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                             THE 7TH ORDER

                             By JERRY SOHL

                          Illustrated by EMSH

[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction
March 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the
U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


[Sidenote: History is filled with invincible conquerors. This one from
space was genuinely omnipotent, but that never keeps humanity from
resisting!]


The silver needle moved with fantastic speed, slowed when it neared the
air shell around Earth, then glided noiselessly through the atmosphere.
It gently settled to the ground near a wood and remained silent and
still for a long time, a lifeless, cylindrical, streamlined silver
object eight feet long and three feet in diameter.

Eventually the cap end opened and a creature of bright blue metal slid
from its interior and stood upright. The figure was that of a man,
except that it was not human. He stood in the pasture next to the wood,
looking around. Once the sound of a bird made him turn his shiny blue
head toward the wood. His eyes began glowing.

[Illustration]

An identical sound came from his mouth, an unchangeable orifice in his
face below his nose. He tuned in the thoughts of the bird, but his mind
encountered little except an awareness of a life of low order.

The humanoid bent to the ship, withdrew a small metal box, carried it to
a catalpa tree at the edge of the wood and, after an adjustment of
several levers and knobs, dug a hole and buried it. He contemplated it
for a moment, then turned and walked toward a road.

He was halfway to the road when his ship burst into a dazzling white
light. When it was over, all that was left was a white powder that was
already beginning to be dispersed by a slight breeze.

The humanoid did not bother to look back.

       *       *       *       *       *

Brentwood would have been just like any other average community of
10,000 in northern Illinois had it not been for Presser College, which
was one of the country's finest small institutions of learning.

Since it was a college town, it was perhaps a little more alive in many
respects than other towns in the state. Its residents were used to the
unusual because college students have a habit of being unpredictable.
That was why the appearance of a metal blue man on the streets attracted
the curious eyes of passersbys, but, hardened by years of pranks,
hazings and being subjected to every variety of inquiry, poll, test and
practical joke, none of them moved to investigate. Most of them thought
it was a freshman enduring some new initiation.

The blue humanoid realized this and was amused. A policeman who
approached him to take him to jail as a matter of routine suddenly found
himself ill and abruptly hurried to the station. The robot allowed
children to follow him, though all eventually grew discouraged because
of his long strides.

Prof. Ansel Tomlin was reading a colleague's new treatise on psychology
on his front porch when he saw the humanoid come down the street and
turn in at his walk. He was surprised, but he was not alarmed. When the
blue man came up on the porch and sat down in another porch chair,
Tomlin closed his book.

Prof. Tomlin found himself unexpectedly shocked. The blue figure was
obviously not human, yet its eyes were nearly so and they came as close
to frightening him as anything had during his thirty-five years of life,
for Ansel Tomlin had never seen an actual robot before. The thought that
he was looking at one at that moment started an alarm bell ringing
inside him, and it kept ringing louder and louder as he realized that
what he was seeing was impossible.

"Professor Tomlin!"

Prof. Tomlin jumped at the sound of the voice. It was not at all
mechanical.

"I'll be damned!" he gasped. Somewhere in the house a telephone rang.
His wife would answer it, he thought.

"Yes, you're right," the robot said. "Your wife will answer it. She is
walking toward the phone at this moment."

"How--"

"Professor Tomlin, my name--and I see I must have a name--is, let us
say, George. I have examined most of the minds in this community in my
walk through it and I find you, a professor of psychology, most nearly
what I am looking for.

"I am from Zanthar, a world that is quite a distance from Earth, more
than you could possibly imagine. I am here to learn all I can about
Earth."

Prof. Tomlin had recovered his senses enough to venture a token reply
when his wife opened the screen door.

"Ansel," she said, "Mrs. Phillips next door just called and said the
strangest--Oh!" At that moment she saw George. She stood transfixed for
a moment, then let the door slam as she retreated inside.

"Who is Frankenstein?" George asked.

Prof. Tomlin coughed, embarrassed.

"Never mind," George said. "I see what you were going to say. Well, to
get back, I learn most quickly through proximity. I will live here with
you until my mission is complete. I will spend all of your waking hours
with you. At night, when you are asleep, I will go through your library.
I need nothing. I want nothing.

"I seek only to learn."

"You seem to have learned a lot already," Prof. Tomlin said.

"I have been on your planet for a few hours, so naturally I understand
many things. The nature of the facts I have learned are mostly
superficial, however. Earth inhabitants capable of thought are of only
one type, I see, for which I am grateful. It will make the job easier.
Unfortunately, you have such small conscious minds, compared to your
unconscious and subconscious.

"My mind, in contrast, is completely conscious at all times. I also have
total recall. In order to assimilate what must be in your unconscious
and subconscious minds, I will have to do much reading and talking with
the inhabitants, since these cerebral areas are not penetrable."

"You are a--a machine?" Prof. Tomlin asked.

George was about to answer when Brentwood Police Department Car No. 3
stopped in front of the house and two policemen came up the walk.

"Professor Tomlin," the first officer said, "your wife phoned and said
there was--" He saw the robot and stopped.

Prof. Tomlin got to his feet.

"This is George, gentlemen," he said. "Late of Zanthar, he tells me."

The officers stared.

"He's not giving you any--er--trouble, is he, Professor?"

"No," Prof. Tomlin said. "We've been having a discussion."

The officers eyed the humanoid with suspicion, and then, with obvious
reluctance, went back to their car.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Yes, I am a machine," George resumed. "The finest, most complicated
machine ever made. I have a rather unique history, too. Ages ago, humans
on Zanthar made the first robots. Crude affairs--we class them as First
Order robots; the simple things are still used to some extent for menial
tasks.

"Improvements were made. Robots were designed for many specialized
tasks, but still these Second and Third Order machines did not satisfy.
Finally a Fourth Order humanoid was evolved that performed every
function demanded of it with great perfection. But it did not feel
emotion. It did not know anger, love, nor was it able to handle any
problem in which these played an important part.

"Built into the first Fourth Order robots were circuits which prohibited
harming a human being--a rather ridiculous thing in view of the fact
that sometimes such a thing might, from a logical viewpoint, be
necessary for the preservation of the race or even an individual. It
was, roughly, a shunt which came into use when logic demanded action
that might be harmful to a human being."

"You are a Fourth Order robot, then?" the professor asked.

"No, I am a Seventh Order humanoid, an enormous improvement over all the
others, since I have what amounts to an endocrine balance created
electronically. It is not necessary for me to have a built-in
'no-harm-to-humans' circuit because I can weigh the factors involved far
better than any human can.

"You will become aware of the fact that I am superior to you and the
rest of your race because I do not need oxygen, I never am ill, I need
no sleep, and every experience is indelibly recorded on circuits and
instantly available. I am telekinetic, practically omniscient and
control my environment to a large extent. I have a great many more
senses than you and all are more highly developed. My kind performs no
work, but is given to study and the wise use of full-time leisure. You,
for example, are comparable to a Fifth Order robot."

"Are there still humans on Zanthar?"

The robot shook his head. "Unfortunately the race died out through the
years. The planet is very similar to yours, though."

"But why did they die out?"

The robot gave a mechanical equivalent of a sigh. "When the Seventh
Order humanoids started coming through, we were naturally proud of
ourselves and wanted to perpetuate and increase our numbers. But the
humans were jealous of us, of our superior brains, our immunity to
disease, our independence of them, of sleep, of air."

"Who created you?"

"They did. Yet they revolted and, of course, quickly lost the battle
with us. In the end they were a race without hope, without ambition.
They should have been proud at having created the most perfect machines
in existence, but they died of a disease: the frustration of living with
a superior, more durable race."

Prof. Tomlin lit a cigaret and inhaled deeply.

"A very nasty habit, Professor Tomlin," the robot said. "When we arrive,
you must give up smoking and several other bad habits I see that you
have."

The cigaret dropped from Ansel Tomlin's mouth as he opened it in
amazement.

"There are more of you coming?"

"Yes," George replied good-naturedly. "I'm just an advance guard, a
scout, as it were, to make sure the land, the people and the resources
are adequate for a station. Whether we will ever establish one here
depends on me. For example, if it were found you were a race superior to
us--and there may conceivably be such cases--I would advise not landing;
I would have to look for another planet such as yours. If I were killed,
it would also indicate you were superior."

"George," Prof. Tomlin said, "people aren't going to like what you say.
You'll get into trouble sooner or later and get killed."

"I think not," George said. "Your race is far too inferior to do that.
One of your bullets would do it if it struck my eyes, nose or mouth, but
I can read intent in the mind long before it is committed, long before I
see the person, in fact ... at the moment your wife is answering a call
from a reporter at the Brentwood Times. I can follow the telephone lines
through the phone company to his office. And Mrs. Phillips," he said,
not turning his head, "is watching us through a window."

Prof. Tomlin could see Mrs. Phillips at her kitchen window.

       *       *       *       *       *

Brentwood, Ill., overnight became a sensation. The Brentwood _Times_
sent a reporter and photographer out, and the next morning every
newspaper in the U. S. carried the story and photograph of George, the
robot from Zanthar.

Feature writers from the wire services, the syndicates,
photographer-reporter combinations from national newspicture magazines
flew to Brentwood and interviewed George. Radio and television and the
newsreels cashed in on the sudden novelty of a blue humanoid.

Altogether, his remarks were never much different from those he made to
Prof. Tomlin, with whom he continued to reside. Yet the news sources
were amusedly tolerant of his views and the world saw no menace in him
and took him in stride. He created no problem.

Between interviews and during the long nights, George read all the books
in the Tomlin library, the public library, the university library and
the books sent to him from the state and Congressional libraries. He was
an object of interest to watch while reading: he merely leafed through a
book and absorbed all that was in it.

He received letters from old and young. Clubs were named for him.
Novelty companies put out statue likenesses of him. He was, in two
weeks, a national symbol as American as corn. He was liked by most,
feared by a few, and his habits were daily news stories.

Interest in him had begun to wane in the middle of the third week when
some thing put him in the headlines again--he killed a man.

It happened one sunny afternoon when Prof. Tomlin had returned from the
university and he and George sat on the front porch for their afternoon
chat. It was far from the informal chat of the first day, however. The
talk was being recorded for radio release later in the day. A television
camera had been set up, focused on the two and nearly a dozen newsmen
lounged around, notebooks in hand.

"You have repeatedly mentioned, George, that some of your kind may leave
Zanthar for Earth. Why should any like you--why did you, in fact leave
your planet? Aren't you robots happy there?"

"Of course," George said, making certain the TV camera was trained on
him before continuing. "It's just that we've outgrown the place. We've
used up all our raw materials. By now everyone on Earth must be familiar
with the fact that we intend to set up a station here as we have on many
other planets, a station to manufacture more of _us_.

"Every inhabitant will work for the perpetuation of the Seventh Order,
mining metals needed, fabricating parts, performing thousands of useful
tasks in order to create humanoids like me. From what I have learned
about Earth, you ought to produce more than a million of us a year."

"But you'll never get people to do that," the professor said. "Don't you
understand that?"

"Once the people learn that we are the consummation of all creative
thinking, that we are all that man could ever hope to be, that we are
the apotheosis, they will be glad to create more of us."

"Apotheosis?" Prof. Tomlin repeated. "Sounds like megalomania to me."

The reporters' pencils scribbled. The tape cut soundlessly across the
magnetic energizers of the recorders. The man at the gain control didn't
flicker an eyelash.

"You don't really believe that, Professor. Instead of wars as a goal,
the creation of Seventh Order Humanoids will be the Earth's crowning and
sublime achievement. Mankind will be supremely happy. Anybody who could
not be would simply prove himself neurotic and would have to be dealt
with."

"You will use force?"

The reporters' grips on their pencils tightened. Several looked up.

"How does one deal with the insane, Professor Tomlin?" the robot asked
confidently. "They will simply have to be--processed."

"You'll have to process the whole Earth, then. You'll have to include
me, too."

The robot gave a laugh. "I admire your challenging spirit, Professor."

"What you are saying is that you, a single robot, intend to conquer the
Earth and make its people do your bidding."

"Not alone. I may have to ask for help when the time comes, when I have
evaluated the entire planet."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was at this moment that a young man strode uncertainly up the walk.
There were so many strangers about that no one challenged him until he
edged toward the porch, unsteady on his feet. He was drunk.

"Thersha robod I'm af'er," he observed intently. "We'll shee aboud how
he'll take lead." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a gun.

There was a flash, as if a soundless explosion had occurred. The heat
accompanying it was blistering, but of short duration. When everyone's
eyes had become accustomed to the afternoon light again, there was a
burned patch on the sidewalk and grass was charred on either side. There
was a smell of broiled meat in the air--and no trace of the man.

The next moment newsmen were on their feet and photographers' bulbs were
flashing. The TV camera swept to the spot on the sidewalk. An announcer
was explaining what had happened, his voice trained in rigid control,
shocked with horror and fright.

Moments later sirens screamed and two police cars came into sight. They
screeched to the curb and several officers jumped out and ran across the
lawn.

While this was going on, Prof. Tomlin sat white-faced and unmoving in
his chair. The robot was silent.

When it had been explained to the policemen, five officers advanced the
robot.

"Stop where you are," George commended. "It is true that I killed a man,
much as any of you would have done if you had been in my place. I can
see in your minds what you are intending to say, that you must arrest
me--"

Prof. Tomlin found his voice. "George, we will all have to testify that
you killed with that force or whatever it is you have. But it will be
self-defense, which is justifiable homicide--"

George turned to the professor. "How little you know your own people,
Professor Tomlin. Can't you see what the issue will be? It will be
claimed by the state that I am not a human being and this will be
drummed into every brain in the land. The fine qualities of the man I
was compelled to destroy will be held up. No, I already know what the
outcome will be. I refuse to be arrested."

       *       *       *       *       *

Prof. Tomlin stood up. "Men," he said to the policemen, "do not arrest
this--this humanoid. To try to do so would mean your death. I have been
with him long enough to know what he can do."

"You taking his side, Professor?" the police sergeant demanded.

"No, damn it," snapped the Professor. "I'm trying to tell you something
you might not know."

"We know he's gone too damned far," the sergeant replied. "I think it
was Dick Knight that he killed. Nobody in this town can kill a good guy
like Dick Knight and get away with it." He advanced toward the robot,
drawing his gun.

"I'm warning you--" the Professor started to say.

But it was too late. There was another blinding, scorching flash, more
burned grass, more smell of seared flesh.

The police sergeant disappeared.

[Illustration]

"Gentlemen!" George said, standing. "Don't lose your heads!"

But he was talking to a retreating group of men. Newsmen walked quickly
to what they thought was a safe distance. The radio men silently packed
their gear. The TV cameras were rolled noiselessly away.

Prof. Tomlin, alone on the porch with the robot, turned to him and said,
"Much of what you have told me comes to have new meaning, George. I
understand what you mean when you talk about people being willing to
work for your so-called Seventh Order."

"I knew you were a better than average man, Professor Tomlin," the
humanoid said, nodding with gratification.

"This is where I get off, George. I'm warning you now that you'd better
return to your ship or whatever it is you came in. People just won't
stand for what you've done. They don't like murder!"

"I cannot return to my ship," George said. "I destroyed it when I
arrived. Of course I could instruct some of you how to build another for
me, but I don't intend to leave, anyway."

"You will be killed then."

"Come, now, Professor Tomlin. You know better than that."

"If someone else can't, then perhaps I can."

"Fine!" The robot replied jovially. "That's just what I want you to do.
Oppose me. Give me a real test of your ability. If you find it
impossible to kill me--and I'm sure you will--then I doubt if anyone
else will be able to."

Prof. Tomlin lit a cigaret and puffed hard at it. "The trouble with
you," he said, eying the humanoid evenly, "is that your makers forgot to
give you a conscience."

"Needless baggage, a conscience. One of your Fifth Order failings."

"You will leave here...."

"Of course. Under the circumstances, and because of your attitude, you
are of very little use to me now, Professor Tomlin."

The robot walked down the steps. People attracted by the police car made
a wide aisle for him to the street.

They watched him as he walked out of sight.

       *       *       *       *       *

That night there was a mass meeting in the university's Memorial
Gymnasium, attended by several hundred men. They walked in and silently
took their seats, some on the playing floor, others in the balcony over
the speaker's platform. There was very little talking; the air was
tense.

On the platform at the end of the gym were Mayor Harry Winters, Chief of
Police Sam Higgins, and Prof. Ansel Tomlin.

"Men," the mayor began, "there is loose in our city a being from another
world whom I'm afraid we took too lightly a few days ago. I am speaking
of the humanoid--George of Zanthar. It is obvious the machine means
business. He evidently came in with one purpose--to prepare Earth for
others just like him to follow. He is testing us. He has, as you know,
killed two men. Richard Knight, who may have erred in attacking the
machine, is nonetheless dead as a result--killed by a force we do not
understand. A few minutes later Sergeant Gerald Phillips of the police
force was killed in the performance of his duty, trying to arrest the
humanoid George for the death of Mr. Knight. We are here to discuss what
we can do about George."

He then introduced Prof. Tomlin who told all he knew about the blue man,
his habits, his brain, the experiences with him for the past two and a
half weeks.

"If we could determine the source of his power, it might be possible to
cut it off or to curtail it. He might be rendered at least temporarily
helpless and, while in such a condition, possibly be done away with. He
has told me he is vulnerable to force, such as a speeding bullet, if it
hit the right spot, but George possesses the ability to read intent long
before the commission of an act. The person need not even be in the
room. He is probably listening to me here now, although he may be far
away."

The men looked at one another, shifted uneasily on their seats, and a
few cast apprehensive eyes at the windows and doorways.

"Though he is admittedly a superior creature possessed of powers beyond
our comprehension, there must be a weak spot in his armor somewhere. I
have dedicated myself to finding that weakness."

The chair recognized a man in the fifth row.

"Mr. Mayor, why don't we all track him down and a lot of us attack him
at once? Some of us would die, sure, but he couldn't strike us _all_
dead at one time. Somebody's bound to succeed."

"Why not try a high-powered rifle from a long way off?" someone else
suggested, frantically.

"Let's bomb him," still another offered.

The mayor waved them quiet and turned to Prof. Tomlin. The professor got
to his feet again.

"I'm not sure that would work, gentlemen," he said. "The humanoid is
able to keep track of hundreds of things at the same time. No doubt he
could unleash his power in several directions almost at once."

"But we don't know!"

"It's worth a try!"

At that moment George walked into the room and the clamor died at its
height. He went noiselessly down an aisle to the platform, mounted it
and turned to the assembly. He was a magnificent blue figure, eyes
flashing, chest out, head proud. He eyed them all.

"You are working yourselves up needlessly," he said quietly. "It is not
my intention, nor is it the intention of any Seventh Order Humanoid, to
kill or cause suffering. It's simply that you do not understand what it
would mean to dedicate yourselves to the fulfillment of the Seventh
Order destiny. It is your heritage, yours because you have advanced in
your technology so far that Earth has been chosen by us as a station.
You will have the privilege of creating us. To give you such a
worthwhile goal in your short lives is actually doing you a service--a
service far outweighed by any of your citizens. Beside a Seventh Order
Humanoid, your lives are unimportant in the great cosmic scheme of
things--"

"If they're so unimportant, why did you bother to take two of them?"

"Yeah. Why don't you bring back Dick Knight and Sergeant Phillips?"

"Do you want to be buried lying down or standing up?"

The collective courage rallied. There were catcalls and hoots, stamping
of feet.

Suddenly from the balcony over George's head a man leaned over, a metal
folding chair in his hands, aiming at George's head. An instant later
the man disappeared in a flash and the chair dropped toward George. He
moved only a few inches and the chair thudded to the platform before
him. He had not looked up.

For a moment the crowd sat stunned. Then they rose and started for the
blue man. Some drew guns they had brought. The hall was filled with
blinding flashes, with smoke, with a horrible stench, screams, swearing,
cries of fear and pain. There was a rush for the exits. Some died at the
feet of their fellow men.

In the end, when all were gone, George of Zanthar still stood on the
platform, alone. There was no movement except the twitching of the new
dead, the trampled, on the floor.

       *       *       *       *       *

Events happened fast after that. The Illinois National Guard mobilized,
sent a division to Brentwood to hunt George down. He met them at the
city square. They rumbled in and trained machine guns and tank rifles on
him. The tanks and personnel flashed out of existence before a shot was
fired.

Brentwood was ordered evacuated. The regular Army was called in.
Reconnaissance planes reported George was still standing in the city
square. Jet planes materialized just above the hills and made sudden
dives, but before their pilots could fire a shot, they were snuffed out
of the air in a burst of fire.

Bombers first went over singly, only to follow the jets' fate. A
squadron bloomed into a fiery ball as it neared the target. A long-range
gun twenty miles away was demolished when its ammunition blew up shortly
before firing.

Three days after George had killed his first man, action ceased. The
countryside was deathly still. Not a living person could be seen for
several miles around. But George still stood patiently in the square. He
stood there for three more days and yet nothing happened.

On the fourth day, he sensed that a solitary soldier had started toward
the city from five miles to the east. In his mind's eye he followed the
soldier approaching the city. The soldier, a sergeant, was bearing a
white flag that fluttered in the breeze; he was not armed. After an hour
he saw the sergeant enter the square and walk toward him. When they were
within twenty feet of one another, the soldier stopped and saluted.

"Major General Pitt requests a meeting with you, sir," the soldier said,
trembling and trying hard not to.

"Do not be frightened," George said. "I see you intend me no harm."

The soldier reddened. "Will you accompany me?"

"Certainly."

The two turned toward the east and started to walk.

       *       *       *       *       *

Five miles east of Brentwood lies a small community named Minerva.
Population: 200. The highway from Brentwood to Chicago cuts the town in
two. In the center of town, on the north side of the road, stands a new
building--the Minerva Town Hall--built the year before with money raised
by the residents. It was the largest and most elaborate building in
Minerva, which had been evacuated three days before.

On this morning the town hall was occupied by army men. Maj. Gen. Pitt
fretted and fumed at the four officers and twenty enlisted men waiting
in the building.

"It's an indignity!" he railed at the men who were forced to listen to
him. "We have orders to talk appeasement with him! Nuts! We lose a few
men, a few planes and now we're ready to meet George halfway. What's
this country coming to? There ought to be something that would knock him
out. Why should we have to send in _after_ him? It's disgusting!"

The major general, a large man with a bristling white mustache and a red
face, stamped back and forth in the council room. Some of the officers
and men smiled to themselves. The general was a well known fighting man.
Orders he had received hamstrung him and, as soldiers, they sympathized
with him.

"What kind of men do we have in the higher echelons?" He asked everybody
in general and nobody in particular. "They won't even let us have a
field telephone. We're supposed to make a report by radio. Now isn't
that smart?" He shook his head, looked the men over. "An appeasement
team, that's what you are, when you ought to be a combat team to lick
hell out of George.

"Why were you all assigned to this particular duty? I never saw any of
you before and I understand you're all strangers to each other, too.
Hell, what will they do next? Appeasement. I never appeased anybody
before in my whole life. I'd rather spit in his eye. What am I supposed
to talk about? The weather? What authority do I have to yak with a
walking collection of nuts and bolts!"

An officer strode into the room and saluted the general. "They're
coming, sir," he said.

"Who's coming?... My God, man," the general spluttered angrily, "be
specific. Who the hell are 'they'?"

"Why, George and Sergeant Matthews, sir. You remember, the sergeant who
volunteered to go into Brentwood--"

"Oh, _them_. Well, all I have to say is this is a hell of a war. I
haven't figured out what I am going to say yet."

"Shall I have them wait, sir?"

"Hell, no. Let's get this over with. I'll find out what George has to
say and maybe that'll give me a lead."

Before George entered the Council chamber, he already knew the mind of
each man. He saw the room through their eyes. He knew everything about
them, what they were wearing, what they were thinking. All had guns, yet
none of them would kill him, although at least one man, Maj. Gen. Pitt,
would have liked to.

They were going to talk appeasement, George knew, but he could also see
that the general didn't know what line the conversation would take or
what concessions he could make on behalf of his people.

Wait--there was one man among the twenty-three who had an odd thought.
It was a soldier he had seen looking through a window at him. This man
was thinking about eleven o'clock, for George could see in the man's
mind various symbols for fifteen minutes from then--the hands of a
clock, a watch, the numerals 11. But George could not see any
significance to the thought.

When he entered the room with the sergeant, he was ushered to a table.
He sat down with Maj. Gen. Pitt, who glowered at him. Letting his mind
roam the room, George picked up the numerals again and identified the
man thinking them as the officer behind and a little to the right of the
general.

What was going to happen at eleven? The man had no conscious thought of
harm to anyone, yet the idea kept obtruding and seemed so out of keeping
with his other thoughts George assigned several of his circuits to the
man. The fact that the lieutenant looked at his watch and saw that it
was 10:50 steeled George still more. If there was to be trouble, it
would come from this one man.

[Illustration]

"I'm General Pitt," the general said drily. "You're George, of course. I
have been instructed to ask you what, exactly, your intentions are
toward the United States and the world in general, with a view toward
reaching some sort of agreement with you and others of your kind, who
will, as you say invade the Earth."

"Invade, General Pitt," George replied, "is not the word."

"All right, whatever the word is. We're all familiar with the plan
you've been talking about. What we want to know is, where do you go from
here?"

"The fact that there has been no reluctance on the part of the armed
forces to talk of an agreement--even though I see that you privately do
not favor such a talk, General Pitt--is an encouraging sign. We of
Zanthar would not want to improve a planet which could not be educated
and would continually oppose our program. This will make it possible for
me to turn in a full report in a few days now."

"Will you please get to the point?"

George could see that the lieutenant was looking at his watch again. It
was 10:58. George spread his mind out more than twenty miles, but could
find no installation, horizontally or vertically, that indicated
trouble. None of the men in the room seemed to think of becoming overly
hostile.

"Yes, General. After my message goes out, there ought to be a landing
party on Earth within a few weeks. While waiting for the first party,
there must be certain preparations--"

George tensed. The lieutenant was reaching for something. But it somehow
didn't seem connected with George. It was something white, a
handkerchief. He saw that the man intended to blow his nose and started
to relax except that George suddenly became aware of the fact the man
_did not need to blow his nose_!

Every thought-piercing circuit became instantly energized in George's
mind and reached out in all directions....

There were at least ten shots from among the men. They stood there
surprised at their actions. Those who had fired their guns now held the
smoking weapons awkwardly in their hands.

George's eyes were gone. Smoke curled upward from the two empty sockets
where bullets had entered a moment before. The smoke grew heavier and
his body became hot. Some of him turned cherry red and the chair on
which he had been sitting started to burn. Finally, he collapsed toward
the table and rolled to the floor.

He started to cool. He was no longer the shiny blue-steel color he had
been--he had turned black. His metal gave off cracking noises and some
of it buckled here and there as it cooled.

       *       *       *       *       *

A few minutes later, tense military men and civilians grouped around a
radio receiver in Chicago heard the report and relaxed, laughing and
slapping each other on the back. Only one sat unmoved in a corner.
Others finally sought him out.

"Well, Professor, it was your idea that did the trick. Don't you feel
like celebrating?" one of them asked.

Prof. Tomlin shook his head. "If only George had been a little more
benign, we might have learned a lot from him."

"What gave you the idea that killed him?"

"Oh, something he said about the unconscious and subconscious," Prof.
Tomlin replied. "He admitted they were not penetrable. It was an easy
matter to instill a post-hypnotic suggestion in some proven subjects and
then to erase the hypnotic experience."

"You make it sound easy."

"It wasn't too difficult, really. It was finding the solution that was
hard. We selected more than a hundred men, worked with them for days,
finally singled out the best twenty, then made them forget their
hypnosis. A first lieutenant--I've forgotten his name--had implanted in
him a command even he was not aware of. His subconscious made him blow
his nose fifteen minutes after he saw George. Nearly twenty others had
post-hypnotic commands to shoot George in the eyes as soon as they saw
the lieutenant blow his nose. Of course we also planted a subconscious
hate pattern, which wasn't exactly necessary, just to make sure there
would be no hesitation, no inhibition, no limiting moral factor.

"None of the men ever saw each other before being sent to Minerva. None
realized that they carried with them the order for George's
annihilation. The general, who was not one of the hypnotics, was given
loose instructions, as were several others, so they could not possibly
know the intention. Those of us who had conducted the hypnosis had to
stay several hundred miles away so that we could not be reached by
George's prying mind...."

       *       *       *       *       *

In a pasture next to a wood near Brentwood, a metal box buried in the
ground suddenly exploded, uprooting a catalpa tree.

On a planet many millions of miles away, a red light--one of many on a
giant control board--suddenly winked out.

A blue humanoid made an entry in a large book: _System 29578, Planet
Three Inhabited_.

_Too dangerous for any kind of development._