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    _When last heard from, Captain Sheldon was preparing to return to
    Japan--on the not unreasonable claim that the Island Empire was the
    only place where he was able to write undisturbed. Considering this
    two-time Air Force officer's output, however--ranging from
    upper-bracket love and auto-racing tales to a brilliant new novel,
    TROUBLING OF A STAR, that has won major bookclub distribution, and
    including scores of fine science fiction stories--we wonder whether
    this peripatetic author may not be planning to flood all markets.
    Not a bad idea._


    this
      is
    klon
 calling

 _by ... Walt Sheldon_


 One sure way to live dangerously is to become a practical joker.
 Should you have any doubts about it you might ask Professor Dane.


You didn't have to be a potential Einstein to take Professor Dane's
course. For one thing you got a few easy credits and for another you
were entertained--without letup--by Professor Lyman Dane's celebrated
wit.

Take the time he was illustrating terminal velocity. He jumped out of
the open third story window, horrifying the class, until they learned
he'd rigged a canvas life net on the floor below. Or the time he let a
mouse loose among the female students to illustrate chain reaction. Or
the afternoon he played boogie-woogie on the Huyler Memorial Carillon.

"The absorption of knowledge," he used to say, "increases in direct
proportion to the sense of humor--the belly laugh, measured in decibels,
being constant."

He could say a thing like that and make it sound funnier than anybody
else could. It was partly the way he looked--tall and mournful and sly,
with wispy hair that had once been blond, drooping like a tired willow
over his forehead.

But for all his vaudeville tactics he was by no means a second-rate
scientist. Which was why he had gained his position at Southwestern
Tech in the first place. He refused to work directly for the government
(no sense of humor, just initials, he said) but this way he could at
least be called upon for consultation at the nearby Air Force
Development Center, just at the foot of the mountains to the west.

Now the AFDC, as it was called, didn't advertise what sort of thing it
was developing--but everybody knew that Lyman Dane was an expert on
reactive propulsion of rocket motors. He could tell you--and frequently
would without being asked--exactly what mass ratio, nozzle diameter and
propulsive velocity would be needed for the first trip to the Moon. He
knew how many hours a round trip would take, both for landing there or
merely circling the body of the satellite.

He had the courses to Mars and Venus thoroughly charted--but considered
a trip to Jupiter somewhat impractical. So, what with Dane's presence
and the mysterious white streaks that so often shot up into the sky like
fuzzy yarn from the AFDC base, it wasn't hard to guess what was going
on.

Nevertheless Professor Dane was surprised and somewhat offended when the
young man from the Federal Bureau of Investigation came to call on him
one afternoon. And the worst part of it was that the young man didn't
have much sense of humor.

"As you know, sir," the young man said, "we've been sighting and
tracking these unidentified objects in the sky. You must have read about
those they chased near Atlanta yesterday."

"Ah," said Professor Dane. "Martian through Georgia, no doubt."

The young man stared at him blankly. He seemed to Professor Dane one of
the most nondescript young men his eyes had ever beheld. He had a
clean-shaven, pleasant face without exactly being handsome and his eyes
were sincere and mild. He wore a neat gray tropical worsted suit and an
unobtrusive tie. He was about thirty. Professor Dane supposed that all
this was an advantage in his profession.

The young man went on--earnestly. "Without forming any theories about
these things we've been asked to take certain precautions. I don't know
whether they suspect a hostile power, or what. That's not my job. At any
rate I've been given the responsibility of instituting certain security
techniques. You do after all, sir, have access to and knowledge of
considerable classified information."

This lad reminded him somewhat of his old friend and colleague, Dr.
Fincher, out in California. Wally Fincher was a well-known physicist
now, though how anyone ever managed to struggle through his dry
ponderous books Dane didn't know. Probably he had gained most of his
fame through his part in those experiments where they bounced radar
blips off the moon, Dane thought.

Wally always talked in long unnecessary words. He never merely "went"
when he could "proceed," he never simply "used" when it was possible to
"utilize," he didn't "get things done"--he "implemented" them. Professor
Dane made a mental note to put in a long distance call to Wally that
evening and tweak his nose a bit. Maybe Dane could pretend he was the
FBI--disguise his voice and interrogate Wally, as though he were
investigating him. He chuckled a little at the idea. Then he realized
that the young man had been talking and he hadn't been listening.

"... so among other things, sir, we thought it best to monitor your
official mail and hope you won't mind."

"What?" said Dane, raising his eyebrows.

"_And_ your phone. You'll hear a couple of clicks whenever you use it.
We're recording what's said over it--though I assure you all records
obtained will be kept in strictest confidence."

       *       *       *       *       *

Dane acquiesced. The young man finally managed to make it clear that all
this surveillance would have to be with Dane's permission and the
professor, annoyed though he was, didn't want to appear uncooperative.
He couldn't resist, however, giving the young man the wrong hat when he
went out and being delighted when the young man came back for the right
one five minutes later. He was glad to see that something could fluster
him.

But that wasn't really enough. Professor Dane had been annoyed, and he
needed to express himself further--by means of the joke, which was his
art--in order to regain some measure of his equilibrium and
self-respect.

Inspiration visited him as he was climbing the stairs to his bedroom at
ten-thirty that evening. He stopped short, thought a minute, then began
to chuckle. He turned and went downstairs again, stepped to the phone.
Professor Dane lived alone and no one else would be able to share his
planned joke--but this didn't matter.

He had been privately enjoying his pranks ever since, as a frail boy
with an unreasonable and dominating male parent, he had discovered that
they were one way in which he could compete with hardier souls, at times
even surpass them. Never mind the audience, he thought. The jest was the
thing!

It was an hour earlier in Los Angeles and Dr. Wallace Fincher was at
home. Dane disguised his voice--he did a lot of University Theater work
and this kind of thing came to him easily. He listened first to Dr.
Fincher's arid, humorless, "Hello. Dr. Fincher speaking." Then he heard
the preliminary clicking, just as the FBI man had predicted.

"Thandor," said Professor Dane, "this is Klon calling."

"I beg your pardon?" said Doctor Fincher.

"The jig's up," said Professor Dane. "Captain Ixl in propul-cruiser
nine-nine-seven-three will never be able to break through. The
Earthlings have set up a close watch--they're suspicious."

"Who is this?" Doctor Fincher sounded startled. "Who the devil is this
calling?"

Dane could barely keep his laughter from breaking into his voice.
"Thandor, we can come to no conclusion but that the Terrestrials are
definitely hostile. We should have expected that from their primitive
stage of development. They have orders to shoot any of our
propul-cruisers they can catch. I suggest that we withdraw all ships of
the Franistan class immediately from their free orbits and send them on
a standard Keplerian course to the home planet for further
consultation."

"_Is this some kind of joke?_" Fincher sounded as if he were almost
panicky.

"Furthermore," said Dane, "I recommend that we withdraw all agents from
Earth. We can't conceal our superior mental development and advanced
technology much longer.

"Someone's bound to catch on pretty soon. I was against this plan in the
Galactic Council in the first place, you'll remember. Well, farewell,
Thandor! I'll be seeing you soon in space!"

And Professor Dane hung up before he exploded with laughter.

       *       *       *       *       *

He laughed until the tears came to his eyes. He held his stomach with
both hands. He was weak. He supported himself on the stair railing and
for minutes was unable to take the first tread. With his lively
scientist's imagination he could picture the completely bewildered look
on the young FBI man's face when he listened to this conversation on the
tape recorder or whatever it was they used.

He was certainly going to have to try to get that recording from them.
Play it back for Fincher some time--Lordy, Fincher would have apoplexy
every time he heard it!

He finally gained enough strength to climb the stairs. He went into his
bedroom, still chuckling weakly, still wiping the tears from his eyes,
stomach muscles still aching.

Dr. Wallace Fincher stood there by his bed. It _was_ Fincher--the same
stocky round-faced man with the steel-rimmed glasses he had always
known. It was either Fincher or the darndest hallucination he had
ever ...

"I'm sorry, Lyman," said Dr. Fincher in a kindly but impersonal voice.
"You were getting a trifle too close. I'm afraid you have left me no
choice."

He pointed a little silvery tube at Professor Dane and there was a soft
buzzing and the smell of ozone and Professor Dane was no longer in the
room--or anywhere else.

Dr. Fincher sighed, adjusted his glasses and faded into the dimension
that would take him back to Los Angeles and his interrupted work.




Transcriber's Note:

    This etext was produced from _Fantastic Universe_ Aug-Sept 1953.
    Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
    copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
    typographical errors have been corrected without note.