EVEN STEPHEN

                         By CHARLES A. STEARNS

                          Illustrated by EMSH

              It only takes one man to destroy a pacifist
               Utopia--if he has a gun, and will use it!

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                          Infinity July 1957.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


The henna-haired young man with the vermilion cape boarded Stephen's
vehicle on the thirty-third air level, less than two whoops and a
holler from a stationary police float, by the simple expedient of
grappling them together with his right arm, climbing over into the
seat beside Stephen, and allowing his own skimmercar to whisk off at a
thousand miles an hour with no more control than its traffic-dodging
mechanism afforded.

The peregrinator was barbarically splendid, and his curls showed the
effect of a habitual use of some good hair undulant. More to the
point, he had a gun. It was one of those wicked moisture rifles which
can steam the flesh off a man's bones at three hundred paces. Quite
illegal.

He smiled at Stephen. His dentures were good. They were stainless
steel, but in this day and time that was to be expected. Most of his
generation, in embryo during the last Blow-down, had been born without
teeth of their own.

"Sorry to inconvenience you, Citizen," he said, "but the police were
right on my brush that time. Please turn right at the next air corridor
and head out to sea."

And when Stephen, entranced, showed no inclination to obey, he prodded
him with the weapon. Prodded him in a most sensitive part of his
anatomy. "I have already killed once today," he said, "and it is not
yet eleven o'clock."

"I see," Stephen said stiffly, and changed course.

He might simply have exceeded the speed limit in the slow traffic
stream and gotten them arrested, but he sensed that this would not
do. A half-memory, playing around in his cranium, cried out for
recognition. Somewhere he had seen this deadly young man before, and
with him there was associated a more than vague unpleasantness.

Soon the blue Pacific was under them. They were streaming southwest
by south at an altitude of eighty miles. Stephen was not terrified at
being kidnapped, for he had never heard of such a thing, but there was
one thing that did worry him. "I shall be late for work," he said.

"Work," the young man said, "is a bore."

Stephen was shocked. Work had always been the sacred principle of his
life; a rare and elevating sweetness to be cultivated and savored
whenever it might be offered. He, himself, had long been allotted
alternate Thursday afternoons as biological technician at Mnemonic
Manufactures, Plant No. 103, by the Works Administration, and he
had not missed a day for many years. This happened to be one of his
Thursdays, and if he did not arrive soon he would be late for the
four-hour shift. Certainly no one else could be expected to relinquish
a part of his shift to accommodate a laggard.

"Work is for prats," the young man said again. "It encourages
steatopygia. _My_ last work date was nine years ago, and I am glad that
I never went back."

Stephen now felt a surge of fear at last. Such unregenerates as this
man were said to exist, but he had never met one before. They were the
shadowy Unemployed, who, barred from government dispensation, must
live by their wits alone. Whimsical nihilists, they, who were apt to
requisition human life, as well as property, at a breath's notice.

Small lightning sheeted in front of their bow. A voice crackled in the
communications disk. "Attention! This is an official air barricade.
Proceed to Level Twelve to be cleared."

"Pretend to comply," the young man said. "Then, when you are six or
eight levels below these patrol skimmers following us, make a run for
it toward that cloud bank on the horizon."

"Very well," Stephen said. He had quickly weighed the gloomy
possibilities, and decided that his best chance for survival lay in
instant compliance with this madman's wishes, however outrageous they
might seem.

He nosed down, silently flitting past brightly painted fueling
blimp platforms and directional floats with their winking beacons.
To the east, the City lay, with its waffle-like subdivisions, its
height-foreshortened skyscrapers, and its vast Port, where space
rockets winked upward every few minutes.

"If you were only on one of _those_!" Stephen said feelingly.

His abductor smiled--a rather malicious smile. "Who wants to go to
Mars?" he said. "Earth is such a fascinating place--why leave it? After
all, only here, upon this exquisitely green, clean sphere of ours can
the full richness of man's endeavors be enjoyed. And you would have me
abandon it all!"

"I was only thinking aloud," Stephen said.

The smile withered. "Mind your altitude," the young man said. "And try
no tricks."

Twenty seconds had passed. Thirty-five....

"Now."

Tight-lipped, Stephen nodded, leveled off, and energized the plates
with their full, formidable power. They shot past the police
stationary, and into the great, azure curve of the horizon at a pace
which would have left Stephen breathless at any other time. There came
a splutter of ether-borne voices.

The henna-haired young man turned off the receiver.

In an instant there were skimmers in hot pursuit, but the cloud bank
loomed close, towering and opaque. Now the wisps of white were about
them, and a curious, acrid smell filtered in through the aerating
system. The odor of ozone. The skimmer began to shudder violently,
tossing them about in their seats.

"I have never experienced such turbulence," Stephen exclaimed. "I
believe this is no ordinary cloud!"

"You are right," the henna-haired young man said. "This is sanctuary."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Who are you?" Stephen said. "Why are you running from the police?"

"Apparently you don't read the newspapers."

"I keep abreast of the advances in technology and philosophy."

"I meant the tabloid news. There _is_ such a page, you know, in the
back of every newspaper. No, no; I perceive that you never would allow
yourself to become interested in such plebeian goings-on. Therefore,
let me introduce myself. I am called Turpan."

"The Bedchamber Assassin! I knew that I'd seen your face somewhere."

"So you _do_ sneak and read the scandals, like most of your mechanics'
caste. Tch, tch! To think that you secretly admire _us_, who live upon
the brink and savor life while it lasts."

"I could hardly admire you. You are credited with killing twelve
women." Stephen shuddered.

Turpan inclined his handsome head sardonically. "Such is the artistic
license of the press. Actually there were only nine--until this
morning, I regret to say. And one of those died in the ecstacy of
awakening to find me hovering over her virginal bed. I suppose she had
a weak heart. I kill only when it is unavoidable. But so long as my
lady _will_ wear jewels and keep them on her boudoir dressing table--"
He shrugged. "Naturally, I am sometimes interrupted."

"And then you murder them."

"Let us say that I make them a sporting proposition. I am not bad to
look upon--I think you will admit that fact. Unless they happen to be
hysterical to begin with, I can invariably dominate them. Face the
facts, my stodgy technician. Murder is a term for equals. A woman is
a lesser, though a fascinating, creature. The law of humane grace
does not apply equally to her. It must be a humiliating thing to be a
woman, and yet it is necessary that a supply of them be provided. Must
we who are fortunate in our male superiority deny our natures to keep
from trampling them occasionally? No indeed. 'Sensualists are they; a
trouble and a terror is the hero to them. Thus spake Zarathustra'."

"That is a quotation from an ancient provincial who was said to be as
mad as you are," Stephen said, rallying slightly, but revising his
opinion of the uncouthness of his captor.

"I have studied the old books," Turpan said. "They are mostly pap, but
once I thought that the answers might be discovered there. You may set
down now."

"But we must be miles from any land."

"Take a look," Turpan said.

And Stephen looked down through the clearing mists and beheld an
island.

       *       *       *       *       *

"It happens to be a very special island," Turpan said. "The
jurisdiction of no policeman extends here."

"Fantastic! What is it called?"

"I should imagine that they will call it 'Utopia Fourteen', or 'New
Valhalla'. Idealists seldom possess one iota of originality. This is
the same sort of experiment that has been attempted without success
from times immemorial. A group of visionaries get together, wangle a
charter from some indulgent government and found a sovereign colony
in splendid isolation--and invariably based upon impossible ideas of
anarchism."

The skimmercar shook itself like a wet terrier, dropped three hundred
feet in a downdraft, recovered and glided in to a landing as gently as
a nesting seabird. They were upon a verdant meadow.

Stephen looked around. "One could hardly call this splendid isolation,"
he remarked. "We are less than five minutes from the City, and I am
sure that you will be reasonable enough to release me, now that I've
brought you here, and allow me to return. I promise not to report this
episode."

"Magnanimous of you," Turpan said, "but I'm afraid that what you ask is
impossible."

"Then you refuse to let me go?"

"No, no. I merely point out that the cloud through which we arrived
at this island was not, as you noted, a natural one. It had the
ominous look of a Molein Field in the making. In other words, a space
distortion barrier the size of which Earth has never seen."

And Stephen, looking around them, saw that the cloud had, indeed
dispersed; and that in its place a vast curtain of shifting, rippling
light had arisen, extending upward beyond sight and imagination, to
the left and to the right, all around the circle of the horizon,
shutting them in, shutting the rest of the universe out. Impenetrable.
Indestructible.

"You knew of this," Stephen accused. "That's why you brought me here."

"I admit that there were rumors that such a project might be attempted
today. The underworld has ears," Turpan said. "That we arrived just
in time, however, was merely a circumstance. And even you, my stolid
friend, must admit the beauty of the aurora of a Molein Field."

"We are lost," Stephen said, feeling stricken. "A distortion barrier
endures forever."

"Fah!" the Bedchamber Assassin replied. "We have a green island for
ourselves, which is much better, you'll agree, than being executed. And
let me tell you, there are many security officials who ache to pump my
twitching body full of the official, but deadly, muscarine. Besides,
there is a colony here. Men and women. I intend to thrive."

_But what of me!_ Stephen wanted to cry out. _I have committed no
crime, and I shall be lost away from my books and my work!_ However,
he pulled himself together, and noted pedantically that the generation
of a Molein Field was a capital offense, anyway. (This afforded little
comfort, in that once a group of people have surrounded themselves with
a Molein Field they are quite independent, as Turpan had observed, of
the law.)

When they had withdrawn a few yards from the skimmercar, Turpan sighted
upon it with the moisture rifle and the plastic hull melted and ran
down in a mass of smoking lava. "The past is past," Turpan said, "and
better done with. Come, let us seek out our new friends."

       *       *       *       *       *

There were men and there were women, clamorously cheerful at their
work, unloading an ancient and rickety ferrycopter in the surprise
valley below the cliffs upon which Stephen and Turpan stood. Stephen,
perspiring for the first time in his life, was almost caught up in
their enthusiasm as he watched that fairy village of plasti-tents
unfold, shining and shimmering in the reflected hues of the Molein
aurora.

When Turpan had satisfied himself that there was no danger, they
descended, scrambling down over rough, shaly and precipitous
outcroppings that presented no problem for Stephen, but to which
Turpan, oddly enough, clung with the desperation of an acrophobe as he
lowered himself gingerly from crag to crag--this slightly-built young
man who had seemed nerveless in the sky. Turpan was out of his métier.

A man looked up and saw them. He shouted and waved his arms in welcome.
Turpan laughed, thinking, perhaps, that the welcome would have been
less warm had his identity been known here.

The man climbed part way up the slope to meet them. He was youthful
in appearance, with dark hair and quick, penetrating eyes. "I'm the
Planner of Flight One," he said. "Are you from Three?"

"We are not," Turpan said.

"Flight Two, then."

Turpan, smiling like a basilisk, affected to move his head from side to
side.

And the Planner looked alarmed. "Then you must be the police," he
said, "for we are only three groups. But you are too late to stop
our secession, sir. The Molein barrier exists--let the Technocracy
legislate against us until it is blue in the face. And there are three
hundred and twelve of us here--against the two of you."

"Sporting odds," Turpan said. "However, we are merely humble heretics,
like yourselves, seeking asylum. Yes indeed. Quite by accident my
friend and I wandered into your little ovum universe as it was forming,
and here we are, trapped as it would seem."

The crass, brazen liar.

The Planner was silent for a moment. "It is unlikely that you would
happen upon us by chance at such a time," he said at last. "However,
you shall have asylum. We could destroy you, but our charter expressly
forbids it. We hold human life--even of the basest sort--to be sacred."

"Oh, sacred, quite!" Turpan said.

"There is only one condition of your freedom here. There are one
hundred and fifty-six males among us in our three encampments, and
exactly the same number of females. The system of numerical pairing was
planned for the obvious reason of physical need, and to avoid trouble
later on."

"A veritable idyl."

"It might have been. We are all young, after all, and unmarried. Each
of us is a theoretical scientist in his or her own right, with a high
hereditary intelligence factor. We hope to propagate a superior race
of limited numbers for our purpose--ultimate knowledge. Naturally a
freedom in the choice of a mate will be allowed, whenever possible,
but both of you, as outsiders, must agree to live out the rest of your
natural lives--as celibates."

Turpan turned to Stephen with a glint of humor in his spectacular eyes.
"Celibacy has a tasteless ring to it," he said. "Don't you think so?"

"I can only speak for myself," Stephen replied coldly. "We have nothing
in common. But for you I should still be in _my_ world. Considering
that we are intruders, however, the offer seems generous enough.
Perhaps I shall be given some kind of work. That is enough to live for."

"What is your field?" the Planner asked Stephen.

"I am--or was--a biological technician."

"That is unfortunate," the Planner said, with a sudden chill in his
voice. "You see, we came here to get away from the technicians.

"I," said Turpan haughtily, "was a burglar. However, I think I see the
shape of my new vocation forming at this instant. I see no weapons
among your colonists."

"They are forbidden here," the Planner said. "I observe that you have
a moisture rifle. You will be required to turn it over to us, to be
destroyed."

Turpan chuckled. "Now you are being silly," he said. "If you have no
weapons, it must have occurred to you that you cannot effectively
forbid _me_ mine."

"You cannot stand alone against three hundred."

"Of course I can," Turpan said. "You know quite well that if you try to
overpower me, scores of you will die. What would happen to your vaunted
sexual balance then? No indeed, I think you will admit to the only
practical solution, which is that I take over the government of the
island."

The officiousness and the _élan_ seemed to go out of the Planner at
once, like the air out of a pricked balloon. He was suddenly an old
young man. Stephen saw, with a sinking feeling, that the audacity of
Turpan had triumphed again.

"You have the advantage of me at the moment," the Planner said. "I
relinquish my authority to you in order to avoid bloodshed. Henceforth
you will be our Planner. Time will judge my action--and yours."

"Not your Planner," Turpan said. "Your dictator."

       *       *       *       *       *

There could be but one end to it, of course. One of the first official
actions of Dictator Turpan, from the eminence of his lofty, translucent
tent with its red and yellow flag on top, was to decree a social
festival, to which the other two settlements were invited for eating,
drinking and fraternization unrestrained. How unrestrained no one
(unless Turpan) could have predicted until late that evening, when
the aspect of it began to be Bacchanalian, with the mores and the
inhibitions of these intellectuals stripped off, one by one, like the
garments of civilization.

Stephen was shocked. Secretly he had approved, at least, of the ideals
of these rebels. But what hope could there be if they could so easily
fall under the domination of Turpan?

Still, there was something insidiously compelling about the man.

As for Stephen, he had been allotted his position in this new life, and
he was not flattered.

"You shall be my body servant," Turpan had said. "I can more nearly
trust you than anyone else, since your life, as well as mine, hangs in
the balance of my ascendance."

"I would betray you at the earliest opportunity."

Turpan laughed. "I am sure that you would. But you value your life,
and you will be careful. Here with me you are safer from intrigue.
Later I shall find confidants and kindred spirits here, no doubt, who
will help me to consolidate my power."

"They will rise and destroy you before that time. You must eventually
sleep."

"I sleep as lightly as a cat. Besides, so long as they are inflamed, as
they are tonight, with one another, they are not apt to become inflamed
against me. For every male there is a female. Not all of them will pair
tonight--nor even in a week. And by the time this obsession fails to
claim their attention I shall be firmly seated upon my throne. There
will be no women left for you or me, of course, but you will have your
work, as you noted--and it will consist of keeping my boots shined and
my clothing pressed."

"And you?" Stephen said bitterly.

"Ah, yes. What of the dictator? I have a confession to make to you,
my familiar. I prefer it this way. If I should simply choose a woman,
there would be no zest to it. Therefore I shall wait until they are
all taken, and then I shall steal one--each week. Now go out and enjoy
yourself."

Stephen, steeped in gloom, left the tent. No one paid any attention
to him. There was a good deal of screaming and laughing. Too much
screaming.

He walked along the avenue of tents. Beyond the temporary floodlights
of the atomic generators it was quite dark. Yet around the horizon
played the flickering lights of the aurora, higher now that the sun was
beyond the sea. A thousand years from now it would be there, visible
each night, as common to that distant generation as starlight.

From the shadow of the valley's rim he emerged upon a low promontory
above the village. Directly below where he stood, a woman, shrieking,
ran into the blackness of a grove of small trees. She was pursued by a
man. And then she was pursued no more.

He turned away, toward the seashore. It lay half a mile beyond the
settlement of Flight One.

Presently he came upon a sandy beach. The sea was dark and calm;
there was never any wind here. Aloft the barrier arose more plainly
than before, touching the ocean perhaps half a mile from shore, but
invisible at sea-level. And beyond it--he stared.

There were the lights of a great city, shining across the water. The
lights twinkled like jewels, beckoning nostalgically to him. But
then he remembered that a Molein Field, jealously allowing only the
passage of photonic energy, was said to have a prismatic effect--and
yet another, a nameless and inexplicable impress, upon light itself.
The lights were a mirage. Perhaps they existed a thousand miles away;
perhaps not at all. He shivered.

And then he saw the object in the water, bobbing out there a hundred
yards from the beach. Something white--an arm upraised. It was a human
being, swimming toward him, and helplessly arm-weary by the looks of
that desperate motion! It disappeared, appeared again, struggling more
weakly.

Stephen plunged into the water, waded as far as he could, and swam the
last fifty feet with a clumsy, unpracticed stroke, just in time to
grasp the swimmer's hair.

And then he saw that the swimmer, going down for the last time, was a
girl.

       *       *       *       *       *

They rested upon the warm, white sand until she had recovered from her
ordeal. Stephen prudently refrained from asking questions. He knew that
she belonged to Flight Two or Flight Three, for he had seen her once or
twice before this evening at the festival. Her short, platinum curls
made her stand out in a crowd. She was not beautiful, and yet there
was an essence of her being that appealed strongly to him; perhaps it
was the lingering impression of her soft-tanned body in his arms as he
had carried her to shore.

"You must have guessed that I was running away," she said presently.

"Running away? But how--where--"

"I know. But I had panicked, you see. I was already dreadfully
homesick, and then came this horrid festival. I couldn't bear seeing us
make such--such fools of ourselves. The women--well, it was as if we
had reverted to animals. One of the men--I think he was a conjectural
physicist by the name of Hesson--made advances to me. I'm no formalist,
but I ran. Can you understand that?"

"I also disapprove of debauchery," Stephen said.

"I ran and ran until I came, at last, to this beach. I saw the lights
of a city across the water. I am a strong swimmer and I struck out
without stopping to reconsider. It was a horrible experience."

"You found nothing."

"Nothing--and worse than nothing. There is a place out there where
heaven and hell, as well as the earth and the sky, are suspended. I
suddenly found myself in a halfworld where all directions seemed to
lead straight down. I felt myself slipping, sliding, flowing downward.
And once I thought I saw a _face_--an impossible face. Then I was
expelled and found myself back in normal waters. I started to swim back
here."

"You were very brave to survive such an ordeal," he said. "Would that
I had been half so courageous when I first set eyes upon that devil,
Turpan! I might have spared all of you this humiliation."

"Then--you are the technician who came with Turpan?"

He nodded. "I was--and am--his prisoner. I have more cause to hate him
than any of you."

"In that case I shall tell you a secret. The capitulation of our camps
to Turpan's tyranny was planned. If you had counted us, you would have
found that many of the men stayed away from the festival tonight. They
are preparing a surprise attack upon Turpan from behind the village
when the celebration reaches its height and he will expect it least. I
heard them making plans for a coup this afternoon."

"It is ill-advised. Many of your men will die--and perhaps for nothing.
Turpan is too cunning to be caught napping."

"You could be of help to them," she said.

He shrugged. "I am only a technician, remember? The hated ruling class
of the Technocracy that you left. A supernumerary, even as Turpan. I
cannot help myself to a place in your exclusive society by helping you.
Come along. We had better be getting back."

"Where are we going?"

"Straight to Turpan," he said.

       *       *       *       *       *

"I cannot believe that you would tell me this," Turpan said, striding
back and forth, lion-like, before the door of his tent. "Why have you?"

"Because, as you observed, my fate is bound with yours," Stephen said.
"Besides, I do not care to be a party to a massacre."

"It will give me great pleasure to massacre them."

"Nevertheless, their clubs and stones will eventually find their marks.
Our minutes are numbered unless you yield."

Turpan's eyes glowed with the fires of his inner excitement. "I will
never do that," he said. "I think I like this feeling of urgency. What
a pity that you cannot learn to savor these supreme moments."

"Then at least let this woman go. She has no part in it."

Turpan allowed his eyes to run over the figure of the girl, standing
like a petulant naiad, with lowered eyes and trembling lip, and found
that figure, in its damp and scanty attire, gratifying.

"What is your name?"

"Ellen," she said.

"You will do," Turpan said. "Yes, you will do very well for a hostage."

"You forget that these men are true idealists," Stephen said.
"Yesterday they may have believed in the sanctity of human life.
Today they believe that they will be sanctified by spilling their
own blood--and they are not particular whether that blood is male or
female. If you would survive, it will be necessary for us to retrench."

"What is your suggestion, technician?"

"I know a place where we can defend ourselves against any attack. There
is an elevation not far from here where, if you recall, we stood that
first time and spied upon the valley. It is sheer on all sides. We
could remain there until daylight, or until you have discouraged this
rebellion. It would be impossible for anyone, ascending in that loose
shale, to approach us with stealth."

"It is a sound plan," Turpan said. "Gather a few packages of
concentrates and sufficient water."

"I already have them."

"Then take this woman and lead the way. I will follow. And keep in mind
that in the event of trouble both of you will be the first to lose the
flesh off your bones from this moisture rifle."

Stephen went over and took Ellen by the hand. "Courage," he whispered.

"I wish that both of us had drowned," she said.

But she came with them docilely enough, and Stephen drew a sigh of
relief when they were out of the illuminated area without being
discovered.

"Walk briskly now," Turpan said, "but do not run. That is something
that I have learned in years of skirmishing with the police."

At the foot of the cliff Stephen stopped and removed his shoes.

"What are you doing?" Turpan demanded suspiciously.

"A precaution against falling," Stephen said.

"I prefer to remain fully dressed," Turpan said. "Lead on."

Stephen now found that, though the pain was excruciating, his bare feet
had rendered him as sure-footed as a goat, while Turpan struggled to
keep his footing. Between them the girl uncomplainingly picked her way
upward.

And then they came to a place, as Stephen had hoped, where it was
necessary to scale a sheer scarp of six or seven feet in order to gain
a shelf near the summit. He had to kneel in order to help the girl up.
Turpan, not tall enough to pull himself up with his arms, cursed as
his boots slipped.

"Extend the barrel of your rifle to me," Stephen said, "and I will
pull you up until you are able to reach that overhanging bush. It will
support your weight."

Turpan nodded curtly. He was not happy about this. He was never happy
when playing a minor role, but he appreciated the urgency of the moment.

Stephen pulled and the Bedchamber Assassin strained upward. Then he
grasped at the bush, and at the same moment Stephen gave a sharp,
Herculean tug.

Turpan snatched for the bush with both hands. "Got it," he said, and
swung himself upon the ledge.

"Yes," agreed Stephen, "but _I_ have the rifle."

       *       *       *       *       *

Turpan, fettered like a common criminal, lay upon his couch in the tent
where he had sat not long ago, a conqueror. The powerful floodlight
that shone in his face did nothing to sooth his raw temper. Someone
entered the tent and he strained in his bonds to see who it was.
Stephen came and stood over him.

Turpan licked his dry lips. "What time is it?" he asked.

"It is almost midnight. They have destroyed your rifle, but it has
been decided that, in view of your predatory nature, it would be
dangerous to release you again upon this colony. Are you prepared to
meet your fate?"

Turpan sneered. "Destroy me, fool--eunuch! It will not change your lot
here. You will remain an untouchable--an odd man out. May your books
comfort your cold bed for the rest of your life. I prefer death."

Stephen removed the hypodermic needle from the kit which they had
furnished him and filled it. He bared Turpan's arm. The muscles of
that arm were tense, like cords of steel. Turpan was lying. He was
frightened of death.

Stephen smiled a little. He looked a good deal younger when he smiled.
"Please relax," he said. "I am only a biological technician; not an
executioner."

       *       *       *       *       *

Two hours later Stephen emerged from the tent, perspiring, and found
that the revel in the encampment continued unabated even at this time
of morning. Few suspected what had been going on in Turpan's tent.
These few now anxiously awaited his verdict.

"How did it go?" the former Planner of Flight One asked. "Was--the
equipment satisfactory? The drugs and chalones sufficient?"

He nodded wearily. "The character change appears to have been complete
enough. The passivity will grow, of course." A group of men and women
were playing a variety of hide-and-seek, with piercing shouts and
screams, among the shadows of the tents, and it was no child's game.

"Don't worry about them," the Planner said. "They'll be over it in the
morning. Most of them have never had anything to drink before. Our
dictator's methods may have been cruder than we intended, but they've
certainly broken the ice."

"When will we see--Turpan?" someone asked. It was Ellen.

Stephen had not known that she was waiting. "Any moment now, I
believe," he said. "I will go in and see what is keeping him."

He returned in a few seconds. "A matter of clothing," he said with a
smile. "I warned you that there would be a complete character change."

The garments were supplied. Stephen took them in. The floodlight had
been turned off now, and it was fairly dark in the tent.

"Hurry up," Stephen said gently.

"I can't--I cannot do it!"

"Oh, but you can. You can start all over now. Few of the colonists ever
knew you by sight. I am sure that you will be warmly enough received."

Stephen came out. Ellen searched his face. "It will not be much longer
now," he told her.

"And to think that I doubted you!"

"I am only a technician," he said.

"There are one hundred and sixty-two male high scientists upon this
island," she said, coming forward and putting her arms around him, "but
only one, solid, unimaginative, blessed technician. It makes a nice,
even arrangement for us women, don't you think?"

"Even enough," he said. And at that moment Turpan stepped out of the
tent, and all of them looked. And looked. And Turpan, unable to face
that battery of eyes, ran.

Ran lightly and gracefully through the tent village toward the cliffs
beyond. And all along that gauntlet there were catcalls and wolf
whistles.

"Don't worry," the Planner said. "She will come back to us. After all,
there is a biological need."