JABBERWOCK, BEWARE!

The Security Council was in emergency session. The four delegates would have had easier consciences had more nations been represented, but it was hard to travel now. Only Russia, England and France were able to send their men to New York.

Sergei Moskov, USSR, presided unofficially. He wore a harried look, and addressed them wearily.

"To think, gentlemen, that it has taken circumstances like these to bring us into accord!"

The others said nothing. Overhead, above New York's stone and glass UN building that had been conceived in hope and wrought with faith, they could hear the whine of the patrolling ships. The delegates stared at the table in front of them.

"Your country, Mr. Conrad," Moskov said to the American representative, "is the mother of our last hope." He looked around the table for concurrence. Sir Manly straightened a bit, and M. Tourneau's mustache twitched, but they all nodded. What use national pride now? There was not much time, anyway. Tonight....

"He will be here?" Moskov asked.

Conrad cleared his throat. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a slip of paper.

"Joe—I mean, Dr. Waters—sent an answer to our request." He read:

"The courage of youth," Sir Manly said, but he smiled.

Moskov looked at his watch. "He should be here, then."

"I am."

They all turned at the sound of that voice, and rose as Joe Waters strode in. Just thirty years old, athletic, brilliant. He was accompanied by a wizened character in a baggy brown suit and crumpled felt hat.

"Gentlemen." Joe said, and bowed. They all sat down.

"A friend," he explained, indicating his companion. "Name of Mike."

"Friend and buddy," Mike said in a whiskey-hoarse voice.

"We thought you understood, Dr. Waters," Moskov said, eyeing Mike distastefully, "that this was to be a secret conference."

M. Tourneau, who had a sensitive nose, shifted his chair slightly away from the bum.

Joe said, "I met Mike in a bar last night and he's been with me since. I like his unsophisticated point of view."

"Bar!" Sir Manly exclaimed, visibly shaken.

"Bar." Joe answered. "For the same reason I'm here now." He leaned forward.

"I happened to be looking at the moon with my girl when they blew it up." His eyes narrowed at the memory. "She started to cry, and was still at it when we got back to her apartment. That's when I went to a bar to get drunk. It's also one reason I'm here. When they take the moon away from lovers, it's the last straw!"

"Give 'em hell, kid!" Mike rasped. Joe silenced him with a wave of his hand, and Mike slouched down in his chair looking hurt.

"Mr. Conrad," Moskov said, "will you be good enough to give Dr. Waters the latest developments?"

"All right. Joe, you know what's happened this past week."

Joe nodded.

"In case you didn't get the overall picture—their ships," he jerked a thumb at the whine passing back and forth above, "have completely blanketed the world. They have destroyed every means of defense we've used against them. Atomic anti-aircraft, even, hasn't fazed them in the least.

"Yesterday they sent for us. The head of their expedition told us who they are, and it accounts, perhaps, for their anthropoidal appearance. They are from Jupiter, so it's not inconceivable after all that similar forms of life should become dominant in the same solar system.

"They are easily twice our size—and if ability to learn and speak fluently in a half hour, each of the three languages represented here means anything, they have a proportionate I.Q.

"Their leader, Slan, says his title means he is the crown prince of the royal Jovian family. Slan was nothing if not courteous and chivalrous. He told us yesterday he would give us a sporting chance for survival—why, I can't imagine. Apparently this expedition is like a glorified fox hunt to them.

"We are to choose a person to represent the world in an intellectual duel with him. If we win, they withdraw completely, never to bother us again. If we lose, then, he said, we're not worth saving and we'll be completely destroyed—hunted individually, which to them is great sport.

"To prove they could do it, he had his ship's guns turn on the moon. You saw what happened—disintegrated completely."

"Them crumbs!" Mike grated. "We'll murder 'em, Joe!"

"Quiet, Mike."

Mike grumbled, pulled out a cigarette paper and tobacco and rolled his own.

"That's why we've called on you," Conrad said.

"Waters," Sir Manly said, "the world rests on your shoulders."

"You have every qualification," M. Tourneau put in.

"Your brilliant theories in symbolic logic and theoretical mathematics," said Sir Manly.

"Chess champion of the world," Moskov added respectfully.

"Your contributions to astrophysics," Conrad said.

"And don't you guys ferget—he won the decathlon when he was just a high school kid. He'll murder them bums!"

Joe smiled. "Don't mind my pugnacious friend."

"You are, so far as we know, the finest representative the world could have." Moskov looked serious, and Joe became aware suddenly of the awful burden involved. What use intellectual ability or athletic prowess, compared to Jovian standards? Wasn't there someone—even a science-fiction writer, perhaps—better qualified to handle a situation as fantastic as this? Apparently not.

"When's the funeral?" Joe asked drily.

"Please, m'sieu, a little respect for the situation!" M. Tourneau looked pained.

"The contest is to be in Slan's ship at eight o'clock tonight," Moskov answered. "They will pick you up here in five hours."

"You and me both, Joe," Mike said.

"Yeah," Joe answered, and now he was mentally reeling under the impact of his responsibility. "Let's have a drink first. I think we'll need one."

Sir Manly paled. "I say...."

"We'll murder them damn Greeks," Mike chortled.

"Shay, I'm not goin' in that thing," Mike protested.

"Can't fight 'em if we don't," Joe answered mournfully.

"They're big enough, all right," Mike admitted respectfully. "Wouldn't some football coach like to have one o' them on his squad!"

"C'mon, le's go." Joe shoved Mike toward the waiting ship, at the door of which a behemoth of a figure waited patiently, watching with some apparent disdain as the two, arms around each other's shoulders, weaved unsteadily inside.

Inside the ship, Joe took a long pull at the bottle Mike passed him. Strange, he thought, how an unforseeable factor, upsetting life's routine equations, produces unguessed mental reactions. Until last night he'd never had a drink in his life. Then a little thing like the moon being blown up. Aloud he quoted,

"Whassat?"

"Lewish Carroll," Joe answered, and wondered greatly at the vast amounts of liquor he had consumed in a short space of time.

And Joe Waters, the world's most brilliant human, passed out.

They left Joe in the ship and dragged Mike before Slan. That gigantic figure sat in regal splendor at the end of a long corridor that ran the length of the vessel. On either side of Mike, as he stumbled toward the throne which seemed miles away, uniformed giants stood at attention. Had he stretched his arm he might have been able to rap a belt buckle. The sensation of being a pygmy increased as he approached Slan.

Grouped around Slan, whose throne was on a platform several feet high, stood members of what seemed to be a retinue. They sneered and snickered as Mike drew near, and Mike had to strain his neck and blurred eyes to see them.

"Are you ready to begin?" Slan asked in a voice that nearly deafened Mike.

"We'll murder ya, ya bums," Mike answered belligerently. His whiskey-fogged mind somehow assumed Joe was still by his side.

"Very well, then." And Slan extended an arm toward Mike, thumb pointed up.

Mike promptly repeated the gesture, except that he pointed his thumb down.

Slan reached for a huge flagon of red liquid, which he poured slowly onto the floor. Mike stared, then reached into a hip pocket and produced a bottle of whiskey, swallowed some and vigorously smacked his lips. Then he held the bottle out to Slan, grinning broadly.

Slan reached into a bag at his side, took out a handful of colored pebbles, and scattered them on the floor. Mike scrambled after them and stuffed them into his pocket, then struggled erect, panting with the exertion.

Slan arose from his throne, stepped off the platform, and towered over Mike.

"You surprise me," he boomed. "You and your little planet are smarter than I expected. Go, and tell your people that they could not have chosen a worthier representative."

It was a dazed and confused Mike who was led stumbling, and clutching his bottle, back to the ship which was to take him to a free world.

Slan, meanwhile, found himself besieged by annoyed and puzzled followers. He held up his hand for silence, and relapsed into native Jovian.

"That earthling," he said sarcastically, "seems to have fared better than you who are so proud of your intellects.

"When I held my thumb up, indicating our superiority in size and strength, he pointed his thumb down, to show that physical power is really of minor importance.

"I poured a red liquid onto the floor, dramatizing the effect of conflict on them, if that should be my wish. He demonstrated his fearlessness by producing a light-colored liquid and sampling it with enjoyment—as his kind would react to such an encounter.

"Finally I flung out a handful of colored pebbles, displaying the confusing array of languages, races, and ideas their world contains. He scooped them into his pocket, showing that their diversity could still be united into single purpose."

Slan looked contemptuously at the crestfallen faces of his men.

"It would be to our benefit if we had half their spirit in proportion to our size," he said. Then he bellowed,

"Order all ships to withdraw at once!" To an aide he muttered, "We'll leave this planet to those worthy of it."

Mike and Joe were hiding from a world delirious with joy and anxious to heap glory upon its saviour—whom they thought was Joe Waters. Joe had no intention of deluding the world in this regard, but right now he was plying Mike with whiskey to get from him the story of what happened.

They were in the rear booth of a bar, and Mike kept insisting that Joe knew perfectly well what had happened because he'd been right there.

"All right," Joe said coaxingly, "I know what happened. But tell me how you're going to tell it, so we can get our stories straight."

"Can't understan' it," Mike said thickly, shaking his head. "The guy was nuts."

"What happened?" Joe pleaded. Mike, who apparently had no saturation point, gulped some more whiskey.

"First thing," he said, "the guy sticks his thumb up in the air, like he's gonna give me the bum's rush. So I point mine down—if he tries to kick me outa there before we even get a chance to talk business, I'll floor 'im."

"Yeah, you would."

Mike ignored this comment, took yet another drink and wiped his lips on the back of his hand. Joe watched this display of alcoholic immunity with admiration, and Mike continued.

"Then he takes a bottle of this awful-looking wine and pours it out on the floor.

"No wonder they been raising such a rumpus, Joe. With nothing but that stuff to drink, I would too! So I pulled out my flask and took a swig, to show what we've got, and I offer him some. You know something, Joe," and Mike leaned forward earnestly, "when that guy saw the kind of stuff we drink he got a new respect, 'cause he takes a handful of jewels and rolls 'em at me. Now, I don't look no gift horse in the teeth—I pocket 'em as fast as I get my hands on 'em. I got the rocks with me—here."

He pulled out the "pebbles" Slan had referred to—and jewels they were. Fire shot from diamonds, rubies, emeralds, amethysts. Joe whistled.

"We can use the money that stuff will bring."

"Buy a liquor store?" Mike asked eagerly.

"Finance the development and launching of an interplanetary expedition."

"Ah, what the hell you want to do that for?"

"They've got eleven moons," Joe said grimly, "and all we want is one."