, and vibrations crept down the Controller’s arm. He felt them, and took a firmer grip on the globe.

‘I think it wants me to break it,’ he said, ‘it wants me to smash it on the floor so that it can get out.’ He watched the tiny spires and building tops in the murky mistiness of the globe, so tiny that he could cover them all with his fingers.

Benton dived. He came straight and sure, the way he had flown so many times in the air. Now every minute that he had hurtled about the warm blackness of the atmosphere of the City of Lightness came back to help him. The Controller, who had always been too busy with his work, always too piled up ahead to enjoy the airsports that the City was so proud of, went down at once. The globe bounced out of his hands and rolled across the room. Benton untangled himself and leaped up. As he raced after the small shiny sphere, he caught a glimpse of the frightened, bewildered faces of the Members, of the Controller attempting to get to his feet, face contorted with pain and horror.

The globe was calling to him, whispering to him. Benton stepped swiftly toward it, and felt a rising whisper of victory and then a scream of joy as his foot crushed the glass that imprisoned it.

The globe broke with a loud popping sound. For a time it lay there, then a mist began to rise from it. Benton returned to the couch and sat down. The mist began to fill the room. It grew and grew, it seemed almost like a living thing, so strangely did it shift and turn.

Benton began to drift into sleep. The mist crowded about him, curling over his legs, up to his chest, and finally milled about his face. He sat there, slumped over on the couch, his eyes closed, letting the strange, aged fragrance envelop him.

Then he heard the voices. Tiny and far away at first, the whisper of the globe multiplied countless times. A concert of whispering voices rose from the broken globe in a swelling crescendo of exultation. Joy of victory! He saw the tiny miniature city within the globe waver and fade, then change in size and shape. He could hear it now as well as see it. The steady throbbing of the machinery like a gigantic drum. The shaking and quivering of squat metal beings.

These beings were tended. He saw the slaves, sweating, stooped, pale men, twisting in their efforts to keep the roaring furnaces of steel and power happy. It seemed to swell before his eyes until the entire room was full of it, and the sweating workmen brushed against him and around him. He was deafened by the raging power, the grinding wheels and gears and valves. Something was pushing against him, compelling him to move forward, forward to the City, and the mist gleefully echoed the new, victorious sounds of the freed ones.

When the sun came up he was already awake. The rising bell rang, but Benton had left his sleeping-cube some time before. As he fell in with the marching ranks of his companions, he thought he recognized familiar faces for an instant—men he had known someplace before. But at once the memory passed. As they marched toward the waiting machines, chanting the tuneless sounds their ancestors had chanted for centuries, and the weight of his tools pressed against his back, he counted the time before his next rest day. It was only about three weeks to go now, and anyhow, he might be in line for a bonus if the Machines saw fit—

For had he not been tending his machine faithfully?

ROOG

‘Roog!’ the dog said. He rested his paws on the top of the fence and looked around him.

The Roog came running into the yard.

It was early morning, and the sun had not really come up yet. The air was cold and gray, and the walls of the house were damp with moisture. The dog opened his jaws a little as he watched, his big black paws clutching the wood of the fence.

The Roog stood by the open gate, looking into the yard. He was a small Roog, thin and white, on wobbly legs. The Roog blinked at the dog, and the dog showed his teeth.

‘Roog!’ he said again. The sound echoed into the silent half darkness. Nothing moved nor stirred. The dog dropped down and walked back across the yard to the porch steps. He sat down on the bottom step and watched the Roog. The Roog glanced at him. Then he stretched his neck up to the window of the house, just above him. He sniffed at the window.

The dog came flashing across the yard. He hit the fence, and the gate shuddered and groaned. The Roog was walking quickly up the path, hurrying with funny little steps, mincing along. The dog lay down against the slats of the gate, breathing heavily, his red tongue hanging. He watched the Roog disappear.

The dog lay silently, his eyes bright and black. The day was beginning to come. The sky turned a little whiter, and from all around the sounds of people echoed through the morning air. Lights popped on behind shades. In the chilly dawn a window was opened.

The dog did not move. He watched the path.

In the kitchen Mrs Cardossi poured water into the coffee pot. Steam rose from the water, blinding her. She set the pot down on the edge of the stove and went into the pantry. When she came back Alf was standing at the door of the kitchen. He put his glasses on.

‘You bring the paper?’ he said.

‘It’s outside.’

Alf Cardossi walked across the kitchen. He threw the bolt on the back door and stepped out onto the porch. He looked into the gray, damp morning. At the fence Boris lay, black and furry, his tongue out.

‘Put the tongue in,’ Alf said. The dog looked quickly up. His tail beat against the ground. ‘The tongue,’ Alf said. ‘Put the tongue in.’

The dog and the man looked at one another. The dog whined. His eyes were bright and feverish.

‘Roog!’ he said softly.

‘What?’ Alf looked around. ‘Someone coming? The paperboy come?’

The dog stared at him, his mouth open.

‘You certainly upset these days,’ Alf said. ‘You better take it easy. We both getting too old for excitement.’

He went inside the house.

The sun came up. The street became bright and alive with color. The postman went along the sidewalk with his letters and magazines. Some children hurried by, laughing and talking.

About 11:00, Mrs Cardossi swept the front porch. She sniffed the air, pausing for a moment.

‘It smells good today,’ she said. ‘That means it’s going to be warm.’

In the heat of the noonday sun the black dog lay stretched out full length, under the porch. His chest rose and fell. In the cherry tree the birds were playing, squawking and chattering to each other. Once in a while Boris raised his head and looked at them. Presently he got to his feet and trotted down under the tree.

He was standing under the tree when he saw the two Roogs sitting on the fence, watching him.

‘He’s big,’ the first Roog said. ‘Most Guardians aren’t as big as this.’

The other Roog nodded, his head wobbling on his neck. Boris watched them without moving, his body stiff and hard. The Roogs were silent, now, looking at the big dog with his shaggy ruff of white around his neck.

‘How is the offering urn?’ the first Roog said. ‘Is it almost full?’

‘Yes.’ The other nodded. ‘Almost ready.’

‘You, there!’ the first Roog said, raising his voice. ‘Do you hear me? We’ve decided to accept the offering, this time. So you remember to let us in. No nonsense, now.’

‘Don’t forget,’ the other added. ‘It won’t be long.’

Boris said nothing.

The two Roogs leaped off the fence and went over together just beyond the walk. One of them brought out a map and they studied it.

‘This area really is none too good for a first trial,’ the first Roog said. ‘Too many Guardians … Now, the northside area—’

‘They decided,’ the other Roog said. ‘There are so many factors—’

‘Of course.’ They glanced at Boris and moved back farther from the fence. He could not hear the rest of what they were saying.

Presently the Roogs put their map away and went off down the path.

Boris walked over to the fence and sniffed at the boards. He smelled the sickly, rotten odor of Roogs and the hair stood up on his back.

That night when Alf Cardossi came home the dog was standing at the gate, looking up the walk. Alf opened the gate and went into the yard.

‘How are you?’ he said, thumping the dog’s side. ‘You stopped worrying? Seems like you been nervous of late. You didn’t used to be that way.’

Boris whined, looking intently up into the man’s face.

‘You a good dog, Boris,’ Alf said. ‘You pretty big, too, for a dog. You don’t remember long ago how you used to be only a little bit of a puppy.’

Boris leaned against the man’s leg.

‘You a good dog,’ Alf murmured. ‘I sure wish I knew what is on your mind.’

He went inside the house. Mrs Cardossi was setting the table for dinner. Alf went into the living room and took his coat and hat off. He set his lunch pail down on the sideboard and came back into the kitchen.

‘What’s the matter?’ Mrs Cardossi said.

‘That dog got to stop making all that noise, barking. The neighbors going to complain to the police again.’

‘I hope we don’t have to give him to your brother,’ Mrs Cardossi said, folding her arms. ‘But he sure goes crazy, especially on Friday morning, when the garbage men come.’

‘Maybe he’ll calm down,’ Alf said. He lit his pipe and smoked solemnly. ‘He didn’t used to be that way. Maybe he’ll get better, like he was.’

‘We’ll see,’ Mrs Cardossi said.

The sun rose up, cold and ominous. Mist hung over all the trees and in the low places.

It was Friday morning.

The black dog lay under the porch, listening, his eyes wide and staring. His coat was stiff with hoarfrost and the breath from his nostrils made clouds of steam in the thin air. Suddenly he turned his head and leaped up.

From far off, a long way away, a faint sound came, a kind of crashing sound.

‘Roog!’ Boris cried, looking around. He hurried to the gate and stood up, his paws on top of the fence.

In the distance the sound came again, louder now, not as far away as before. It was a crashing, clanging sound, as if something were being rolled back, as if a great door were being opened.

‘Roog!’ Boris cried. He stared up anxiously at the darkened windows above him. Nothing stirred, nothing.

And along the street the Roogs came. The Roogs and their truck moved along, bouncing against the rough stones, crashing and whirring.

‘Roog!’ Boris cried, and he leaped, his eyes blazing. Then he became more calm. He settled himself down on the ground and waited, listening.

Out in front the Roogs stopped their truck. He could hear them opening the doors, stepping down onto the sidewalk. Boris ran around in a little circle. He whined, and his muzzle turned once again toward the house.

Inside the warm, dark bedroom, Mr Cardossi sat up a little in bed and squinted at the clock.

‘That damn dog,’ he muttered. ‘That damn dog.’ He turned his face toward the pillow and closed his eyes.

The Roogs were coming down the path, now. The first Roog pushed against the gate and the gate opened. The Roogs came into the yard. The dog backed away from them.

‘Roog! Roog!’ he cried. The horrid, bitter smell of Roogs came to his nose, and he turned away.

‘The offering urn,’ the first Roog said. ‘It is full, I think.’ He smiled at the rigid, angry dog. ‘How very good of you,’ he said.

The Roogs came toward the metal can, and one of them took the lid from it.

‘Roog! Roog!’ Boris cried, huddled against the bottom of the porch steps. His body shook with horror. The Roogs were lifting up the big metal can, turning it on its side. The contents poured out onto the ground, and the Roogs scooped the sacks of bulging, splitting paper together, catching at the orange peels and fragments, the bits of toast and egg shells.

One of the Roogs popped an egg shell into his mouth. His teeth crunched the egg shell.

‘Roog!’ Boris cried hopelessly, almost to himself. The Roogs were almost finished with their work of gathering up the offering. They stopped for a moment, looking at Boris.

Then, slowly, silently, the Roogs looked up, up the side of the house, along the stucco, to the window, with its brown shade pulled tightly down.

‘ROOG!’ Boris screamed, and he came toward them, dancing with fury and dismay. Reluctantly, the Roogs turned away from the window. They went out through the gate, closing it behind them.

‘Look at him,’ the last Roog said with contempt, pulling his corner of the blanket up on his shoulder. Boris strained against the fence, his mouth open, snapping wildly. The biggest Roog began to wave his arms furiously and Boris retreated. He settled down at the bottom of the porch steps, his mouth still open, and from the depths of him an unhappy, terrible moan issued forth, a wail of misery and despair.

‘Come on,’ the other Roog said to the lingering Roog at the fence.

They walked up the path.

‘Well, except for these little places around the Guardians, this area is well cleared,’ the biggest Roog said. ‘I’ll be glad when this particular Guardian is done. He certainly causes us a lot of trouble.’

‘Don’t be impatient,’ one of the Roogs said. He grinned. ‘Our truck is full enough as it is. Let’s leave something for next week.’

All the Roogs laughed.

They went on up the path, carrying the offering in the dirty, sagging blanket.

THE LITTLE MOVEMENT

The man was sitting on the sidewalk, holding the box shut with his hands. Impatiently the lid of the box moved, straining up against his fingers.

‘All right,’ the man murmured. Sweat rolled down his face, damp, heavy sweat. He opened the box slowly, holding his fingers over the opening. From inside a metallic drumming came, a low insistent vibration, rising frantically as the sunlight filtered into the box.

A small head appeared, round and shiny, and then another. More heads jerked into view, peering, craning to see. ‘I’m first,’ one head shrilled. There was a momentary squabble, then quick agreement.

The man sitting on the sidewalk lifted out the little metal figure with trembling hands. He put it down on the sidewalk and began to wind it awkwardly, thick-fingered. It was a brightly painted soldier with helmet and gun, standing at attention. As the man turned the key the little soldier’s arms went up and down. It struggled eagerly.

Along the sidewalk two women were coming, talking together. They glanced down curiously at the man sitting on the sidewalk, at the box and the shiny figure in the man’s hands.

‘Fifty cents,’ the man muttered. ‘Get your child something to—’

‘Wait!’ a faint metallic voice came. ‘Not them!’

The man broke off abruptly. The two women looked at each other and then at the man and the little metal figure. They went hurriedly on.

The little soldier gazed up and down the street, at the cars, the shoppers. Suddenly it trembled, rasping in a low, eager voice.

The man swallowed. ‘Not the kid,’ he said thickly. He tried to hold onto the figure, but metal fingers dug quickly into his hand. He gasped.

‘Tell them to stop!’ the figure shrilled. ‘Make them stop!’ The metal figure pulled away and clicked across the sidewalk, its legs still and rigid.

The boy and his father slowed to a stop, looking down at it with interest. The sitting man smiled feebly; he watched the figure approach them, turning from side to side, its arms going up and down.

‘Get something for your boy. An exciting playmate. Keep him company.’

The father grinned, watching the figure coming up to his shoe. The little soldier bumped into the shoe. It wheezed and clicked. It stopped moving.

‘Wind it up!’ the boy cried.

His father picked up the figure. ‘How much?’

‘Fifty cents.’ The salesman rose unsteadily, clutching the box against him. ‘Keep him company. Amuse him.’

The father turned the figure over. ‘You sure you want it, Bobby?’

‘Sure! Wind it up!’ Bobby reached for the little soldier. ‘Make it go!’

‘I’ll buy it,’ the father said. He reached into his pocket and handed the man a dollar bill.

Clumsily, staring away, the salesman made change.

The situation was excellent.

The little figure lay quietly, thinking everything over. All circumstances had conspired to bring about optimum solution. The Child might not have wanted to stop, or the Adult might not have had any money. Many things might have gone wrong; it was awful even to think about them. But everything had been perfect.

The little figure gazed up in pleasure, where it lay in the back of the car. It had correctly interpreted certain signs: the Adults were in control, and so the Adults had money. They had power, but their power made it difficult to get to them. Their power, and their size. With the Children it was different. They were small, and it was easier to talk to them. They accepted everything they heard, and they did what they were told. Or so it was said at the factory.

The little metal figure lay, lost in dreamy, delicious thoughts.

The boy’s heart was beating quickly. He ran upstairs and pushed the door open. After he had closed the door carefully he went to the bed and sat down. He looked down at what he held in his hands.

‘What’s your name?’ he said. ‘What are you called?’

The metal figure did not answer.

‘I’ll introduce you around. You must get to know everybody. You’ll like it here.’

Bobby laid the figure down on the bed. He ran to the closet and dragged out a bulging carton of toys.

‘This is Bonzo,’ he said. He held up a pale stuffed rabbit. ‘And Fred.’ He turned the rubber pig around for the soldier to see. ‘And Teddo, of course. This is Teddo.’

He carried Teddo to the bed and laid him beside the soldier. Teddo lay silent, gazing up at the ceiling with glassy eyes. Teddo was a brown bear, with wisps of straw poking out of his joints.

‘And what shall we call you?’ Bobby said. ‘I think we should have a council and decide.’ He paused, considering. ‘I’ll wind you up so we can all see how you work.’

He began to wind the figure carefully, turning it over on its face. When the key was tight he bent down and set the figure on the floor.

‘Go on,’ Bobby said. The metal figure stood still. Then it began to whirr and click. Across the floor it went, walking with stiff jerks. It changed directions suddenly and headed toward the door. At the door it stopped. Then it turned to some building blocks lying about and began to push them into a heap.

Bobby watched with interest. The little figure struggled with the blocks, piling them into a pyramid. At last it climbed up onto the blocks and turned the key in the lock.

Bobby scratched his head, puzzled. ‘Why did you do that?’ he said. The figure climbed back down and came across the room toward Bobby, clicking and whirring. Bobby and the stuffed animals regarded it with surprise and wonder. The figure reached the bed and halted.

‘Lift me up!’ it cried impatiently, in its thin, metallic voice. ‘Hurry up! Don’t just sit there!’

Bobby’s eyes grew large. He stared, blinking. The stuffed animals said nothing.

‘Come on!’ the little soldier shouted.

Bobby reached down. The soldier seized his hand tightly. Bobby cried out.

‘Be still,’ the soldier commanded. ‘Lift me up to the bed. I have things to discuss with you, things of great importance.’

Bobby put it down on the bed beside him. The room was silent, except for the faint whirring of the metal figure.

‘This is a nice room,’ the soldier said presently. ‘A very nice room.’

Bobby drew back a little on the bed.

‘What’s the matter?’ the soldier said sharply, turning its head and staring up.

‘Nothing.’

‘What is it?’ The little figure peered at him. ‘You’re not afraid of me, are you?’

Bobby shifted uncomfortably.

‘Afraid of me?’ The soldier laughed. ‘I’m only a little metal man, only six inches high.’ It laughed again and again. It ceased abruptly. ‘Listen. I’m going to live here with you for a while. I won’t hurt you; you can count on that. I’m a friend—a good friend.’

It peered up a little anxiously. ‘But I want you to do things for me. You won’t mind doing things, will you? Tell me: how many are there of them in your family?’

Bobby hesitated.

‘Come, how many of them? Adults.’

‘Three … Daddy, and Mother, and Foxie.’

‘Foxie? Who is that?’

‘My grandmother.’

‘Three of them.’ The figure nodded. ‘I see. Only three. But others come from time to time? Other Adults visit this house?’

Bobby nodded.

‘Three. That’s not too many. Three are not so much of a problem.

According to the factory—’

It broke off. ‘Good. Listen to me. I don’t want you to say anything to them about me. I’m your friend, your secret friend. They won’t be interested in hearing about me. I’m not going to hurt you, remember. You have nothing to fear. I’m going to live right here, with you.’

It watched the boy intently, lingering over the last words.

‘I’m going to be a sort of private teacher. I’m going to teach you things, things to do, things to say. Just like a tutor should. Will you like that?’

Silence.

‘Of course you’ll like it. We could even begin now. Perhaps you want to know the proper way to address me. Do you want to learn that?’

‘Address you?’ Bobby stared down.

‘You are to call me …’ The figure paused, hesitating. It drew itself together, proudly. ‘You are to call me—My Lord.’

Bobby leaped up, his hands to his face.

‘My Lord,’ the figure said relentlessly. ‘My Lord. You don’t really need to start now. I’m tired.’ The figure sagged. ‘I’m almost run down. Please wind me up again in about an hour.’

The figure began to stiffen. It gazed up at the boy. ‘In an hour. Will you wind me tight? You will, won’t you?’

Its voice trailed off into silence.

Bobby nodded slowly. ‘All right,’ he murmured. ‘All right.’

It was Tuesday. The window was open, and warm sunlight came drifting into the room. Bobby was away at school; the house was silent and empty. The stuffed animals were back in the closet.

My Lord lay on the dresser, propped up, looking out the window, resting contentedly.

There came a faint humming sound. Something small flew suddenly into the room. The small object circled a few times and then came slowly to rest on the white cloth of the dresser-top, beside the metal soldier. It was a tiny toy airplane.

‘How is it going?’ the airplane said. ‘Is everything all right so far?’

‘Yes,’ My Lord said. ‘And the others?’

‘Not so good. Only a handful of them managed to reach Children.’

The soldier gasped in pain.

‘The largest group fell into the hands of Adults. As you know, that is not satisfactory. It is very difficult to control Adults. They break away, or they wait until the spring is unwound—’

‘I know.’ My Lord nodded glumly.

‘The news will most certainly continue to be bad. We must be prepared for it.’

‘There’s more. Tell me!’

‘Frankly, about half of them have already been destroyed, stepped on by Adults. A dog is said to have broken up one. There’s no doubt of it: our only hope is through Children. We must succeed there, if at all.’

The little soldier nodded. The messenger was right, of course. They had never considered that a direct attack against the ruling race, the Adults, would win. Their size, their power, their enormous stride would protect them. The toy vender was a good example. He had tried to break away many times, tried to fool them and get loose. Part of the group had to be wound at all times to watch him, and there was that frightening day when he failed to wind them tight, hoping that—

‘You’re giving the Child instructions?’ the airplane asked. ‘You’re preparing him?’

‘Yes. He understands that I’m going to be here. Children seem to be like that. As a subject race they have been taught to accept; it’s all they can do. I am another teacher, invading his life, giving him orders. Another voice, telling him that—’

‘You’ve started the second phase?’

‘So soon?’ My Lord was amazed. ‘Why? Is it necessary, so quickly?’

‘The factory is becoming anxious. Most of the group has been destroyed, as I said.’

‘I know.’ My Lord nodded absently. ‘We expected it, we planned with realism, knowing the chances.’ It strode back and forth on the dresser-top. ‘Naturally, many would fall into their hands, the Adults. The Adults are everywhere, in all key positions, important stations. It’s the psychology of the ruling race to control each phase of social life. But as long as those who reach Children survive—’

‘You were not supposed to know, but outside of yourself, there’s only three left. Just three.’

‘Three?’ My Lord stared.

‘Even those who reached Children have been destroyed right and left. The situation is tragic. That’s why they want you to get started with the second phase.’

My Lord clenched its fists, its features locked in iron horror. Only three left … What hopes they had entertained for this band, venturing out, so little, so dependent on the weather—and on being wound up tight. If only they were larger! The Adults were so huge.

But the Children. What had gone wrong? What had happened to their one chance, their one fragile hope?

‘How did it happen? What occurred?’

‘No one knows. The factory is in a turmoil. And now they’re running short of materials. Some of the machines have broken down and nobody knows how to run them.’ The airplane coasted toward the edge of the dresser. ‘I must be getting back. I’ll report later to see how you’re getting on.’

The airplane flew up into the air and out through the open window. My Lord watched it, dazed.

What could have happened? They had been so certain about the Children. It was all planned—

It meditated.

Evening. The boy sat at the table, staring absently at his geography book. He shifted unhappily, turning the pages. At last he closed the book. He slid from his chair and went to the closet. He was reaching into the closet for the bulging carton when a voice came drifting to him from the dresser-top.

‘Later. You can play with them later. I must discuss something with you.’

The boy turned back to the table, his face listless and tired. He nodded, sinking down against the table, his head on his arms.

‘You’re not asleep, are you?’ My Lord said.

‘No.’

‘Then listen. Tomorrow when you leave school I want you to go to a certain address. It’s not far from the school. It’s a toy store. Perhaps you know it. Don’s Toyland.’

‘I haven’t any money.’

‘It doesn’t matter. This has all been arranged for long in advance. Go to Toyland and say to the man: “I was told to come for the package.” Can you remember that? “I was told to come for the package.”’

‘What’s in the package?’

‘Some tools, and some toys for you. To go along with me.’ The metal figure rubbed its hands together. ‘Nice modern toys, two toy tanks and a machine gun. And some spare parts for—’

There were footsteps on the stairs outside.

‘Don’t forget,’ My Lord said nervously. ‘You’ll do it? This phase of the plan is extremely important.’

It wrung its hands together in anxiety.

The boy brushed the last strands of hair into place. He put his cap on and picked up his school books. Outside, the morning was gray and dismal. Rain fell, slowly, soundlessly.

Suddenly the boy set his books down again. He went to the closet and reached inside. His fingers closed over Teddo’s leg, and he drew him out.

The boy sat on the bed, holding Teddo against his cheek. For a long time he sat with the stuffed bear, oblivious to everything else.

Abruptly he looked toward the dresser. My Lord was lying outstretched, silent. Bobby went hurriedly back to the closet and laid Teddo into the carton. He crossed the room to the door. As he opened the door the little metal figure on the dresser stirred.

‘Remember Don’s Toyland …’

The door closed. My Lord heard the Child going heavily down the stairs, clumping unhappily. My Lord exulted. It was working out all right. Bobby wouldn’t want to do it, but he would. And once the tools and parts and weapons were safely inside there wouldn’t be any chance of failure.

Perhaps they would capture a second factory. Or better yet: build dies and machines themselves to turn out larger Lords. Yes, if only they could be larger, just a little larger. They were so small, so very tiny, only a few inches high. Would the Movement fail, pass away, because they were too tiny, too fragile?

But with tanks and guns! Yet, of all the packages so carefully secreted in the toyshop, this would be the only one, the only one to be—

Something moved.

My Lord turned quickly. From the closet Teddo came, lumbering slowly.

‘Bonzo,’ he said. ‘Bonzo, go over by the window. I think it came in that way, if I’m not mistaken.’

The stuffed rabbit reached the window-sill in one skip. He huddled, gazing outside. ‘Nothing yet.’

‘Good.’ Teddo moved toward the dresser. He looked up. ‘Little Lord, please come down. You’ve been up there much too long.’

My Lord stared. Fred, the rubber pig, was coming out of the closet. Puffing, he reached the dresser. ‘I’ll go up and get it,’ he said. ‘I don’t think it will come down by itself. We’ll have to help it.’

‘What are you doing?’ My Lord cried. The rubber pig was settling himself on his haunches, his ears down flat against his head. ‘What’s happening?’

Fred leaped. And at the same time Teddo began to climb swiftly, catching onto the handles of the dresser. Expertly, he gained the top. My Lord was edging toward the wall, glancing down at the floor, far below.

‘So this is what happened to the others,’ it murmured. ‘I understand. An Organization, waiting for us. Then everything is known.’

It leaped.

When they had gathered up the pieces and had got them under the carpet, Teddo said:

‘That part was easy. Let’s hope the rest won’t be any harder.’

‘What do you mean?’ Fred said.

‘The package of toys. The tanks and guns.’

‘Oh, we can handle them. Remember how we helped next door when that first little Lord, the first one we ever encountered—’

Teddo laughed. ‘It did put up quite a fight. It was tougher than this one. But we had the panda bears from across the way.’

‘We’ll do it again,’ Fred said. ‘I’m getting so I rather enjoy it.’

‘Me, too,’ Bonzo said from the window.