Identity

                          By GEORGE O. SMITH

                        Illustrated by Williams

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
              Astounding Science-Fiction, November 1945.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


Cal Blair paused at the threshold of the Solarian Medical Association
and held the door while four people came out. He entered, and gave his
name to the girl at the reception desk, and then though he had the run
of the place on a visitor basis, Cal waited until the girl nodded that
he should go on into the laboratories.

His nose wrinkled with the smell of neoform, and shuddered at the
white plastic walls. He came to the proper door and entered without
knocking. He stood in the center of the room as far from the shelves of
dangerous-looking bottles on one wall as he could get--without getting
too close to the preserved specimens of human viscera on the other wall.

The cabinet with its glint of chrome-iridium surgical tools seemed to
be like a monster, loaded to the vanishing point with glittering teeth.
In here, the odor of neoform was slightly tainted with a gentle aroma
of perfume.

Cal looked around at the empty room and then opened the tiny door at
one side. He had to pass between a portable radiology machine and a
case of anatomical charts, both of which made his hackles tingle. Then
he was inside of the room, and the sight of Tinker Elliott's small,
desirable head bent over the binocular microscope made him forget his
fears. He stepped forward and kissed her on the ear.

She gasped, startled, and squinted at him through half-closed eyelids.

"Nice going," she said sharply.

"Thought you liked it," he said.

"I do. Want to try it over again?"

"Sure."

"Then don't bother going out and coming in again. Just stay here."

Cal listened to the words, but not the tone.

"Don't mind if I do. Shall we neck in earnest?"

"I'd as soon that as having you pop in and out, getting my nerves all
upended by kissing me on the ear."

"I like kissing you on the ear."

Tinker Elliott came forward and shoved him onto a tall laboratory
chair. "Good. But you'll do it at my convenience, next time."

"I'd rather surprise you."

"So I gathered. Why did you change your suit?"

"Change my suit?"

"Certainly."

"I haven't changed my suit."

"Well! I suppose that's the one you were wearing before."

"Look, Tinker, I don't usually wear a suit for three months. I think it
was about time I changed. In fact, this one is about done for."

"The one you had on before looked all right to me."

"So? How long do you expect a suit to last, anyway?"

"Certainly as long as an hour."

"Hour?"

"Yes ... say, what is this?"

Cal Blair shook his head. "Are you all right?"

"Of course. Are you?"

"I think so. What were you getting at, Tinker? Let's start all over
again."

"You were here an hour ago to bid me hello. We enjoyed our reunion
immensely and affectionately. Then you said you were going home to
change your suit--which you have done. Now you come in, acting as
though this were the first time you'd seen me since Tony and I took off
for Titan three months ago."

Cal growled in his throat.

"What did you say?" asked Tinker.

"Benj."

"Benj! Oh no!"

"I haven't been here before. He's my ... my--"

"I know," said Tinker softly, putting a hand on his. "But no one would
dream of masquerading as anyone else. That's unspeakable!"

"It's ghastly! The idea is beyond revolting. But, Tinker, Benj Blair is
revolting--or worse. We hate each other--"

"I know." Tinker shuddered and made a face that might have resulted
from tasting something brackish and foul. "_Ugh!_ I'm sorry, Cal."

"I'm raving mad! That dupe!"

"Cal--never say that word again. Not about your twin brother."

"Look, my neuropsychiatristic female, I'm as stable as any twin could
be. Dwelling on the subject of duplication is something I won't do. But
the foul, rotten trick. What was he after, Tink?"

"Nothing, apparently. Just up to deviltry."

"Deviltry is fun. He was up to something foul. Imagine anyone trying to
take another's identity. That's almost as bad as persona duplication."

Tinker went pale, and agreed. "Theft of identity--I imagine that Benj
was only trying to be the stinker he is supposed to be. That was a
rotten trick"--Tinker wiped her lips, applied neoform on a cello-cotton
pad and sterilized them thoroughly--"to play on a girl." She looked at
the pad and tossed it into the converter chute. "A lot of good that
will do. Like washing your hands after touching a criminal. Symbolic--"

"Tinker, I feel cheated."

"And I feel defiled. Come here, Cal." The result of his approach was
enough to wipe almost anything from the minds of both. It went a long
way towards righting things, but it was not enough to cover the depths
of their mental nausea at the foul trick. That would take years--and
perhaps blood--to wash away.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Hello, Cal," she said, as they parted.

"I'm glad you're back."

"I know," she laughed. "Only Dr. Tinker Elliott could drag Specialist
Calvin Blair into anything resembling a hospital, let alone a
neurosurgical laboratory."

"Wild horses couldn't," he admitted.

"That's a left-handed compliment, but I'll treasure it--with my left
hand," she promised.

"Benj--and I can speak without foaming at the mouth now--couldn't have
played that trick on you if you'd seen me during the last three months."

"True. Three months' absence from you made his disguise perfect. I'd
forgotten just enough. The rotter must have studied ... no, he's an
identical twin, isn't he?"

"Right," gritted Cal. "But look, Tinker. This is no place to propose.
But why not have me around all the time?"

"Nice idea," said Tinker dreamily. "You'll come along with us on the
next expedition, of course?"

"You'll not go," said Cal.

"Now we're at the same old impasse. We've come up against it for three
years, Cal."

"But why?"

"Tony and I promised ourselves that we'd solve this mystery before we
quit."

Cal snorted. "You've been following in the footsteps of medical men who
haven't solved Makin's Disease in the last hundred years. You might
never solve it."

"Then you'll have to play my way, Cal."

"You know my opinion on that."

"You persist in putting me over a barrel, Cal. I think a lot of you.
Enough--and forgive me for thinking it--to ignore the fact that you are
a twin. But I'll not marry you unless we can be together--somehow.
I love surgery and medical research. I like adventuring into strange
places and seeking the answer to strange things. Tony is my ideal and
he loves this life too, as did our father. It's in our blood, Tony's
and mine, and saying so isn't going to remove it."

Cal nodded glumly. "Don't change," he said firmly. "Not willingly.
I'm not going to be the guy to send someone to a psychiatrist to have
his identity worked over. I've been hoping that you'd get your fill
of roistering all over the Solar System, looking for rare bugs and
viruses. I've almost been willing to get some conditioning myself so
that I could join you--but you know what that would mean."

"Poor Cal," said Tinker softly. "You do love me. But Cal, don't you
change either! Understand? If you change your identity, you'll not be
the Cal I love. If the change comes normally, good and well, but I'll
not have an altered personality for my husband. You love your ciphers
and your codes and your cryptograms. You are a romanticist, Cal, and
you stick to the rapier and the foil."

"Excepting that I get accused of cowardice every now and then," snorted
Blair.

"Cowardice?"

"I've a rather quiet nature, you know. Nothing really roils me except
Benj and his tricks. So I don't go around insulting people. I've been
able to talk a lot of fights away by sheer reasoning, and when the
battle is thrust upon me, I choose the rapier. There's been criticism,
Tink, because some have backed out rather than cross rapiers with me,
and those that do usually get pinked. I've been accused of fighting my
own game."

"That's smart. That's your identity, Cal, and don't let them ridicule
you into trying drillers."

"I won't. I can't shoot the side of a wall with a needle beam."

"Stay as you are, Cal."

"But that's no answer. You like space flying. I hate space flying. You
love medicine and neurosurgery. I hate the smell of neoform. I hate
space and I hate surgery--and you love 'em both. To combine them? To
call them Life? No man in his right mind would do that. No, Tinker,
I'll have nothing to do with either!"

       *       *       *       *       *

_The ghost of Hellion Murdoch, pirate, adventurer, and neurosurgeon
stirred in his long, long sleep. Pirates never die, they merely join
their fellows in legend and in myth, and through their minions--the
historians and novelists--their heinous crimes are smoothed over, and
they become uninhibited souls that fought against the fool restrictions
placed upon them by a rotten society._

_Hellion Murdoch had joined his fellows, Captain Kidd, Henry Morgan,
Dick Turpin, and Robin Hood three hundred and fifty years ago. And like
them, he went leaving a fabulous treasure buried somewhere. This came
to be known to all as Murdoch's Hoard, and men sought up and down the
Solar System for it, but it was never found._

_But the words of Cal Blair aroused the ghost of Hellion Murdoch. He
listened again as the words echoed and re-echoed through the halls of
his pirate's citadel in the hereafter. The same halls rang with his
roaring laughter as he heard Calvin Blair's words. He sprang to his
feet, and raced with the speed of thought to a mail chute._

_With his toe, the ghost of Hellion Murdoch dislodged a small
package from where it had lain for years. With his ghostly pencil,
he strengthened certain marks, plying the pencil with the skill of a
master-counterfeiter. The stamp was almost obliterated by the smudged
and unreadable cancellation. The addressee was scrawled and illegible,
but the address was still readable. Water had done its job of work on
the almost imperishable wrapper and ink of the original, and when the
ghostly fingers of Hellion Murdoch were through, the package looked
like a well-battered bundle, treated roughly by today's mail._

_With his toe, he kicked it, and watched it run through the automatic
carrier along the way to an operating post office. It came to light,
and the delivery chute in Cal Blair's apartment received the package in
the due course of time._

       *       *       *       *       *

Cal Blair looked at the package curiously. He hadn't ordered anything.
He was expecting nothing by mail. The postmark--completely smudged. He
paid no attention to the stamp, which might have given him to think.
The address? The numbers were fairly plain and they were his, Cal
Blair's. The name was scrawled, and the wrapping was scratched across
the name. Obviously some sharp corner of another package had scratched
it off.

He inspected the package with the interest of a master cryptologist,
and then decided that opening the package was the only way to discover
the identity of the owner. Perhaps inside would be a packing slip or
something that might be traced--

Paper hadn't changed much in the last five hundred years, he thought
ruefully. At least, not the kind of paper this was wrapped in. No
store, of course. Someone sending something almost worthless, no doubt,
and wrapping it in the first piece of paper that was handy. He tore the
wrapping carefully, and set it aside for future study.

Inside the package was a tin box, and inside the box was a small cross
standing on a toroidal base. The whole trinket stood two inches tall,
and the crossarms were proportional--though they were cylindrical in
cross-section instead of rectangular.

It would have made a nice ornament for an altar, or a religious
person's desk except for the tiny screw-stud that projected out of the
center of the bottom. That prevented it from standing. Other taped
holes in this flat base aroused his attention.

"This is no ornament," said Cal Blair, aloud. "No mere ornament would
require that rugged mounting."

There seemed to be some microscopic engravings around the surface of
the toroid. Cal set up the microscope and looked. Characters in the
solarian were there, micro-engraved to perfection. But they were in no
order. They had a randomness that would have made no sense to any but
a master cryptologist--a specialist. To Cal Blair they took on a vague
pattern that might be wishful thinking, and yet his reason told him
that men do not microengrave things just to ornament them. A cipher it
must be by all logic.

He was about to take it into the matter-converter and enlarge it
mechanically, when he decided that it might spoil the things for the
owner if he did and was not able to return it to the exact size. He
decided on photographs.

Fully three hours later, Cal Blair had a complete set of photographic
enlargements of the microengravings.

Then with the patience and skill of the specialist cryptologist, Cal
Blair started to work on the characters.

The hours passed laboriously. The wastebasket filled with scrawled
sheets of paper, and mathematical sequences. Letters and patterns grew
beneath his pencil, and were discarded. Night passed, and the dawn
grayed in the east. The sun rose, and cast its rays over Cal's desk,
and still he worked on, completely lost in his work.

And then he looked startled, snapped his fingers, and headed across
the room for an old book. It was a worthless antique, made by the
reproducer in quantity. It was a Latin dictionary.

Latin. A dead and forgotten language.

Only his acquaintance with the folks at the Solarian Medical
Association could have given him the key to recognition. He saw one
word there, and it clicked. And then for four solid hours he cross
checked and fought the Latin like a man working a crossword puzzle
in an unknown language, matching the characters with those in the
dictionary.

But finally the message was there before him in characters that he
could read. It was clear and startling.

"The Key to Murdoch's Hoard!" breathed Cal Blair. "The fabulous
treasure of the past! This trinket is the Key to Murdoch's Hoard!"

A cavity resonator and antenna system, it was. The toroid base was
the cavity resonator, and the cross was the feedline and dipole
antenna. Fitted into the proper parabolic reflector and shock
excited periodically, it would excite a similar antenna at the
site of Murdoch's Hoard. This would continue to oscillate for many
milli-seconds after the shock-excitation. If the Key were switched
to a receiving system--a detector--the answering oscillation
of the sympathetic system would act as a radiator. Directive
operation--scanning--of the parabolic reflector would give directive
response, leading the user to the site of Murdoch's Hoard.

How men must have fought to find Murdoch's Hoard in the days long past!

       *       *       *       *       *

Cal Blair considered the Key. It would lead him to nothing but
roistering and space travel and the result would be no gain. Yet there
was a certain scientific curiosity in seeing whether his deciphering
had been correct. Not that he doubted it, but the idea sort of
intrigued him.

The project was at least _unique_.

He looked up the history of the gadget in an ancient issue of the
Interplanetary Encyclopedia and came up with the following description:

    Murdoch's Hoard: An unknown treasure said to be cached by the
    pirate Hellion Murdoch. This treasure is supposed to have been
    collected by Murdoch during his years as an illegal neurosurgeon.
    For listings of Murdoch's better known contributions to medicine,
    see.... (A list of items filled half a page at this point, which
    Cal Blair skipped.)

    Murdoch's Hoard is concealed well, and has never been found. The
    Key to Murdoch's Hoard was a minute cavity resonator and antenna
    system which would lead the user to the cache. No one has been able
    to make the Key function properly, and no one was ever able to
    break the code, which was engraved around the base.

    The value of the Key is doubtful. Though thousands of identical
    Keys were made on the Franks-Channing matter reproducer, no
    scientist has ever succeeded in getting a response. Engravings on
    the base are obviously a code of some sort giving instructions as
    to the use of the Key, but the secret of the code is no less
    obscure than the use of the Key itself. The original may be
    identified by a threaded stud protruding from the bottom. This stud
    was eliminated in the reproduction since it interfered with the
    upright position of the Key when used as an ornament. The original
    was turned over to the Interplanetary Museum at the time of
    Channing's death from which place it has disappeared and has been
    rediscovered several times. At the present time, the original Key
    to Murdoch's Hoard is again missing, it having been stolen out of
    the Museum for the seventeenth time in three hundred years.

Cal smiled at the directions again. He envisioned the years of
experimentation that had gone on with no results. The directions told
why. Without them, its operation was impossible. And yet it was so
simple.

The idea of owning contraband bothered Cal. It belonged to the
Interplanetary Museum, by rights. It would be returned. Of that, Cal
was definite. But some little spark of curiosity urged him not to
return it right away. He would return it, but it had been gone for
several years and a few days more would make no difference. He was far
from the brilliant scientist--any of the engineers of the long-gone
Venus Equilateral Relay Station would have shone like a supernova
against his own dim light. But he, Cal Blair, had the answer and they
did not.

But it was more to prove the correctness of his own ability as
cryptographer that he took on the job of making the little Key work.

The job took him six weeks. An expert electronics engineer would have
done it in three days, but Cal had no laboratory filled with equipment.
He had neither laboratory technique nor instruments nor a great store
of experience. He studied books. He extracted a mite of information
here and a smidgin there, and when he completed the job, his equipment
was a mad scramble of parts. Precision rubbed elbows with sloppiness,
for unlike the trained technician, Cal did not know which circuits to
let fly and which circuits needed the precise placing. He found out
by sheer out-and-try and by finally placing everything with care. The
latter did not work too good, but continuous delving into the apparatus
disrupted some of the lesser important lines to the point where their
randomness did not cause coupling. The more important lines complained
in squeals of oscillation when displaced, and Cal was continually
probing into the gear to find out which wire was out of place.

He snapped the main switch one evening six weeks later. With childlike
enthusiasm he watched the meters register, compared notes and decided
that everything was working properly. His testing equipment indicated
that he was operating the thing properly--at least in accordance with
the minute engravings on the side.

But with that discovery--that his rig functioned--there came a
let-down. It was singularly unexciting. Meters indicated, the filaments
of the driver tubes cast a ruddy glow behind the cabinet panel, a few
ill-positioned pilot lamps winked, and the meter at the far end of
the room registered the fact that he was transmitting and was being
detected. It was a healthy signal, too, according to the meter, but it
was both invisible and inaudible as well as not affecting the other
senses in any way.

Now that he had it, what could he use it for?

Treasure? Of what use could treasure be in this day and age? With the
Channing-Franks matter reproducer, gold or any rare element could be
synthesized by merely introducing the proper heterodyning signal. Money
was not metal any more. Gold was in extensive use in electrical works
and platinum came in standard bars at a solarian credit each. Stable
elements up to atomic weights of six or seven hundred had been made and
investigated. A treasure trove was ridiculous. Of absolutely no value.

The day of the Channing-Franks development was after the demise of
Hellion Murdoch. And it was after the forty years known as the Period
of Duplication that Identium was synthesized and became the medium
of exchange. Since identium came after Murdoch's demise by years,
obviously Murdoch's Hoard could only be a matter of worthless coin,
worthless jewels, or equally worthless securities.

Money had become a real medium of exchange. Now it was something that
did away with going to the store for an egg's worth of mustard.

So Cal Blair felt a let-down. With his problem solved, there was
no more to it, and that was that. He smiled. He'd send the Key to
Murdoch's Hoard to the museum.

And, furthermore, let them seek Murdoch's Hoard if they wanted to.
Doubtless they would find some uniques there. A pile of ancient coins
would be uniques, all right. But the ancient papers and coins and
jewels would not be detectable from any of the duplicates of other
jewels and coins of that period that glutted the almost-abandoned
museum.

       *       *       *       *       *

Benj Blair snarled at the man in front of him. "You slinking dupe! You
can't get away with that!"

The man addressed blanched at the epithet and hurled himself headlong
at Benj. Cal's twin brother callously slipped a knife out of his belt
and stabbed down on the back of his attacker. It was brutal and bloody,
and Benj kicked the dead man back with a lifted knee and addressed the
rest of the mob.

"Now look," he snarled, "it is not smart. This loke thought he could
counterfeit. He's a dead idiot now. And anybody that tries to make
identium in this station or any place that can be traced to any one of
us will be treated likewise. Get me?"

There was a growl of absolute assent from the rest.

"Is there anyone who doesn't know why?"

"I'm dumb," grinned a man in the rear. "Make talk, Benj."

"O.K.," answered Benj. "Identium is a synthetic element. It is composed
of a strictly unstable atom that is stabilized electronically.
It starts off all right, but at the first touch of the scanning
beam in the matter-converter, it becomes unstable and blows in a
fission-reaction. Limpy, there, tried it once and it took his arm and
leg. The trouble with identium explosions is the fact that the torn
flesh is sort of seared and limb-grafting isn't perfect. That's why
Limpy is Limpy. Then, to make identium, you require a space station in
the outer region. The manufacture of the stuff puts a hellish positive
charge on the station which is equalized by solar radiation in time.
But the station must be far enough out so that the surge inward from
Sol isn't so high that the inhabitants are electrocuted by the change
in charge.

"Any detector worthy of the name will pick it up when in operation at
a half light-year--and the Patrol keeps their detectors running. That
plus the almost-impossible job of getting the equipment to perform the
operation. I'll have no identium experiments here."

A tiny light winked briefly above his head. It came from a dusty piece
of equipment on a shelf. Benj blinked, looked up at the winking light,
and swore.

"Tom!" he snorted. "What in the name of the devil are you doing?"

The technician put his head out of the laboratory door. "Nothing."

"You're making this detector blink."

"I'm trying to duplicate an experiment."

"Trying?"

Tom grinned. "I'm performing the actual operation of the distillation
of alcohol."

"That shouldn't make the detector blink."

"There's only one thing that will do that!"

"Not after all this time."

"It's not been long. About ten years," objected Tom. "Look, Benj.
Someone has found the Key. And not only that, but they've made it work."

"I'd like to argue the point with you," said Benj pointedly. "Why
couldn't you make it tick when we had it seven years ago? You were
sharp enough to make a detector, later."

"Detecting is a lot different than generating, Benj. Come on, let's get
going. I want to see the dupe that's got the Key."

       *       *       *       *       *

Had Cal Blair been really satisfied to make his gadget work, he might
never have been bothered. But he tinkered with it, measured it, and
toyed with it. He called Tinker Elliott to boast and found that she
had gone off to Northern Landing with her illustrious brother to speak
at a medical convention, and so he returned to his toy. Effectively,
his toying with the Key gave enough radiation to follow. And it was
followed by two parties.

The first one arrived about midnight. The doorbell rang, and Cal opened
it to look into the glittering lens of a needle beam. He went white
and retreated backwards until he felt a chair behind his knees. He
collapsed into the chair.

"P-p-p-put that thing away!"

"This?" grinned the man, waving the needle beam.

"Shut up, Logy," snapped the other. To Cal, he said: "Where is it?"

"W-w-w-where is w-w-w-what?"

"The Key."

"Key?"

"Don't be an idiot!" snarled the first man, slapping Cal across the
face with the back of his hand. Cal went white.

"Better kill me," he said coldly, "or I'll see your identity taken!"

"Cut it, Jake. Look, wiseacre, where did you get it?"

"The Key? It came in the mail."

"Mail hell! That was mailed ten years ago!"

"It got here six weeks ago."

"Musta got lost, Logy," offered Jake. "After all, Gadget's been gone
about that long."

"That's so. Those things do happen. Poor Gadg. An' we cooled him for
playing smart."

"We wuz wrong."

"Yep. So we was. Too bad. But Gadget wasn't too bright--not like this
egg. He's made it work."

"Logy, you're a genius."

"So we chilled Gadget because we thought he was playin' smart by tryin'
to swipe the pitch. He didn't lam wit' the Key at all."

"How about this one?" asked Logy.

"He ain't going to yodel. Better grab him and that pile of gewgaws. The
rest of the lads'll be here too soon."

"Rest?"

"Sure. The whole universe is filled wit' detectors ever since Ellswort'
made the first one."

"Git up, dope," snapped Jake, motioning to the door with his beam.

Blair walked to the door with rubber joints in his knees. Logy lifted
the equipment from the table and followed Jake. "He ain't made no
notebook," complained Jake.

"He had some plans," said Logy, "but the fool set the stuff on 'em and
they're all chewed up. He can make 'em over."

"O.K. Git goin', Loke."

Blair could not have protested against the pair unarmed. With two
needle beams trained on his back, he was helpless. He went as they
directed, and found that his helplessness could be increased. They
forced him into a spacecraft that was parked on the roof.

The autopilot was set, and the spacecraft headed across the sky, not
into space, but making a high trajectory over Terra itself. Once into
the black of the superstratosphere, they turned their attention back to
Cal.

"Gonna talk?"

"W-w-w-what do you w-w-want me to s-s-say?" chattered Cal.

"Dumb, isn't he?"

"Look, sweety, tell us what's with this thing."

"It's a c-c-cavity resonator."

"Yeah, so we've been told," growled Logy. "What makes?"

"B-b-b-but look," stammered Cal. "W-w-what good'll it do you?"

"Meaning?" snarled Jake.

"Whatever treasure might be there is useless now."

Jake and Logy split the air with peals of raw laughter. Jake said: "He
is dumb, all right."

"Just tell us, bright-eyes. We'll decide," snapped Logy.

"W-w-well, you send out a signal with it and then stop it and switch
it to the detecting circuit. You listen, and the signal goes out and
starts the other one going like tapping a bell. It resonates for some
time after the initial impulse. It returns the signal, and by using
the directional qualities, you can follow the shock-excited second
resonator right down to it. Follow?"

"Yeah. That we all know," drawled Jake in a bored voice. His tone took
on that razor edge again and he snarled: "What we're after is the how,
get me? How?"

"Oh, w-w-w-well, the trick is--"

"Creeps!" exploded Logy. He crossed the cabin in almost nothing flat
and jerked upward on the power lever.

       *       *       *       *       *

The little ship surged upward at six gravities, making speech
impossible. Blair wondered about this, sitting there helpless and
scared green, until a blast of heat came from behind, and the ship lost
drive. A tractor beam flashed upward, catching the ship and hurling it
backwards. The reaction threw all three up against the ceiling with
considerable force, and the reverse acceleration generated by the
tractor's pull kept them pasted to the ceiling. Another ship was beside
them in a matter of seconds, and four spacesuited men breached the air
lock and entered, throwing their helmets back.

"Jake Jackson and Freddy Logan," laughed the foremost of the
newcomers. "How nerce of you to meet us here."

"Grab the blinker," said the one behind.

"Naturally. Naturally. Pete and Wally take Blair. Jim and I'll muscle
the gripper."

Two of them carried Cal to the larger ship. The other two scooped up
the equipment and carried it behind them. Once inside, the tractors
were cut and the smaller ship plummeted towards Terra. With no concern
over the other ship and its two occupants, they hurled Cal back against
the wall while they put his apparatus on the navigator's table.

"Very nice and timely rescue, eh Cal?"

Cal whirled. "Benj," he snarled. "Might have known--" He started
forward, but was stopped by the ugly muzzles of three needle beams that
waggled disconcertingly at the pit of his stomach. He laughed, but it
had a wild tone. "Go ahead and blast! Then run the Key yourselves!" he
hurled at them. But he stopped, and the waggling of the three weapons
became uncertain.

"Hell's fire," snorted Pete, looking from one to the other. "They're
duplicates!"

Cal leaped forward, smashed Pete's beam up, where it furrowed the
ceiling. His fist came forward and his knee came up. Beneath Cal's arm
flashed a streak of white. It caught Pete in the stomach and passed
down to the knee, trailing a bit of smoke and a terrible odor. Cal
dropped the lifeless form and whirled. Benj stood there, his needle
beam held rock-steady on the form that lay crumpled beneath Cal's feet.

Benj addressed the other two. "My brother and I have one thing
in common," he said coolly. "Neither of us cares to be called a
duplicate!" He holstered his weapon and addressed Cal. "Where is it?"

"Where is what?" asked Cal quietly.

"Murdoch's Hoard."

"I haven't had time to find out."

"O.K. So tell us how to make this thing run."

"I'll be psyched if I do."

"You'll be dead if you do not," warned Benj.

"Some day, you stinker, I'll take the satisfaction of killing you."

"I'll never give you cause," sneered Benj.

"Stealing my identity is plenty of cause."

"You won't take satisfaction on that," taunted Benj. "Because you'd
have to call me and I'll accept battle with beams."

Cal considered. Normally, he would have been glad to demonstrate to
anyone the secret of the Key. But he would have died before he told
Benj the time of day. But another consideration came. The Key was
worthless--and less valuable would be the vast treasures of Murdoch's
Hoard. Why not give him the Key and let him go hunting for the useless
stuff?

Wally waved an instant-welder in front of Cal's nose. The tip glowed
like a white-hot stylus. "Might singe him a bit," offered Wally.

"Put the iron down," snapped Benj. Wally laid the three-foot shaft on
its stand, where it cooled slowly. "Cal wouldn't talk. I know. That
thing would only make him madder than a hornet."

"So what do we do with the loke?" asked Wally.

"Take him home and work on him there," said Benj. "Trap his hands."

       *       *       *       *       *

No more was said until they dropped onto Cal's rooftop. He was ushered
down the same way that he had gone up--with beams looking at his
backbone. They carried his equipment down, and set it carefully on the
table.

"Now," said Benj. "Make with the talk."

"O.K.," said Cal. "This is a cavity resonator--"

"This is too easy," objected Wally. "Something's fishy."

Cal looked at the speaker with scorn. "You imbecile. You've been
reading about Murdoch's Hoard. Vast treasure. Money, jewels, and
securities. Valuable as hell three hundred and fifty years ago, but not
worth a mouthful of ashes today. Why shouldn't I tell you about it?"

"That right, boss?" asked Wally.

"He's wishful thinking," snorted Benj.

Cal smiled inwardly. His protestation of what he knew to be the truth
was working. The desire to work on Benj was running high, now, and Cal
was reconsidering his idea of handing the thing to Benj scot-free.

"Let me loose. I'll show you how it works," he said.

"Not a peep out of it," warned Benj. "Wally, if he touches that switch
before he takes the Key out of the reflector, drill him low and
safe--but drill him!"

Cal knew the value of that order. The hands were freed, and he stepped
forward with tools and removed the Key. "Now?" he asked sarcastically.

"Go ahead," said Benj.

"Thanks," grinned Cal. "That I will!" He took three steps forward and
went out of the open window like a running jackrabbit. His strong
fencer's wrists caught the trellis at the edge and he swung wide before
he dropped to the ground several feet below. He landed running, and
though the flashes of the needle beams scored the ground ahead of him,
none caught him. He plowed through a hedge, jumped into his car, and
drove off with a swaying drive that would disrupt any aim.

He drove to the Solarian Medical Association, where he found Dr. Lange
in charge. In spite of the hour of the morning, he went in and spoke to
the doctor.

Lange looked up surprised. "What are you doing here at this hour?" he
asked with a smile.

"I've got a few skinned knuckles that hurt," said Cal, showing the
bruises.

"Who did you hit?" asked Lange. "Fisticuffs isn't exactly your style,
Cal."

"I know. But I was angry."

Lange inspected Cal's frame. "Wouldn't like to be the other guy," he
laughed. "But look, Cal. Tinker will be more than pleased."

"That I was fighting? Why?"

"You're a sort of placid fellow, normally. If you could only stir up a
few pounds of blood-pressure more frequently, you'd be quite a fellow."

"So I'm passive. I like peace and quiet. You don't see me running wild,
do you?"

"Nope. Tell me, what happened?"

Cal explained in sketchy form, omitting the details about Benj.

"The Key to Murdoch's Hoard?" asked Lange, opening his eyes.

"Sure."

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Send it back to the museum. They're the ones that own it."

"You'll give them Murdoch's Hoard if you do."

"Granting for the moment that the Hoard is valuable," laughed Cal, "it
is still the property of the museum."

"Wrong. The law is a thousand years old and still working. Buried
Treasure is his who finds it. That Hoard is yours, Cal."

"Wonderful. About as valuable as a gallon of lake water in Chicago.
It's about as plentiful."

"May I have the Key?" asked Lange eagerly.

Cal stopped. This was getting him down. First that pair of ignorant
crooks. Then his brother, trying to steal from him something that
both knew worthless--just for the plain fun of stealing he'd believed.
But now this man. Dr. Lange was advanced in years, a brilliant and
stable surgeon. Was he wrong? Did the Key really represent something
worth-while? If so, what on earth could it be? A hoard of treasure in a
worthless medium of exchange and with duplicates all over the System?
What could Murdoch's Hoard be that it made men fight for it even in
this day?

"Sorry," said Cal. "This is my baby."

He said no more about it.

       *       *       *       *       *

Whatever the Hoard might be, it was getting Cal curious. That and the
desire to get the best of Benj worked on him night and day during the
next week. He was forced to hide out all of that time, for Benj was
looking for him. The equipment still required a knowing hand to run
it--any number of technicians had concocted the same circuit to drive
the Key--it was the technique, not the equipment that made it function
properly.

He toyed with the idea for some time. The desire to go and see for
himself, however, was not greater than his aversion to space travel.
Cal had an honest dislike, he had tried space travel three times when
business demanded it. He'd hated it all three times.

But there it was--and there it stayed. The whole affair peaked and then
died into a stasis. Murdoch's Hoard was something that Cal Blair
would eventually look into--some day.

The one thing that bothered him was his hiding-out. He hated that.
But he remained under cover until Tinker Elliott returned and then he
sought her advice. She made a date to meet him at a nearby refreshment
place later that afternoon.

       *       *       *       *       *

The major-domo came up with a cheerful smile as Cal sauntered into the
chromium-and-crimson establishment. "At your service," greeted the
major-domo.

"I'm meeting a friend."

"A table will be reserved. Meanwhile, will you avail yourself of our
service in the bar?"

Cal nodded and entered the bar. He climbed up on a tall bar stool and
took cigarettes from his pocket. The bartender came over immediately.
"Your service?"

"Palan and ginger," said Cal. He was still working on the dregs of his
first glass when Tinker came up behind him and seated herself on the
stool beside.

"Hi, Tink," he smiled.

"Hello. What are you drinking?"

"Palan and ginger."

"Me too," she said to the bartender. "Cal, you are a queer duck. Your
favorite liquors come from Venus and Mars. You seem to thrive on those
foul-tasting lichens from Titan as appetizers. You gorge yourself on
Callistan loganberry, and your most-ordered dinner is knolla. Yet you
hate space travel."

"Sure," he grinned. "I know it. After all, there's nothing that says
that I have to go and get it. Four hundred years ago, Tink, there were
people who ate all manner of foods that they never saw in the growing
stage. And a lot of people lived and died without ever seeing certain
of their meat animals."

"I know. Gosh. They used to kill animals for meat back then. Imagine!"

Cal looked sour-faced, and silence ensued for a moment. Then Tinker's
face took on a self-horror.

"Hey. That look isn't natural. What's up?"

"Order me a big, powerful, hardy, pick-me-up," said Tinker. "And I'll
tell you--if you really want to know."

"I do and I will," said Cal, wonderingly. He ordered straight palan
which Tinker took neat, coughed, and then brightened somewhat.

"Now?" asked Cal.

"Better order another one for you," said Tinker. "Anyway, we had one of
those jobs last night."

"What jobs?"

"An almost-incurable."

"Oh," said Cal with a shiver. He ordered two more straight drinks, in
preparation. "Go ahead and tell, Tink. You won't be free of it until
you spill it."

"It was a last resort case and everybody knew it. Even the
patient--that's what made it so tough. It's distasteful enough to
consider a duplicate when you're well. But to be lying on the brink
and then know that they're going to make a duplicate of you for
experimental surgery--I can't begin to tell. The patient took it,
though.

"And even that wouldn't be too bad. We made our duplicates and went
to work on one immediately. We operated, located the trouble and
corrected it. The third duplicate lived. Then we operated on the
patient successfully. I didn't mind the first two dupes, Cal. It was
the disposing of the cured duplicate that got me. It was like ... no,
it _was_ disposing of an identity." Tink shuddered, and then drained
her second shot of palan simultaneously with Cal.

"And you wonder why I dislike medicine," he said flatly.

"I know--or try to. But look, Cal. Aside from the distaste, look at
what medicine has been able to accomplish."

"Sure," he said without enthusiasm.

"Well, it has."

"But at what a cost."

"Cost? Very little cost," snapped Tinker. "After all, once one has the
stomach to dispose of a duplicate, what is the cost? Doctors bury their
mistakes just as always, but the mistake is a duplicate. The sentience
remains."

"How can you tell the real article from the duplicate?"

"We keep track."

"I know that. What I mean is this: A man is born, lives thirty years
as an identity. He is duplicated for surgical purposes at age thirty.
All duplicates and the original are he--complete with thought and habit
patterns of thirty years. They are identical in every way right down
to the dirt on their hands and the subconscious thoughts that pass
inside of their brains. Their egos are all identical. When you kill the
duplicate, you might as well kill the identity. The duplicate is as
much an identity as the original."

"True," said Tinker. "However, once a duplicate is made, the identities
begin to differ. One will have different experiences and different
ideas and thoughts. Eventually the two duplicates are separate
characters. But in deference to the identity, it is he that we must
cure and preserve. For the instant that the duplication takes place,
the character starts to differ. We can not destroy the original. The
duplicate is not real. It ... how can I say it? ... hasn't enjoyed ...
yes it has, too. It was once the original. Cal, you're getting me all
balled up."

"Why not let them both live?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Tinker looked at Cal with wonder. "Inspect your life," she said
sharply. "You and Benj. How do I know right now that you are not Benj?"

Cal recoiled as though he had been struck.

"You're Cal, I know. That distaste was not acting. It was too quick and
too good, Cal. But can you see what would happen? What is a dupe's lot?"

Cal nodded slowly. "He's scorned, taunted, and hated. He cannot
masquerade too well--that in itself is a loss in identity. Yes--it is a
matter of mercy to dispose of the duplicate. The whole thing is wrong.
Can't something be done about it?"

"Not until you change human nature," smiled Tinker.

"It's been done before."

"I know. But not a thing as ingrained as this."

"Ingrained? Look, Tinker Elliott, up to the period of duplication,
three hundred years ago, twins and multiple-births used to dress and
act as near alike as possible."

"Hm-m-m. That was before a duplicate could be made. Double birth was
something exceptional, and unique. The distaste against duplicates bred
the hatred between twins, I know."

"We might be able to change human nature then."

"Not in our lifetime."

"I guess not. What was the big kicker, Cal?"

"About duplication? Well, there was a war in Europe and both warring
countries put armies of duplicates into the field. The weapons, of
course, were manufactured right along with the troops. There were
armies of about nineteen million men on each side, composed of about
a thousand different originals. They took the best airmen, the best
gunners, the best rangers, the best officers, the best navigators, and
the best of every branch of fighting and ran them into vast armies. It
was stalemate until the rest of the world stepped in and put a stop to
it. Then there were thirty-eight million men, all duplicates, running
around. The mess that ensued when several thousand men tried to live
in one old familiar haunt ... it was seventy years before things ran
down."

"That would send public opinion reeling back," smiled Tinker. "But
do you mind if we change the subject? I think that I've gotten last
night's experience out of my system. What was all this wild story you
were telling me?"

"Let's stroll towards food," he said. "I'll tell you then." Cal dropped
some coins on the bar to take care of the check and they went into the
dining room. The waiter led them to their table and handed them menus.

"This isn't needed," he told the waiter. "I want roast knolla."

"Please accept the apology of the management," said the waiter
sorrowfully. "Today we have no knolla."

"None?" asked Cal in surprise. "That's strange. Every restaurant has
knolla."

"Not this one," smiled the waiter. "An accident, sir. The alloy disk
containing the recording of the roast knolla dinner slipped from the
chef's hands less than an hour ago and fell to the floor. It was
thought to be undamaged, close inspection showed it all right. But it
was tried, and the knolla came out with the most peculiar flavor. The
master files haven't replaced it yet. It will be four hours before they
get to our request for transmission of the disk. The engineer there
laughed and said something about molecule-displacement when I mentioned
the peculiar flavor. It was _most_ peculiar. Not distressing, mind, but
most alien. We're keeping the damaged disk. It may be a real unique."

"Good eating?"

"I'll reserve opinion on that until we find out how we like it
ourselves," smiled the waiter. "I'd recommend something else, sir."

       *       *       *       *       *

Cal ordered for both Tinker and himself. Then he leaned forward on his
elbows and gave Tinker the highlights of his life for the past few
weeks. He finished with the statement: "It's worthless, but somehow I
can't see letting Benj get it."

"Worthless? Murdoch's Hoard?"

"Shall I go into that again? Look, Tinker. Murdoch's era was prior
to the discovery of the matter-duplicator, which followed the
Channing-Franks matter transmitter by only a few weeks. Now, anything
that Murdoch could cache away would be in currency of that time. The
period of duplication hadn't come yet, and the eventual invention or
discovery of identium as a medium of exchange had not come. So what
good is Murdoch's Hoard? It must be of some value. But what? I could
discount everything as ignorance or hatred except Dr. Lange's quick
desire for it. Lange is no fool, Tink. He knew what he was getting.
Darn it all, I feel like going out and running the Hoard down myself!"

Tinker's laugh was genuine and spontaneous.

Cal bridled. "Funny? Then tell me why."

"You, who hates roistering, adventure, space, and hell-raising. Going
after Murdoch's Hoard! That, I want to see."

"So that you can laugh at my fumbling attempts?"

Tinker sobered. "I've been unkind, Cal. But you are not equipped to
make a search like that."

"No?"

"You, with your quiet disposition and easy-going ways. Yes, Cal, I can
be honest with you. Forgive me, but the idea of watching you conduct a
wild expedition like that intrigues me," Tinker became serious for a
moment. "Besides, I'd like to be there when you open Murdoch's Hoard."

"Hm-m-m. Well, it's just an idea."

"You'll get right back into your rut, Cal. You don't really intend to
do anything about it, do you?"

"Well--"

"Cal--would you give me the Key?"

"What!"

"I mean it."

"Tinker--what is Murdoch's Hoard?"

"Not unless you give me the Key," teased Tinker.

"Not a Chinaman's chance," said Cal with finality.

"What are you going to do with it?"

"I'm going after it myself!"

Tinker looked into Cal's face and saw determination there. "I want to
go along," she said. "Please?"

Cal shook his head. "Nope. I'm not going to have anyone laughing at me.
Tell me what it is."

"Take me along."

Cal thought that one over. The idea of having Tinker Elliott along
appealed to him. He'd wanted her for years, and this plea of hers was
an admission of surrender. But Cal felt that conditional surrender was
not good enough. He didn't like the idea of Tinker's willingness to be
bought for a treasure unknown. What was really in the depths of her
mind he could not guess--unless she were trying to goad him into making
the expedition.

"No," he said.

"Then you'll never go," she taunted him.

"I'll go," he snapped. "And I'll prove that I can take care of myself.
I hate space-roving, but I'm big enough to do it despite my distaste.
Now will you tell me what Murdoch's Hoard is that it is so valuable?"

"Not unless you take me along."

Pride is always cropping up in the wrong place. If Cal or Tinker had
not taken such a firm stand in the first place, it would have been
easier for either one of them to back down. The argument had started
in fun, and was now in deadly earnest. How and where the change came
Cal did not know. He reviewed the whole thing again. The first pair
were ignorant. Benj was vindictive enough to deprive his brother of
a useless thing that interested Cal. Dr. Lange was enigmatic. He had
neither personal view or ignorance to draw his desire for Murdoch's
worthless Hoard. Tinker Elliott might be goading Cal into making an
adventuresome trip for the purpose of bringing him closer to her way
of living. He wouldn't put it past her.

But the more he thought about it, the deeper and deeper he was falling
into his own bullheadedness. He was going to get Murdoch's Hoard
himself if it turned up to be a bale of one hundred dollar bills of the
twenty-first century--worth exactly three cents per hundred-weight for
scrap paper.

       *       *       *       *       *

Tinker Elliott returned to the Association after the dinner with Cal.
She worked diligently for an hour, and loafed luxuriously for another
hour. It was just after this that Cal came into her laboratory and
grinned sheepishly at her.

"Now what?" she asked. "Changed your mind?"

"Uh-huh," he said.

"Still squeamish about space?"

He nodded.

"Poor Cal," she said, coming over to him. She curled up on his lap and
put her head on his shoulder. "What are we going to do about it?"

"I'm going to give you the Key," he said.

She straightened up. "You don't mind if we use it--Tony and I?"

"Not at all."

"I'm going to punish you," she said. "I'm not going to tell what
Murdoch's Hoard is until we bring it back."

Cal locked surprised. "All right," he said. "It's worthless anyway.
I'll wait."

"You don't want to go along?"

"If I wanted to go at all, I'd go myself," said Cal.

"O.K. Then wonder about Murdoch's Hoard until we get back. That'll be
your punishment."

"Punishment? For what?"

"For not having the kind of personality that would go out and get it."

"All right. Do you want the Key?"

"Sure. Where is it?"

"At home."

"Thought you weren't living at home," said Tinker.

"I haven't been. The Key is there, though. You see, Tink, it takes the
technique to make it work rather than the equipment. I'll give you
both the equipment and the technique as soon as we get there. I'll
demonstrate and write out the procedure. Now?"

"The sooner the better," she said.

Tinker graced her hair with a wisp of a hat and said: "I'm ready."

Putting her hand in his arm, she followed him to the street and they
drove to his cottage. He led her inside, seated her, and offered her a
cigarette.

"Now, Tinker," he said seriously, "where is it?"

"Where is what?"

"The Key."

"You have it as far as I'm concerned."

"You know better than that."

"You had it."

"No, you're wrong. Cal had it."

"I'm wrong--_who_ had it?" exploded Tinker as the words took.

"Cal," smiled he.

"You're Benj."

"Brilliant deduction, Tinker. Now, do you get the pitch?"

"No. You're trying to get Murdoch's Hoard too."

"I haven't your persuasive charm, Tink. The illustrious cryptologist
known as my twin brother wouldn't go into space for anything. You want
the Key. Ergo, unless I miss my guess, you've been talking and using
those charms on him. Don't tell me that he didn't give it to you."

"You stinking dupe."

Benj grew white around the mouth. "Your femininity won't keep you alive
too long," he gritted.

"I won't steal anyone's identity," she retorted.

"I'll wreck yours," he rasped. "I'll duplicate you!"

"Then I'll be no better than you are," she spat. "Go ahead. You'll
get a dead dupe--two or a million of 'em. I can kill myself in the
machine--I know how. I'd do it."

"That wouldn't do me any good," snapped Benj. "Otherwise I'd do it now.
I may do it later."

"Keep it up--and I'll see that one half of this duplication is removed.
Now, may I leave?"

"No. If you don't know where the Key is--or Cal, you may come in handy
later. I think that I might be able to force the Key away from him.
He'd die before he permitted me to work on you."

"You rotten personality stealer. You deserve to lose your identity."

"I've still got Cal's."

"Make a million of you," she taunted, "and they'll still be rotten."

"Well, be that as it may. You and I are going to go to Venus.
Murdoch's Hoard is still hidden in the Vilanortis Country. We have
detectors. We'll just go and sit on the edge of the fog country and
wait until we hear Cal's signal."

"How do you know he's going?"

"Assuming that Tinker Elliott could get more out of him than any other
person, it means that he said 'no' and is now preparing to make the
jaunt himself. That'll be a laugh. The home-and-fireside-loving Cal
Blair taking a wild ride through the fog country of Vilanortis, I'd
like to be in his crate, just to watch."

"Cal is no imbecile," said Tink stoutly. "He'll get along."

"Sure, he'll get along. But he won't have fun!"

Tinker considered the future. It was not too bright. The thing to do,
of course, would be to go along more or less willingly and look for an
escape as soon as Benj's suspicions were lulled by her inaction.

       *       *       *       *       *

Cal boarded the _Lady Unique_ at Mohave Spaceport not knowing of
Tinker's capture at the hands of Benj. Benj was careful not to let
Cal know of this development, since it would have stopped Cal short
and would have possibly have gotten him into a merry-go-round of
officialdom and perhaps fighting, in which the Key would most certainly
be publicized and lost to all. Courts were still inclined to view the
certified ownership rather than the possessor of an object like the
Key in spite of the nine points often quoted. This was a case of the
unquoted tenth point of the law. Finders of buried treasure were still
keepers, but the use of a stolen museum piece to find it might be
questioned. So Cal took off in a commercial liner from Mohave at the
same time that Tinker was hustled aboard Benj's sleek black personal
craft at Chicago.

Cal, during the trip, underwent only a bit of his previous distaste.
His feelings were too mixed up to permit anything as simple as _mal
de space_ to bother him. He was part curiosity, part hatred, part
eagerness and part amazement. He found that he'd had no time to worry
about space by the time the _Lady Unique_ put down at Northern Landing
Venus.

With his rebuilt equipment in a neater arrangement, and the Key
inserted, all packed into a small case, Cal went to the largest dealer
in driver-wing fliers and purchased the fastest one he could buy.
He then went to the most famous of all the tinker shops in Northern
Landing and spoke with the head mechanic.

"Can you soup this up?" he asked.

"About fifty percent," said the mechanic.

"How long will it take?"

"Couple of hours. We've got to beef up the driver cathodes and install
a couple of heavier power supplies as well as tinker with the controls.
This thing will be hotter than a welding iron when we get through. Can
you handle her?"

"I can handle one like this with ease. I have fast reflexes and quick
nerve response."

"It'll take some time before you get all that there is in it out of
it," grinned the mechanic. "Mind signing an affidavit to the effect
that we are not to be held responsible for anything that happens with
the souping-up?"

"Not at all."

The mechanic went at the job with interest. His estimate was good, and
within two hours the flier was standing on the runway, all ready to
go. Cal returned from a shopping trip about this time and packed his
bundles into the baggage compartment. He paid off, and then took off at
high speed and headed south.

Eight hours later the fog bank that marked the Vilanortis Country came
before the nose of Cal's flier. He plunged into the fog at half speed
and continued on for a full five hundred miles.

He was about halfway through the vast fog bank when he landed and
started to install the Key-equipment for operation. The job took him
a full day, and he slept on the divan in the cabin of the flier that
night. He could have used the flier at night, for there was no choice
between night-operation and the thickness of the eternal fog of the
Vilanortis Country. In neither case could he see more than a few yards
ahead.

And while Cal slept, Benj dropped his flier on the edge of the fog
country and waited. The detectors were installed and operating, and
the black flier was all ready to surge forward on the trail as soon
as Cal's initial signal went forth. Having had more experience in this
sort of thing, Benj knew how to go about it. He'd not follow the trail
of Cal's signal, but would turn and follow the answering, sympathetic
oscillation from the resonant cavity at Murdoch's Hoard. And with that
same experience, Benj knew that he could beat Cal to the spot, and
possibly be gone with Murdoch's Hoard before Cal got there. He composed
a sarcastic sign to leave on the spot for Cal to find. That, he liked.
Not only would he have Murdoch's Hoard, but he would be needling his
hated brother too.

       *       *       *       *       *

Tinker had curbed her tongue. What was going to happen she did not
know. Benj was quite intent on the mechanics of the chase and hadn't
paid too much attention to her except to see that she was completely
held. The idea of her, a sentient identity, being restrained with heavy
handcuffs made her rage inwardly. Yet she kept her peace. She was not
going to attract Benj's attention to her.

So she dozed on the divan in Benj's flier while Benj cat-napped at
the wheel of the flier. He would be up and going at the first wink
of the pilot light and the first thrumming whistle that came from
the detector. He wanted to waste no time. Running down a source of
transmitted signal was a matter of a few hours at most, even though it
were halfway around the planet. He chuckled from time to time. He'd
had Wally tailing Cal, and had a complete report on the flier and its
souping-up. His own flier was capable of quite a few more miles per
hour than Cal's, and Benj was well used to his.

And so Tinker dozed and Benj cat-napped until the first glimmer of
dawn. Benj shook himself wide-awake, and took a caffeine pill to make
certain. Reaching back from the pilot's chair, he shook Tinker. "Pay
for your board," he growled. "Breakfast is due."

"I'll poison you," she promised.

"There isn't anything poisonous aboard," he said, roaring with laughter.

It was more self-preservation than his threat that made Tinker prepare
coffee and toast. Working with manacles on made it difficult, and
she hated him for them again. She was carrying the hot coffee to the
forecabin when his roar came ringing through the ship.

"Grab on! Here we go!"

The rush of the ship threw her from her feet, and the hot coffee
spilled from the pot and scalded her. She screamed.

"Now what?"

"I'm burned."

"Coffee spill? Why didn't you put it down?"

"I wish I'd spilled it on your face," she snapped. "Mind taking these
irons off so I can get some isopicrine for the burn?"

He tossed her the key. "If you run now, you'll starve before you get
anywhere," he told her. "But stay out of my way. We're on the trail of
Murdoch's Hoard."

The thrumming whistle came in clear and strong as Benj headed into the
thick fog. And as they drove forward at a wild speed, Benj tinkered
with the detector.

He picked up Cal's emitted signal easily and clearly, but was unable to
get a response from the other source. He considered, and came to the
conclusion that the other resonator might be outside of Cal's range
of transmission and therefore inoperative as yet. Knowing Hellion
Murdoch's personality by comparison to his own devious way of thinking,
he knew that a world-wide broadcast of the response-signal would have
been unnecessary. A general location within a hundred miles would have
been good enough.

So having no goal but Cal's signal, Benj turned the nose of his flier
upon Cal's sharp, vibrating tone and drove deeper and deeper into the
fog-blanket of Vilanortis.

       *       *       *       *       *

As for Cal, he'd awakened by the clock and had tuned up his resonator
before taking off. Immediately after making the initial adjustments,
and tuning the Key a bit, the response came in strong and clear. Cal
lifted the flier and began to trace the source. At almost full throttle
he went on a dead straight line for Murdoch's Hoard. He wondered
whether his signal were being followed, and suspected that it was.
He knew, however, that no one was in possession of the technique of
receiving the response, and therefore he drove at high speed. If he
could arrive before the others, he would be able to establish his claim
on Murdoch's Hoard, whatever it might be, or perhaps remove it if it
were not too bulky.

Once he established the direction of the response, Cal wisely turned
his equipment off. That would forestall followers, and he could snap
the gear on and off at intervals until he came close to the site of the
famous Hoard.

Benj swore as the signal ceased. But prior to its cessation, there had
been a strong indication as to the relative motion of Cal's ship. He
continued by extrapolation and went across the chord of the curve to
intercept the other ship at some position farther along.

Tinker smiled openly. "Cal isn't ignorant," she said.

"Turning that thing off isn't going to help at all," responded Benj.
"I've got Cal's original junk in the ship. I don't know the technique
of finding the real Hoard, but I've been thinking that following
the Key in Cal's ship might be possible. After all that's a cavity
resonator too, you know."

"Sure it is. But if you can't follow the Hoard resonator, how can you
follow Cal's?"

"Murdoch did something to his that makes it different," explained Benj.
"What, no one has ever known until that brilliant brother of mine
unraveled the code. But if the Hoard had been a standard resonator,
people would have uncovered it long years ago. There's nothing tricky
about getting a response from a resonant cavity."

Benj set the flier on the autopilot and went forward into the nose of
the craft with tools. He emerged a moment later with a crooked smile.
"All I had to do was to hitch up Cal's original junk. The detector is
running as it always was, but now I can shoot forth a signal from Cal's
equipment, stop it, and receive on my own detector. We had a fistful of
duplicate Keys around the lab. We can't follow Murdoch's Hoard, but we
can follow Cal--who is on the trail of Murdoch's Hoard."

He snapped a switch, and a thrumming whine came immediately. "That will
be Cal's response," said Benj cheerfully. "No matter how he tries,
he'll lead us to the spot."

Cal sped along in the thick white blanket of fog, not knowing that his
own Key was furnishing a lead-spot for another. Had he known, it is
possible that he would have stopped and had his argument when the other
arrived, or perhaps he could have damped the resonator enough so that
its decrement was short enough to prevent any practical detection of
the response.

But Cal was admittedly no technician. He did not realize that his own
resonator would become a marker. So he sped along through the white
at a killing pace. He snapped the switch after some time and listened
to the response from Murdoch's Hoard--as well as another signal that
blended with his. The latter did not bother him as it might have
bothered an engineer. Cal had no way of knowing what the results would
be, and so he accepted the dual response as a matter of fact.

It was in the third hour of travel that the inevitable came. By rights,
it should have come easily and quietly, but it came with all of the
suddenness of two fliers running together at better than five hundred
miles per hour.

Out of the whiteness that had blocked his vision all day, Cal saw his
brother's black flier. It came through the sky silently, skirling the
fog behind it into a spiral whirl. It came at a narrow angle from
slightly behind him, and both pilots slammed their wheels over by sheer
instinct.

The fliers heeled and cut sweeping arcs in the fog. Inches separated
their wingtips and they were gone on divergent courses.

Cal mopped his brow. In the other ship, Benj swore roundly at Cal, and
mopped his brow, too. And Tinker sat on the divan, letting her breath
out slowly.

But Benj whipped the wheel around, describing a full, sharp loop in the
sky. He crammed a bit of power on, and the tail of Cal's ship came into
sight through the fog. Cal saw him coming and whipped his plane aside.
Benj anticipated the maneuver and followed Cal around, crowding him
close.

"What are you trying to do?" screamed Tinker, white-faced.

"Run him down," gritted Benj.

"Kill him?"

"No. He'll glide out of power if I can ram his tail."

He followed Cal up and over in a tight loop, dropping into an
ear-drumming dive instead of completing the loop. Cal pulled out and
whipped to the left, and Benj, again trying to anticipate the action,
missed and turned right. Cal was lost again in the fog.

Cal waited for several minutes to see if he had really lost Benj,
hoping and yet knowing that he had not. Yet there was quite a
difference between knowing where he was and being within ten feet
of his tail. In ten minutes, and one hundred miles later on the
straightaway, Cal opened the throttle to the last notch and by compass
streaked directly onto his former course.

Benj streaked after him, the resonator in operation, as soon as enough
distance had been put between them for the gadget to function. Then
Benj started to overhaul Cal's swift flier.

Meanwhile, Cal tried the Key. The answering signal indicated that he
was approaching the site of Murdoch's Hoard, and not more than fifteen
minutes later the direction indicator whipped to the rear. Cal had
passed directly over it.

He circled in a tight hairpin turn and went back.

He forgot about Benj.

The black ship came hurtling out of the fog just a few feet to his
right.

       *       *       *       *       *

Before, they had been approaching on an angle, which had given both
men time to turn. But now they were approaching dead on at better than
six hundred miles per hour each. They zoomed out of the fog brushed
wingtips and were gone into the fog again, but not without damage.
At their velocity, the contact smashed the wingtips and whirled them
slightly around.

Like falling leaves they came down, and before they could strike the
ground with killing crashes, they both regained consciousness.

Benj's ship was beyond repair. It fell suddenly, even though Benj
struggled with the controls. It hit ground and skidded madly along the
murky swamp, throwing gouts of warm water high and shedding its own
parts as it slid. It _whooshed_ to a stop, settled a bit into the muddy
ground and was silent.

Cal had more luck. By straining the wiring in his ship to the
burnout point he fought the even keel back and came down to a slow,
side-slippage that propelled him crabwise. He dropped lower and lower,
and because there was nothing against which to measure his course, he
did not know that he was describing a huge circle. His ship came to
ground not more than a half-mile from Benj's demolished ship.

He set the master oscillator running in his ship and then put the
field-locator in his pocket. No matter where he went, he could return
to his own craft, at least. Then he stepped out of his flier to inspect
the damage.

A roaring went up that attracted Cal's attention. He turned, and
started to beat through the swamp towards the noise.

Light caught his eyes, and he came upon the burning wreckage of Benj's
flier. Benj was paying no attention to the burning mass behind him,
nor was he interested in Tinker Elliott. He was working over Cal's
original equipment furiously, plying tools deftly and making swift
tests as he worked.

Tinker was struggling across the ground of the swamp, pulling herself
along with her hands. Her hips and legs were following limply as though
they had not a bit of life. Her face was strained with the effort,
though she seemed to be in no pain.

She saw him, and inadvertently cried: "Cal!"

Benj leaped to his feet, his hand swinging one of the three-foot
welding irons. He saw Cal, and with his other hand he whipped out the
needle beam and fired. The beam seared the air beside Cal's thigh.
Cursing Benj tried again, but nothing came from the beam. He hurled the
useless weapon into the swamp and came forward in a crouch, waving the
welding iron before him.

Cal ducked the first swing and caught Benj in the face with a fist. It
hurtled Benj back, but he came forward again, waving the white-hot,
needle-sharp iron before him.

Cal couldn't face that unarmed. He dropped below the thrust, and his
hand fastened on the matching iron to the pair that went in every flier
repair-kit. He flung himself back, and came up in a crouch as his thumb
found the switch that heated his own point.

       *       *       *       *       *

Silently, their feet making soggy sounds in the swamp, Cal and Benj
crossed points in a guard of hatred.

Benj lunged in a feint, first. That started it. Cal blocked the feint
swiftly and then crossed his iron down to block the real lunge that
came low. While Benj recovered, Cal thrust and missed by inches. Benj
brought the hot tip up and passed at Cal's face. Cal wiped the iron
aside with a circular motion and caught Benj on the crook of the elbow.
Smoke curled from the burn and Benj howled. It infuriated him and he
pressed forward, engaging Cal's point. Cal blocked another thrust,
parried a low swing, and drove Benj's point high. He dropped under
the point and lunged in a thrust that almost went home. Benj dropped
his white-hot iron and deflected the thrust. He jabbed forward as Cal
regained his balance, and pressed forward again before Cal could get
set.

The mugginess caught Benj's feet and slowed him. Cal was slowed too,
but his backward scramble to regain balance was swifter than Benj's
advance. The white-hot points made little circles in the foggy murk as
they swung and darted.

Benj wound Cal's point in a circular motion and then disengaged to
lunge forward. His point caught Cal in the thigh and the sear burned
like live flame, laming Cal slightly. Cal parried, and then pressed
forward with a bit of the fastest handwork Benj had ever seen. By sheer
luck, Benj blocked and parried this encounter. The final lunge found
Benj retreating fast enough to evade the thrust that might have caught
him fair had he been slow in retreat.

He regained and forced Cal back. His dancing point kept Cal too busy
blocking to counterthrust, and Cal fought a stubborn retreat. The
ground behind him grew harder as he went back, and so he took a full
backward step to get the benefit of hard, dry ground. He made his stand
on the bit of dry knoll, and fought Benj to a standstill.

He fought defensively, waiting for Benj to come close enough to hit.
Their irons danced in and out, and Benj circled Cal slowly. Part way
around, Benj forced Cal's point up and rushed him. Cal backed away
three steps--and tripped over Tinker's hips. He went rolling in a heap,
curling his feet and legs up into his stomach.

Benj leaped over Tinker and rushed down on Cal, who kicked out with
both feet and caught Benj hard enough to send him flying back.

Both men jumped to their feet, circled each other warily, waiting for
an opening. Benj rushed forward and Cal went to meet the charge. The
ring of the irons came again and the white-hot points fenced in and out.

Benj thrust forward, high, and Cal blocked him with the shaft of the
iron. Their arms went up, shaft across shaft, and shoulder to shoulder
they strived in a body-block.

"Steal my identity, will you?" snarled Cal.

"Destroy it," rasped Benj. "You've been asking for this."

Cal's mind flashed, irrelevantly, to books and pictures he had
seen. In such, the villain always spit in the hero's face in such a
body-block. Cal snarled, pursed his lips and spat in Benj's face. Then
with a mighty effort, Cal shouldered Benj back a full three feet and
crossed points with him again.

Benj wiped his face on his shirt sleeve and raving mad, he drove
forward, his point making wicked arcs. Cal parried the dancing point,
engaged Benj in a thrust and counterthrust, and then with Benj's point
blocked high, he drilled forward.

The white-hot point quenched itself in Benj's throat with a nauseating
hiss.

Cal stood there, shaking his head at the sight, and retching slightly.
His face, which had been set like granite, softened. He dropped his
iron and turned away.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Tink!" he cried.

"Nice job, Cal," she said with a strained smile.

"But you?"

"I'm in no pain."

"But what's wrong?"

"Fractured vertebra, I think. I'm paralyzed from the waistline down.
That crash--"

"Bad. Now what?"

"Where's your ship?"

"Back there a half-mile or so," said Cal.

"Don't carry me," she warned as he tried to lift her. "Go back there
and either bring it here or get something to strap me on."

"It'll take hours. The ship won't fly. I'll have to radio back to
Northern Landing for help."

"I ... won't last."

"You--" the meaning hit him then. "You won't last?"

"Not unless that vertebra is repaired."

"Then what can we do?"

"Cal ... where's Murdoch's Hoard?"

"Nearby, but you're more important than anything that might be in
Murdoch's Hoard."

"No, Cal. No."

"Look, Tink, you mean more to me than--"

"I know that, Cal. But don't you see?"

"See what?"

"What could possibly be of value?"

"No. Nothing that I have any knowledge of."

"That's it! Knowledge! All of the advanced work in neurosurgery is
there. All in colored, detailed three-dimensional pictures with a
running comment by Murdoch himself. Things that we cannot do today. Get
it, Cal. It'll tell you how to fix this crushed spinal cord."

Cal knew she was right. Murdoch, in his illegal surgery had advanced
a thousand years beyond his fellow surgeons who could legally work on
nothing but cadavers or live primates while Murdoch had worked on the
delicate nervous system of mankind itself. Murdoch's Hoard was a board
of information--invaluable to the finder and completely unique and
non-duplicative. At least until it was found.

"I can't leave you."

"You must ... if you want me! I'm good for six or seven hours. Go and
get that information, Cal."

"But I'm no physician. Much less a surgeon. Even less a neurosurgeon."

"Murdoch's records are such that a deft and responsible child could
follow them. According to history, his hoard is filled with instruments
and equipment. Cal--"

"Yes?"

"Cal. _This is the place where Murdoch worked on living nerves!_"

       *       *       *       *       *

Tinker Elliott closed her eyes and tried to rest. She did not sleep,
nor did she feel faint. But her closed eyes were a definite argument
against objection on Cal's part. Worrying, he left her and went back to
his flier. He called for help and then he went to work on the Key.

Cal does not remember the next four hours. It was a whirling montage of
dismal swamp and winking pilot lights and thrumming whistles. It was a
lonely boulder with a handle on it that Cal lifted out of the ground
with ease. It was an immaculate hospital driven deep into the murky
ground of Venus. Three hundred and fifty years ago, Dr. Allison Murdoch
worked here and today his refrigerating plants started to function as
soon as Cal snapped the main switch.

On a stretcher that must have held many a torn and mangled set of
nerves before, Cal trundled Tinker through the muggy swamp of Venus and
lowered her into Murdoch's hospital.

In contrast, the next few hours will live forever in Cal's mind. He
came to complete awareness when he realized that he did not know his
next move.

"Tinker?" he asked softly.

"Here ... and still going," she said. "Ready?"

Cal swallowed deep. "Yes," he said hoarsely.

"In that case over there ... see it? Take an ampule of local--it's
labeled Neo-croalaminol-opium, ten percent. Get a needle and put three
cubic centimeters of it into space between the sixth and seventh
cervical vertebra. Go in between four and five millimeters below the
surface of the bone. Can do?"

"I ... I can't."

"You must! How I wish we had a duplicator."

Cal shuddered. "Never."

"Well, I could show you how it's done on the duplicate, and then the
duplicate could fix me up."

Cal gritted his teeth, "And which one would I dispose of? No, Tinker.
It's bad enough this way!"

"Well, do it my way then!"

Cal fumbled for the needle and then with a steady hand he broke the
glass ampule and filled the needle. "Is this still good?"

"It never deteriorates in a vacuum. We must chance everything."

Cal inserted the needle and discharged the contents. His face was gray.

"Now," said Tinker. "I'm immobilized completely from the shoulder
blades down and can't harm myself. Cal, find the library and locate the
reel that will deal on vertebra and spinal operations."

"How do you know it is here?" demanded Cal.

"It's listed, in Murdoch's diary. Now quit arguing and go!"

"How come this diary isn't common knowledge?"

"Because too many prominent people did not want their names mentioned
as fostering Murdoch's surgery. Their offspring have never known about
it and the medical profession has been keeping it under their hats so
long that it has become a habit like the Px mark."

Cal located the library and consulted the card file. He returned with
a reel of film. He inserted the reel into the operating room projector
and focused it on the screen.

As the film progressed, Cal took the proper tools from the boiling
water, and placed them on a sterilized carrier.

Then as Tinker instructed him through a system of mirrors, Cal lifted
the scalpel and made his first incision.

With increasing skill, Cal applied retractors and hemostats and
tweezers. Tinker kept up a running fire of comment, and the motion
picture on the screen progressed as he did, with appropriate close-ups
to show the condition of the wound during each step. Cal came upon
the fractured bone as it said he should, and then though the fracture
was not just as that in the picture, Cal plied his instruments
carefully and lifted the crushed bone away from the spinal cord. With a
wide-field microscope, Cal inspected the cord.

"Can't tell, Tinker. I don't know anything about it."

"And I can't see it too well. Look, Cal. Don't touch it. It may be only
bruised. Run the projector over to the replacing-operation and put the
stuff back according to directions. If the cord is damaged, they can
repair it at the Association. You'll be responsible for getting me
there, anyway."

"All right," said Cal.

With tiny splints, Cal fastened the splintered bone back into place.
It was as painstaking a job as putting a fine watch back together
again, and as tedious as breaking the worst code in history. But Cal
succeeded finally, and the final wrappings were placed by hands that
were beginning to shake.

       *       *       *       *       *

The plane from Northern Landing located them from Cal's master
oscillator and came in for a landing. The official in the plane wasted
no time. He ordered two of his helpers to install Tinker--stretcher
and all--in his flier and they all took off after leaving a guard at
Murdoch's Hoard.

       *       *       *       *       *

Cal Blair headed up the walk from the gate to the front doors of the
Association with a springy step. He headed in with determination, but
was hailed by Tony Elliott. Tinker's brother grinned at Cal and shook
his hand.

Cal tried to leave, but Tony kept him for a moment.

"For a guy that hates surgery and space flying and roistering around,
Cal, you do all right."

"Look, Tony, I want to see Tink."

"I know. You haven't seen her since you brought her back six weeks ago,
have you."

"No, and I intend to rectify that error right now."

"You could have been here three weeks ago."

"No, I couldn't, I've been in Vilanortis, working with the fellows on
Murdoch's Hoard. After all, I'm not ... not--"

"Not twins? No, thank the Lord! O.K., Cal. Go on in."

Cal left in a hurry, and Tony said to the receiving clerk: "He's
changed."

"Cal found Tinker in a wheelchair in the conservatory. Tink!" he roared.

"Cal!" she answered. Then she arose from the wheelchair and came toward
him with a light, eager step.

Cal was a gentleman--he met her halfway.


                               THE END.