_Earth was dying. Possibly the only human beings left
         in the Universe were those on the Moon. On this last
         outpost of humanity, the age-old controversy between
          ideologies continued to tear the human race apart,
           as each group prepared to unleash the deadly ..._

                          Tongues of the Moon

                         By PHILIP JOSE FARMER

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                    Amazing Stories September 1961.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


Fireflies on the dark meadow of Earth....

The men and women looking up through the dome in the center of the
crater of Eratosthenes were too stunned to cry out, and some did not
understand all at once the meaning of those pin-points on the shadowy
face of the new Earth, the lights blossoming outwards, then dying. So
bright they could be seen through the cloudmasses covering a large part
of Europe. So bright they could be located as London, Paris, Brussels,
Copenhagen, Leningrad, Rome, Reykjavik, Athens, Cairo....

Then, a flare near Moscow that spread out and out and out....

Some in the dome recovered more quickly than others. Scone and Broward,
two of the Soviet North American officers present at the reception in
honor of the South Atlantic Axis officers, acted swiftly enough to
defend themselves.

Even as the Axes took off their caps and pulled small automatics and
flat bombs from clips within the caps, the two Americans reached for
the guns in their holsters.

Too late to do them much good if the Argentineans and South Africans
nearest them had aimed at them. The Axes had no shock on their faces;
they must have known what to expect. And their weapons were firing
before the fastest of the Soviets could reach for the butts of their
guns.

But the Axes must have had orders to kill the highest ranking Soviets
first. At these the first fire was concentrated.

Marshal Kosselevsky had half-turned to his guest, Marshal
Ramírez-Armstrong. His mouth was open and working, but no words came
from it. Then, his eyes opened even wider as he saw the stubby gun
in the Argentinean's hand. His own hand rose in a defensive, wholly
futile, gesture.

Ramírez-Armstrong's gun twanged three times. Other Axes' bullets also
struck the Russian. Kosselevsky clutched at his paunch, and he fell
face forward. The .22 calibers did not have much energy or penetrate
deeply into the flesh. But they exploded on impact; they did their work
well enough.

Scone and Broward took advantage of not being immediate targets.
Guns in hand, they dived for the protection of a man-tall bank of
instruments. Bullets struck the metal cases and exploded, for, in a few
seconds, the Axes had accomplished their primary mission and were now
out to complete their secondary.

Broward felt a sting on his cheek as he rolled behind the bank. He
put his hand on his cheek, and, when he took it away, he saw his hand
covered with blood. But his probing finger felt only a shallow of
flesh. He forgot about the wound. Even if it had been more serious, he
would have had no time to take care of it.

A South African stepped around the corner of the bank, firing as he
came.

Broward shot twice with his .45. The dark-brown face showered into red
and lost its human shape. The body to which it was now loosely attached
curved backwards and fell on the floor.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Broward!" called Scone above the twang and boom of the guns and the
wharoop! of a bomb. "Can you see anything? I can't even stick my head
around the corner without being shot at."

Broward looked at Scone, who was crouched at the other end of the bank.
Scone's back was to Broward, but Scone's head was twisted far enough
for him to see Broward out of the corner of his eye.

Even at that moment, when Broward's thoughts should have excluded
everything but the fight, he could not help comparing Scone's profile
to a face cut out of rock. The high bulbous forehead, thick bars of
bone over the eyes, Dantesque nose, thin lips, and chin jutting out
like a shelf of granite, more like a natural formation which happened
to resemble a chin than anything which had taken shape in a human womb.

Ugly, massive, but strong. Nothing of panic or fear in that face; it
was as steady as his voice.

Old Gibraltar-face, thought Broward for perhaps the hundredth time. But
this time he did not feel dislike.

"I can't see any more than you--Colonel," he said.

Scone, still squatting, shifted around until he could bring one eye to
bear fully on Broward. It was a pale blue, so pale it looked empty,
unhuman.

"Colonel?"

"Now," said Broward. "A bomb got General Mansfield and Colonels Omato
and Ingrass. That gives you a fast promotion, sir."

"We'll both be promoted above this bank if an Axe lobs a bomb over,"
said Scone. "We have to get out of here."

"To where?"

Scone frowned--granite wrinkling--and said, "It's obvious the Axes
want to do more than murder a few Soviets. They must plan on getting
control of the bonephones. I know I would if I were they. If they can
capture the control center, every Soviet on the Moon--except for the
Chinese--is at their mercy. So...."

"We make a run for the BR?"

"I'm not ordering you to come with me," said Scone. "That's almost
suicide. But you will give me a covering fire."

"I'll go with you, Colonel."

Scone glanced at the caduceuses on Broward's lapels, and he said,
"We'll need your professional help after we clean out the Axes. No."

"You need my amateurish help now," said Broward. "As you see"--he
jerked his thumb at the nearly headless Zulu--"I can handle a gun. And
if we don't get to the bonephone controls first, life won't be worth
living. Besides, I don't think the Axes intend taking any prisoners."

"You're right," said Scone. But he seemed hesitant.

"You're wondering why I'm falling in so quickly with your plan to wreck
the control center?" said Broward. "You think I'm a Russky agent?"

"I didn't say I intended to wreck the transmitters," said Scone. "No. I
know what you are. Or, I think I do. You're not a Russky. You're a...."

Scone stopped. Like Broward, he felt the rock floor quiver, then start
shaking. And a low rumbling reached them, coming up through their feet
before their ears detected it.

Scone, instead of throwing himself flat on the floor--an instinctive
but useless maneuver--jumped up from his squatting position.

"Now! Now! The others'll be too scared to move!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Broward rose, though he wanted to cling to the floor. Directly below
them--or, perhaps, to the side but still underground--a white-hot
"tongue" was blasting a narrow tunnel through the rock. Behind it, also
hidden within the rock, in a shaft which the vessel must have taken
a long time to sink without being detected, was a battlebird. Only a
large ship could carry the huge generators required to drive a tongue
that would damage a base. A tongue, or snake, as it was sometimes
called. A flexible beam of "straightened-out" photons, the ultimate
development of the laser.

And when the tongue reached the end of the determined tunnel, then
the photons would be "un-sprung". And all the energy crammed into the
compressed photons would dissipate.

"Follow me!" said Scone, and he began running.

Broward took a step, halted in amazement, called out, "The suits ...
other way!"

Then, he resumed running after Scone. Evidently, the colonel was not
concerned about the dome cracking wide open. His only thought was for
the bonephone controls.

Broward expected to be cut down under a storm of bullets. But the
room was silent except for the groans of some wounded. And the
ever-increasing rumble from deep under.

The survivors of the fight were too intent on the menace probing
beneath them to pay attention to the two runners--if they saw them.

That is, until Scone bounded through the nearest exit from the dome in
a great leap afforded by the Moon's weak gravity. He almost hit his
head on the edge of the doorway.

Then, somebody shot at Broward. But his body, too, was flying through
the exit, his legs pulled up, and the three bullets passed beneath him
and blew holes in the rock wall ahead of him.

Broward slammed into the wall and fell back on the floor. Though
half-stunned, he managed to roll past the corner, out of line of fire,
into the hallway. He rose, breathing hard, and checked to make sure he
had not broken his numbed wrists and hands, which had cushioned much
of his impact against the wall. And he was thankful that the tongues
needed generators too massive to be compacted into hand weapons. If the
Axes had been able to smuggle tonguers into the dome, they could have
wiped out every Soviet on the base.

The rumble became louder. The rock beneath his feet shook. The walls
quivered like jelly. Then....

Not the ripping upwards of the floor beneath his feet, the ravening
blast opening the rock and lashing out at him with sear of fire and
blow of air to burn him and crush him against the ceiling at the same
time.

From somewhere deep and off to one side was an explosion. The rock
swelled. Then, subsided.

       *       *       *       *       *

Silence.

Only his breathing.

For about six seconds while he thought that the Russian ships stationed
outside the base must have located the sunken Axis vessel and destroyed
it just before it blew up the base.

From the dome, a hell's concerto of small-gun fire.

Broward ran again, leaping over the twisted and shattered bodies of
Russians and Axes. Here the attacking officers had been met by Soviet
guards, and the two groups had destroyed each other.

Far down the corridor, Scone's tall body was hurtling along, taking the
giant steps only a long-time Lunie could safely handle. He rounded a
corner, was gone down a branching corridor.

Broward, following Scone, entered two more branches, and then stopped
when he heard the boom of a .45. Two more booms. Silence. Broward
cautiously stuck his head around the corner.

He saw two Russian soldiers on the floor, their weapons close to their
lifeless hands. Down the hall, Scone was running.

Broward did not understand. He could only surmise that the Russians
had been so surprised by Scone that they had fired, or tried to fire,
before they recognized the North American uniform. And Scone had shot
in self-defense.

But the corridors were well lit with electroluminescent panels. All
three should have seen at once that none wore the silver of Argentine
or the scarlet and brown of the South Africans. So...?

He did not know. Scone could tell him, but Broward would have trouble
catching up with him.

Then, once more, he heard the echoes of a .45 bouncing around the
distant corner of the hall.

When Broward rounded the turn as cautiously as he had the previous one,
he saw two more dead Russians. And he saw Scone rifling the pockets of
the officer of the two.

"Scone!" he shouted so the man would not shoot him, too, in a frenzy.
"It's Broward!"

Coming closer, he said, "What're you doing?"

Scone rose from the officer with a thin plastic cylinder about a
decimeter long in one hand. With the other hand, he pointed his .45 at
Broward's solar plexus.

"I'm going to blow up the controls and the transmitters," he said.
"What did you think?"

Choking, Broward said, "You're not working for the Axis?"

He did not believe Scone was. But, in his astonishment, he could only
think of that as a reason for Scone's behavior. Despite his accusation
about Scone's intentions, he had not really believed the man meant to
do more than insure that the controls did not fall into Axis hands.

Scone said, "Those swine! No! I'm just making sure that the Axes
will not be able to use the bonephones if they do seize this office.
Besides, I have never liked the idea of being under Russian control.
These hellish devices...."

Broward pointed at the corpses. "Why?"

"They had their orders," said Scone. "Which were to allow no one into
the control room without proper authorization. I didn't want to argue
and so put them on their guard. I had to do what was expedient."

Scone glared at Broward, and he said, "Expediency is going to be the
rule for this day. No matter who suffers."

Broward said, "You don't have to kill me, too. I am an American. If I
could think as coolly as you, I might have done the same thing myself."

He paused, took a deep breath, and said, "Perhaps, you didn't do this
on the spur of the moment. Perhaps, you planned this long before. If
such a situation as this gave you a chance."

"We haven't time to stand here gabbing," said Scone.

       *       *       *       *       *

He backed away, his gun and gaze steady on Broward. With his other
hand, he felt around until the free end of the thin tube fitted into
the depression in the middle of the door. He pressed in on the key, and
(the correct sequence of radio frequencies activating the unlocking
circuit) the door opened.

Scone motioned for Broward to precede him. Broward entered. Scone came
in, and the door closed behind him.

"I thought I should kill you when we were behind the bank," said Scone.
"But you weren't--as far as I had been able to determine--a Russian
agent. Far from it. And you were, as you said, a fellow American.
But...."

Broward looked at the far wall with its array on array of indicator
lights, switches, pushbuttons, and slots for admission of coded cards
and tapes.

He turned to Scone, and he said, "Time for us to quit being coy.
I've known for a long time that you were the chief of a Nationalist
underground."

For the first time since Broward had known him, Scone's face cracked
wide open.

"What?"

Then, the cracks closed up, the cliff-front was solid again.

"Why didn't you report me. Or are you...?"

"Not of your movement, no," said Broward. "I'm an Athenian. You've
heard of us?"

"I know of them," said Scone. "A lunatic fringe. Neither Russ, Chinese,
nor Yank. I had suspected that you weren't a very solid Marxist. Why
tell me this?"

"I want to talk you out of destroying the controls and the
transmitters," said Broward.

"Why?"

"Don't blow them up. Given time, the Russ could build another set. And
we'd be under their control again. Don't destroy them. Plant a bomb
which can be set off by remote control. The moment they try to use the
phones to paralyze us, blow up the transmitters. That might give us
time to remove the phones from our skulls with surgery. Or insulate
the phones against reception. Or, maybe, strike at the Russkies. If
fighting back is what you have in mind. I don't know how far your
Nationalism goes."

"That might be better," said Scone, his voice flat, not betraying any
enthusiasm for the plan. "Can I depend upon you and your people?"

"I'll be frank. If you intend to try for complete independence of
the Russians, you'll have our wholehearted cooperation. Until we are
independent."

"And after that--what then?"

"We believe in violence only after all other means have failed. Of
course, mental persuasion was useless with the Russians. With fellow
Americans, well...."

"How many people do you have at Clavius?"

Broward hesitated, then said, "Four. All absolutely dependable. Under
my orders. And you?"

"More than you," said Scone. "You understand that I'm not sharing the
command with you? We can't take time out to confer. We need a man who
can give orders to be carried out instantly. And my word will be life
or death? No argument?"

"No time now for discussions of policy. I can see that. Yes. I place
myself and my people under your orders. But what about the other
Americans? Some are fanatical Marxists. Some are unknown, X."

"We'll weed out the bad ones," said Scone. "I don't mean by bad the
genuine Marxists. I'm one myself. I mean the non-Nationalists. If
anyone wants to go to the Russians, we let them go. Or if anybody
fights us, they die."

"Couldn't we just continue to keep them prisoners?"

"On the Moon? Where every mouth needs two pairs of hands to keep
breathing and eating? Where even one parasite may mean eventual death
for all others? No!"

Broward said, "All right. They die. I hope...."

"Hopes are something to be tested," said Scone. "Let's get to work.
There should be plenty of components here with which to rig up a
control for the bomb. And I have the bomb taped to my belly."

       *       *       *       *       *

"You won't have to untape your bomb," said Broward. "The transmitters
are mined. So are the generators."

"How did you do it? And why didn't you tell me you'd already done it?"

"The Russians have succeeded in making us Americans distrust each
other," said Broward. "Like everybody else, I don't reveal information
until I absolutely have to. As to your first question, I'm not only
a doctor, I'm also a physical anthropologist engaged in a Moonwide
project. I frequently attend conferences at this base, stay here
several sleeps. And what you did so permanently with your gun, I did
temporarily with a sleep-inducing aerosol. But, now that we understand
each other, let's get out."

"Not until I see the bombs you say you've planted."

Broward smiled. Then, working swiftly with a screwdriver he took from a
drawer, he removed several wall-panels. Scone looked into the recesses
and examined the component boards, functional blocks, and wires which
jammed the interior.

"I don't see any explosives," Scone said.

"Good," said Broward. "Neither will the Russians, unless they measure
the closeness of the walls to the equipment. The explosive is spread
out over the walls in a thin layer which is colored to match the
original green. Also, thin strips of a chemical are glued to the walls.
This chemical is temperature-sensitive. When the transmitters are
operating and reach maximum radiation of heat, the strips melt. And the
chemicals released interact with the explosive, detonate it."

"Ingenious," said Scone somewhat sourly. "We don't ..." and he stopped.

"Have such stuff? No wonder. As far as I know, the detonator and
explosive were made here on the Moon. In our lab at Clavius."

"If you could get into this room without being detected and could also
smuggle all that stuff from Clavius, then the Russ can be beaten," said
Scone.

Now, Broward was surprised. "You doubted they could?"

"Never. But all the odds were on their side. And you know what a
conditioning they give us from the day we enter kindergarten."

"Yes. The picture of the all-knowing, all-powerful Russian backed
by the force of destiny itself, the inevitable rolling forward and
unfolding of History as expounded by the great prophet, the only
prophet, Marx. But it's not true. They're human."

       *       *       *       *       *

They replaced the panels and the screwdriver and left the room. Just as
they entered the hall, and the door swung shut behind them, they heard
the thumps of boots and shouts. Scone had just straightened up from
putting the key back into the dead officer's pocket when six Russians
trotted around the corner. Their officer was carrying a burp gun, the
others, automatic rifles.

"Don't shoot!" yelled Scone in Russian. "Americans! USAF!"

The captain, whom both Americans had seen several times before, lowered
her burper.

"It's fortunate that I recognized you," she said. "We just killed three
Axes who were dressed in Russian uniforms. They shot four of my men
before we cut them down. I wasn't about to take a chance you might not
be in disguise, too."

She gestured at the dead men. "The Axes got them, too?"

"Yes," said Scone. "But I don't know if any Axes are in there."

He pointed at the door to the control room.

"If there were, we'd all be screaming with pain," said the captain.
"Anyway, they would have had to take the key from the officer on guard."

She looked suspiciously at the two, but Scone said, "You'll have to
search him. I didn't touch him, of course."

She dropped to one knee and unbuttoned the officer's inner coatpocket,
which Scone had not neglected to rebutton after replacing the key.

Rising with the key, she said, "I think you two must go back to the
dome."

Scone's face did not change expression at this evidence of distrust.
Broward smiled slightly.

"By the way," she said, "what are you doing here?"

"We escaped from the dome," said Broward. "We heard firing down this
way, and we thought we should protect our rear before going back into
the dome. We found dead Russians, but we never did see the enemy. They
must have been the ones you ran into."

"Perhaps," she said. "You must go. You know the rules. No unauthorized
personnel near the BR."

"No non-Russians, anyway," said Scone flatly. "I know. But this is an
emergency."

"You must go," she said, raising the barrel of her gun. She did not
point it at them, but they did not doubt she would.

Scone turned and strode off, Broward following. When they had turned
the first corner, Scone said, "We must leave the base on the first
excuse. We _have_ to get back to Clavius."

"So we can start our own war?"

"Not necessarily. Just declare independence. The Russ may have their
belly full of death."

"Why not wait until we find out what the situation on Earth is? If the
Russians have any strength left on Earth, we may be crushed."

"Now!" said Scone. "If we give the Russ and the Chinese time to recover
from the shock, we lose our advantage."

"Things are going too fast for me, too," said Broward. "I haven't time
or ability to think straight now. But I have thought of this. Earth
could be wiped out. If so, we on the Moon are the only human beings
left alive in the universe. And...."

"There are the Martian colonies. And the Ganymedan and Mercutian bases."

"We don't know what's happened to them. Why start something which may
end the entire human species? Perhaps, ideology should be subordinated
for survival. We need every man and woman, every...."

"We must take the chance that the Russians and Chinese won't care to
risk making _Homo sapiens_ extinct. They'll have to cooperate, let us
go free.

"We don't have time to talk. Act now; talk after it's all over."

But Scone did not stop talking. During their passage through the
corridors, he made one more statement.

"The key to peace on the Moon, and to control of this situation, is the
_Zemlya_."

Broward was puzzled. He knew Scone was referring to the Brobdingnagian
interstellar exploration vessel which had just been built and outfitted
and was now orbiting around Earth. The _Zemlya_ (Russian for Earth) had
been scheduled to leave within a few days for its ten year voyage to
Alpha Centaurus and, perhaps, the stars beyond. What the _Zemlya_ could
have to do with establishing peace on the Moon was beyond Broward. And
Scone did not seem disposed to explain.

Just then, they passed a full-length mirror, and Broward saw their
images. Scone looked like a mountain of stone walking. And he, Broward
thought, he himself looked like a man of leather. His shorter image,
dark brown where the skin showed, his head shaven so the naked skull
seemed to be overlaid with leather, his brown eyes contrasting with the
rock-pale eyes of Scone, his lips so thick compared with Scone's, which
were like a thin groove cut into granite. Leather against stone. Stone
could outwear leather. But leather was more flexible.

Was the analogy, as so many, false? Or only partly true?

Broward tended to think in analogies; Scone, directly.

At the moment, a man like Scone was needed. Practical, quick reacting.
But, like so many practical men, impractical when it came to long
range and philosophical thinking. Not much at extrapolation beyond the
immediate. Broward would follow him up to a point. Then....

       *       *       *       *       *

They came to the entrance to the dome. Only the sound of voices came
from it. Together, they stuck their heads around the side of the
entrance. And they saw many dead, some wounded, a few men and women
standing together near the center of the floor. All, except one, were
in the variously colored and marked uniforms of the Soviet Republics.
The exception was a tall man in the silver dress uniform of Argentine.
His right arm hung limp and bloody; his skin was grey.

"Colonel Lorentz," said Scone. "We've one prisoner, at least."

After shouting to those within the dome not to fire, the two walked in.
Major Panchurin, the highest-ranking Russian survivor, lifted a hand to
acknowledge their salute. He was too busy talking over the bonephone to
say anything to them.

The two examined the dome. The visiting delegation of Axis officers
was dead except for Lorentz. The Russians left standing numbered six;
the Chinese, four; the Europeans, one; the Arabic, two; the Indian-East
Asiatic, none. There were four Americans alive. Broward. Scone. Captain
Nashdoi. And a badly wounded woman, Major Hoebel.

Broward walked towards Hoebel to examine her. Before he could do
anything the Russian doctor, Titiev, rose from her side. He said, "I'm
sorry, captain. She isn't going to make it."

Broward looked around the dome and made a remark which must, at the
time, have seemed irrelevant to Titiev. "Only three women left. If the
ratio is the same on the rest of the Moon, we've a real problem."

Scone had followed Broward. After Titiev had left, and after making
sure their bonephones were not on, Scone said in a low voice, "There
were seventy-five Russians stationed here. I doubt if there are over
forty left in the entire base. I wonder how many in Pushkin?"

Pushkin was the base on the other side of the Moon.

They walked back to the group around Panchurin and turned on their
phones so they could listen in.

Panchurin's skin paled, his eyes widened, his hands raised
protestingly.

"No, no," he moaned out loud.

"What is it?" said Scone, who had heard only the last three words
coming in through the device implanted in his skull.

Panchurin turned a suddenly old face to him. "The commander of the
_Zemlya_ said that the Argentineans have set off an undetermined number
of cobalt bombs. More than twenty, at the very least."

He added, "The _Zemlya_ is leaving its orbit. It intends to establish
a new one around the Moon. It won't leave until we evaluate our
situation. If then."

Every Soviet in the room looked at Lorentz.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Argentinean straightened up from his weary slump and summoned all
the strength left in his bleeding body. He spoke in Russian so all
would understand.

"We told you pigs we would take the whole world with us before we'd
bend our necks to the Communist yoke!" he shouted.

At that moment, his gaunt high-cheekboned face with its long upper lip,
thin lipline mustache, and fanatical blue eyes made him resemble the
dictator of his country, Félipé Howards, El Macho (The Sledgehammer).

Panchurin ordered two soldiers and the doctor to take him to the
jail. "I would like to kill the beast now," he said. "But he may have
valuable information. Make sure he lives ... for the time being."

Then, Panchurin looked upwards again to Earth, hanging only a little
distance above the horizon. The others also stared.

Earth, dark now, except for steady glares here and there, forest fires
and cities, probably, which would burn for days. Perhaps weeks. Then,
when the fires died out, the embers cooled, no more fire. No more
vegetation, no more animals, no more human beings. Not for centuries.

Suddenly, Panchurin's face crumpled, tears flowed, and he began sobbing
loudly, rackingly.

The others could not withstand this show of grief. They understood now.
The shock had worn off enough to allow sorrow to have its way. Grief
ran through them like fire through the forests of their native homes.

Broward, also weeping, looked at Scone and could not understand. Scone,
alone among the men and women under the dome and the Earth, was not
crying. His face was as impassive as the slope of a Moon mountain.

Scone did not wait for Panchurin to master himself, to think clearly.
He said, "I request permission to return to Clavius, sir."

Panchurin could not speak; he could only nod his head.

"Do you know what the situation is at Clavius?" said Scone
relentlessly.

Panchurin managed a few words. "Some missiles ... Axis base ... came
close ... but no damage ... intercepted."

Scone saluted, turned, and beckoned to Broward and Nashdoi. They
followed him to the exit to the field. Here Scone made sure that the
air-retaining and gamma-ray and sun-deflecting force field outside the
dome was on. Then the North Americans stepped outside onto the field
without their spacesuits. They had done this so many times they no
longer felt the fear and helplessness first experienced upon venturing
from the protecting walls into what seemed empty space. They entered
their craft, and Scone took over the controls.

After identifying himself to the control tower, Scone lifted the dish
and brought it to the very edge of the force field. He put the controls
on automatic, the field disappeared for the two seconds necessary for
the craft to pass the boundary, and the dish, impelled by its own power
and by the push of escaping air, shot forward.

Behind them, the faint flicker indicating the presence of the field
returned. And the escaped air formed brief and bright streamers that
melted under the full impact of the sun.

"That's something that will have to be rectified in the future," said
Scone. "It's an inefficient, air-wasting method. We're not so long on
power we can use it to make more air every time a dish enters or leaves
a field."

He returned on the r-t, contacted Clavius, told them they were coming
in. To the operator, he said, "Pei, how're things going?"

"We're still at battle stations, sir. Though we doubt if there will
be any more attacks. Both the Argentinean and South African bases
were wrecked. They don't have any retaliatory capabilities, but
survivors may be left deep underground. We've received no orders from
Eratosthenes to dispatch searchers to look for survivors. The base at
Pushkin doesn't answer. It must...."

       *       *       *       *       *

There was a crackling and a roar. When the noise died down, a voice
in Russian said, "This is Eratosthenes. You will refrain from
further radio communication until permission is received to resume.
Acknowledge."

"Colonel Scone on the United Soviet Americas Force destroyer _Broun_.
Order acknowledged."

He flipped the switch off. To Broward, he said, "Damn Russkies are
starting to clamp down already. But they're rattled. Did you notice
I was talking to Pei in English, and they didn't say a thing about
that? I don't think they'll take much effective action or start any
witch-hunts until they recover fully from the shock and have a chance
to evaluate.

"Tell me, is Nashdoi one of you Athenians?"

Broward looked at Nashdoi, who was slumped on a seat at the other end
of the bridge. She was not within earshot of a low voice.

"No," said Broward. "I don't think she's anything but a lukewarm
Marxist. She's a member of the Party, of course. Who on the Moon
isn't? But like so many scientists here, she takes a minimum interest
in ideology, just enough not to be turned down when she applied for
psychological research here.

"She was married, you know. Her husband was called back to Earth
only a little while ago. No one knew if it was for the reasons given
or if he'd done something to displease the Russkies or arouse their
suspicions. You know how it is. You're called back, and maybe you're
never heard of again."

"What other way is there?" said Scone. "Although I don't like the
Russky dictating the fate of any American."

"Yes?" said Broward. He looked curiously at Scone, thinking of what a
mass of contradictions, from his viewpoint, existed inside that massive
head. Scone believed thoroughly in the Soviet system except for one
thing. He was a Nationalist; he wanted an absolutely independent North
American republic, one which would reassert its place as the strongest
in the world.

And that made him dangerous to the Russians and the Chinese.

       *       *       *       *       *

America had fallen, prey more to its own softness and confusion than
to the machinations of the Soviets. Then, in the turbulent bloody
starving years that followed the fall with their purges, uprisings,
savage repressions, mass transportations to Siberia and other areas,
importation of other nationalities to create division, and bludgeoning
propaganda and reeducation, only the strong and the intelligent
survived.

Scone, Broward, and Nashdoi were of the second generation born after
the fall of Canada and the United States. They had been born and had
lived because their parents were flexible, hardy, and quick. And
because they had inherited and improved these qualities.

The Americans had become a problem to the Russians. And to the Chinese.
Those Americans transported to Siberia had, together with other
nationalities brought to that area, performed miracles with the harsh
climate and soil, had made a garden. But they had become Siberians,
not too friendly with the Russians.

China, to the south, looking for an area in which to dump their excess
population, had protested at the bringing in of other nationalities.
Russia's refusal to permit Chinese entry had been one more added to the
long list of grievances felt by China towards her elder brother in the
Marx family.

And on the North American continent, the American Communists had
become another trial to Moscow. Russia, rich with loot from the U.S.,
had become fat. The lean underfed hungry Americans, using the Party
to work within, had alarmed the Russians with their increasing power
and influence. Moreover, America had recovered, was again a great
industrial empire. Ostensibly under Russian control, the Americans were
pushing and pressuring subtly, and not so subtly, to get their own way.
Moscow had to resist being Uncle Samified.

To complicate the world picture, thousands of North Americans had
taken refuge during the fall of their country in Argentine. And there
the energetic and tough-minded Yanks (the soft and foolish died on
the way or after reaching Argentine) followed the paths of thousands
of Italians and Germans who had fled there long ago. They became rich
and powerful; Félipé Howards, El Macho, was part-Argentinean Spanish,
part-German, part-American.

The South African (sub-Saharan) peoples had ousted their Communist
and Fascist rulers because they were white or white-influenced.
Pan-Africanism was their motto. Recently, the South African
Confederation had formed an alliance with Argentine. And the Axis
had warned the Soviets that they must cease all underground activity
in Axis countries, cease at once the terrible economic pressures and
discriminations against them, and treat them as full partners in the
nations of the world.

If this were not done, and if a war started, and the Argentineans saw
their country was about to-be crushed, they would explode cobalt bombs.
Rather death than dishonor.

The Soviets knew the temper of the proud and arrogant Argentineans.
They had seemed to capitulate. There was a conference among the heads
of the leading Soviets and Axes. Peaceful coexistence was being talked
about.

But, apparently, the Axis had not swallowed this phrase as others had
once swallowed it. And they had decided on a desperate move.

Having cheap lithium bombs and photon compressors and the means to
deliver them with gravitomagnetic drives, the Axis was as well armed
as their foes. Perhaps, their thought must have been, if they delivered
the first blow, their anti-missiles could intercept enough Soviet
missiles so that the few that did get through would do a minimum of
damage. Perhaps. No one really knew what caused the Axis to start the
war.

Whatever the decision of the Axis, the Axis had put on a good show. One
of its features was the visit by their Moon officers to the base at
Eratosthenes, the first presumably, in a series of reciprocal visits
and parties to toast the new amiable relations.

Result: a dying Earth and a torn Moon.

       *       *       *       *       *

Broward belonged to that small underground which neither believed in
the old Soviet nor the old capitalist system. It wanted a form of
government based on the ancient Athenian method of democracy on the
local level and a loose confederation on the world level. All national
boundaries would be abolished.

Such considerations, thought Broward, must be put aside for the time
being. Getting independence of the Russians, getting rid of the hellish
bonephones, was the thing to do now. Or so it had seemed to him.

But would not that inevitably lead to war and the destruction of all of
humanity? Would it not be better to work with the other Soviets and
hope that eventually the Communist ideal could be subverted and the
Athenian established? With communities so small, the modified Athenian
form of government would be workable. Later, after the Moon colonies
increased in size and population, means could be found for working out
intercolonial problems.

Or perhaps, thought Broward, watching the monolithic Scone, Scone did
not really intend to force the other Soviets to cooperate? Perhaps, he
hoped they would fight to the death and the North American base alone
would be left to repopulate the world.

"Broward," said Scone, "go sound out Nashdoi. Do it subtly."

"Wise as the serpent, subtle as the dove," said Broward. "Or is it the
other way around?"

Scone lifted his eyebrows. "Never heard that before. From what book?"

Broward walked away without answering. It was significant that Scone
did not know the source of the quotation. The Old and New Testaments
were allowed reading only for select scholars. Broward had read an
illegal copy, had put his freedom and life in jeopardy by reading it.

But that was not the point here. The thought that occurred to him was
that, nationality and race aside, the people on the Moon were a rather
homogeneous group. Three-fourths of them were engineers or scientists
of high standing, therefore, had high I.Q.'s. They were descended from
ancestors who had proved their toughness and good genes by surviving
through the last hundred years. They were all either agnostics or
atheists or supposed to be so. There would not be any religious
differences to split them. They were all in superb health, otherwise
they would not be here. No diseases among them, not even the common
cold. They would all make good breeding stock. Moreover, with recent
advances in genetic manipulation, defective genes could be eliminated
electrochemically. Such a manipulation had not been possible on Earth
with its vast population where babies were being born faster than
defective genes could be wiped out. But here where there were so few....

Perhaps, it would be better to allow the Soviet system to exist for
now. Later, use subtle means to bend it towards the desired goal.

No! The system was based on too many falsities, among which the
greatest was dialectical materialism. As long as the corrupt base
existed, the structure would be corrupt.

       *       *       *       *       *

Broward sat down by Ingrid Nashdoi. She was a short dark and petite
woman of about thirty-three. Not very good-looking but, usually, witty
and vivacious. Now, she stared at the floor, her face frozen.

"I'm sorry about Jim," he said. "But we don't have time to grieve now.
Later, perhaps."

She did not look at him but replied in a low halting voice. "He may
have been dead before the war started. I never even got to say goodbye
to him. You know what that means. What it probably did mean."

"I don't think they got anything out of him. Otherwise, you and I would
have been arrested, too."

He jerked his head towards Scone and said, "He doesn't know you're one
of us. I want him to think you're a candidate for the Nationalists.
After this struggle with the Russ is over, we may need someone who can
report on him. Think you can do it?"

She nodded her head, and Broward returned to Scone. "She hates the
Russians," he said. "You know they took her husband away. She doesn't
know why. But she hates Ivan's guts."

"Good. Ah, here we go."

       *       *       *       *       *

After the destroyer had berthed at Clavius, and the three entered the
base, events went swiftly if not smoothly. Scone talked to the entire
personnel over the IP, told them what had happened. Then he went to
his office and issued orders to have the arsenal cleaned out of all
portable weapons. These were transferred to the four destroyers the
Russians had assigned to Clavius as a token force.

Broward then called in his four Athenians and Scone, his five
Nationalists. The situation was explained to them, and they were
informed of what was expected of them. Even Broward was startled, but
didn't protest.

After the weapons had been placed in the destroyers, Scone ordered the
military into his office one at a time. And, one at a time, they were
disarmed and escorted by another door to the arsenal and locked in.
Three of the soldiers asked to join Scone, and he accepted two. Several
protested furiously and denounced Scone as a traitor.

Then, Scone had the civilians assembled in the large auditorium.
(Technically, all personnel were in the military, but the scientists
were only used in that capacity during emergencies.) Here, he
told them what he had done, what he planned to do--except for one
thing--and asked them if they wished to enlist. Again, he got a violent
demonstration from some and sullen silence from others. These were
locked up in the arsenal.

The others were sworn in, except for one man, Whiteside. Broward
pointed him out as an agent and informer for both the Russians and
Chinese. Scone admitted that he had not known about the triple-dealer,
but he took Broward's word and had Whiteside locked up, too.

Then, the radios of the two scout ships were smashed, and the prisoners
marched out and jammed into them. Scone told them they were free to fly
to the Russian base. Within a few minutes, the scouts hurtled away from
Clavius towards the north.

"But, Colonel," said Broward, "they can't give the identifying code to
the Russians. They'll be shot down."

"They are traitors; they prefer the Russky to us. Better for us if they
are shot down. They'll not fight for Ivan."

Broward did not have much appetite when he sat down to eat and to
listen to Scone's detailing of his plan.

"The _Zemlya_," he said, "has everything we need to sustain us here.
And to clothe the Earth with vegetation and replace her animal life in
the distant future when the radiation is low enough for us to return.
Her deepfreeze tanks contain seeds and plants of thousands of different
species of vegetation. They also hold, in suspended animation, the
bodies of cattle, sheep, horses, rabbits, dogs, cats, fowl, birds,
useful insects and worms. The original intention was to reanimate these
and use them on any Terrestrial-type planet the _Zemlya_ might find.

"Now, our bases here are self-sustaining. But, when the time comes to
return to Earth, we must have vegetation and animals. Otherwise, what's
the use?

"So, whoever holds the _Zemlya_ holds the key to the future. We must be
the ones who hold that key. With it, we can bargain; the Russians and
the Chinese will have to agree to independence if they want to share in
the seeds and livestock."

"What if the _Zemlya's_ commander chooses destruction of his vessel
rather than surrender?" said Broward. "Then, all of humanity will be
robbed. We'll have no future."

"I have a plan to get us aboard the _Zemlya_ without violence."

       *       *       *       *       *

An hour later, the four USAF destroyers accelerated outwards towards
Earth. Their radar had picked up the _Zemlya_; it also had detected
five other Unidentified Space Objects. These were the size of their own
craft.

Abruptly, the _Zemlya_ radioed that it was being attacked. Then,
silence. No answer to the requests from Eratosthenes for more
information.

Scone had no doubt about the attackers' identity. "The Axis leaders
wouldn't have stayed on Earth to die," he said. "They'll be on their
way to their big base on Mars. Or, more likely, they have the same idea
as us. Capture the _Zemlya_."

"And if they do?" said Broward.

"We take it from them."

The four vessels continued to accelerate in the great curve which would
take them out away from the _Zemlya_ and then would bring them around
towards the Moon again. Their path was computed to swing them around so
they would come up behind the interstellar ship and overtake it. Though
the titanic globe was capable of eventually achieving far greater
speeds than the destroyers, it was proceeding at a comparatively slow
velocity. This speed was determined by the orbit around the Moon into
which the _Zemlya_ intended to slip.

In ten hours, the USAF complement had curved around and were about
10,000 kilometers from the _Zemlya_. Their speed was approximately
20,000 kilometers an hour at this point, but they were decelerating.
The Moon was bulking larger; ahead of them, visible by the eye, were
two steady gleams. The _Zemlya_ and the only Axis vessel which had not
been blown to bits or sliced to fragments. According to the _Zemlya_,
which was again in contact with the Russian base, the Axis ship had
been cut in two by a tongue from _Zemlya_.

But the interstellar ship was now defenseless. It had launched
every missile and anti-missile in its arsenal. And the fuel for the
tongue-generators was exhausted.

"Furthermore," said Shaposhnikov, commander of the _Zemlya_, "new USO
has been picked up on the radar. Four coming in from Earth. If these
are also Axis, then the _Zemlya_ has only two choices. Surrender. Or
destroy itself."

"There is nothing we can do," replied Eratosthenes. "But we do not
think those USO are Axis. We detected four destroyer-sized objects
leaving the vicinity of the USAF base, and we asked them for
identification. They did not answer, but we have reason to believe they
are North American."

"Perhaps they are coming to our rescue," suggested Shaposhnikov.

"They left before anyone knew you were being attacked. Besides, they
had no orders from us."

"What do I do?" said Shaposhnikov.

Scone, who had tapped into the tight laser beam, broke it up by sending
random pulses into it. The _Zemlya_ discontinued its beam, and Scone
then sent them a message through a pulsed tongue which the Russian
base could tap into only through a wild chance.

After transmitting the proper code identification, Scone said, "Don't
renew contact with Eratosthenes. It is held by the Axis. They're trying
to lure you close enough to grab you. We escaped the destruction of our
base. Let me aboard where we can confer about our next step. Perhaps,
we may have to go to Alpha Centaurus with you."

       *       *       *       *       *

For several minutes, the _Zemlya_ did not answer. Shaposhnikov must
have been unnerved. Undoubtedly, he was in a quandary. In any case, he
could not prevent the strangers from approaching. If they were Axis,
they had him at their mercy.

Such must have been his reasoning. He replied, "Come ahead."

By then, the USAF dishes had matched their speeds to that of the
_Zemlya's_. From a distance of only a kilometer, the sphere looked
like a small Earth. It even had the continents painted on the surface,
though the effect was spoiled by the big Russian letters painted on the
Pacific Ocean.

Scone gave a lateral thrust to his vessel, and it nudged gently into
the enormous landing-port of the sphere. Within five minutes, his crew
of ten were in the control room.

Scone did not waste any time. He drew his gun; his men followed suit;
he told Shaposhnikov what he meant to do. The Russian, a tall thin
man of about fifty, seemed numbed. Perhaps, too many catastrophes had
happened in too short a time. The death of Earth, the attack by the
Axis ships, and, now, totally unexpected, this. The world was coming to
an end in too many shapes and too swiftly.

Scone cleared the control room of all _Zemlya_ personnel except the
commander. The others were locked up with the forty-odd men and women
who were surprised at their posts by the Americans.

Scone ordered Shaposhnikov to set up orders to the navigational
computer for a new path. This one would send the _Zemlya_ at the
maximum acceleration endurable by the personnel towards a point in the
south polar region near Clavius. When the _Zemlya_ reached the proper
distance, it would begin a deceleration equally taxing which would
bring it to a halt approximately half a kilometer above the surface at
the indicated point.

Shaposhnikov, speaking disjointedly like a man coming up out of a
nightmare, protested that the _Zemlya_ was not built to stand such a
strain. Moreover, if Scone succeeded in his plan to hide the great
globe at the bottom of a chasm under an overhang.... Well, he could
only predict that the lower half of the _Zemlya_ would be crushed under
the weight--even with the Moon's weak gravity.

"That won't harm the animal tanks," said Scone. "They're in the upper
levels. Do as I say. If you don't, I'll shoot you and set up the
computer myself."

"You are mad," said Shaposhnikov. "But I will do my best to get us down
safely. If this were ordinary war, if we weren't man's--Earth's--last
hope, I would tell you to go ahead, shoot. But...."

Ingrid Nashdoi, standing beside Broward, whispered in a trembling
voice, "The Russian is right. He is mad. It's too great a gamble. If we
lose, then everybody loses."

"Exactly what Scone is betting on," murmured Broward. "He knows the
Russians and Chinese know it, too. Like you, I'm scared. If I could
have foreseen what he was going to do, I think I'd have put a bullet
in him back at Eratosthenes. But it's too late to back out now. We go
along with him no matter what."

       *       *       *       *       *

The voyage from the Moon and the capture of the _Zemlya_ had taken
twelve hours. Now, with the _Zemlya's_ mighty drive applied--and the
four destroyers riding in the landing-port--the voyage back took three
hours. During this time, the Russian base sent messages. Scone refused
to answer. He intended to tell all the Moon his plans but not until
the _Zemlya_ was close to the end of its path. When the globe was a
thousand kilometers from the surface, and decelerating with the force
of 3g's, he and his men returned to the destroyers. All except three,
who remained with Shaposhnikov.

The destroyers streaked ahead of the _Zemlya_ towards an entrance to a
narrow canyon. This led downwards to a chasm where Scone intended to
place the _Zemlya_ beneath a giant overhang.

But, as the four sped towards the opening two crags, their radar
picked up four objects coming over close to the mountains to the
north. A battlebird and three destroyers. Scone knew that the Russians
had another big craft and three more destroyers available. But they
probably did not want to send them out, too, and leave the base
comparatively defenseless.

He at once radioed the commander of the _Lermontov_ and told him what
was going on.

"We declare independence, a return to Nationalism," he concluded. "And
we call on the other bases to do the same."

The commander roared, "Unless you surrender at once, we turn on the
bonephones! And you will writhe in pain until you die, you American
swine!"

"Do that little thing," said Scone, and he laughed.

He switched on the communication beams linking the four ships and said,
"Hang on for a minute or two, men. Then, it'll be all over. For us and
for them."

       *       *       *       *       *

Two minutes later, the pain began. A stroke of heat like lightning that
seemed to sear the brains in their skulls. They screamed, all except
Scone, who grew pale and clutched the edge of the control panel. But
the dishes were, for the next two minutes, on automatic, unaffected by
their pilots' condition.

And then, just as suddenly as it had started, the pain died. They
were left shaking and sick, but they knew they would not feel that
unbearable agony again.

"Flutter your craft as if it's going out of control," said Scone. "Make
it seem we're crashing into the entrance to the canyon."

Scone himself put the lead destroyer through the simulation of a craft
with a pain-crazed pilot at the controls. The others followed his
maneuvers, and they slipped into the canyon.

From over the top of the cliff to their left rose a glare that would
have been intolerable if the plastic over the portholes had not
automatically polarized to dim the brightness.

       *       *       *       *       *

Broward, looking through a screen which showed the view to the rear,
cried out. Not because of the light from the atomic bomb which had
exploded on the other side of the cliff. He yelled because the top
of the _Zemlya_ had also lit up. And he knew in that second what had
happened. The light did not come from the warhead, for an extremely
high mountain was between the huge globe and the blast. If the upper
region of the _Zemlya_ glowed, it was because a tongue from a Russian
ship had brushed against it.

It must have been an accident, for the Russians surely had no wish to
wreck the _Zemlya_. If they defeated the USAF, they could recapture the
globe with no trouble.

"My God, she's falling!" yelled Broward. "Out of control!"

Scone looked once and quickly. He turned away and said, "All craft land
immediately. All personnel transfer to my ship."

The maneuver took three minutes, for the men in the other dishes had
to connect air tanks to their suits and then run from their ships to
Scone's. Moreover, one man in each destroyer was later than his fellows
since he had to set up the controls on his craft.

Scone did not explain what he meant to do until all personnel had made
the transfer. In the meantime, they were at the mercy of the Russians
if the enemy had chosen to attack over the top of the cliff. But Scone
was gambling that the Russians would be too horrified at what was
happening to the _Zemlya_. His own men would have been frozen if he had
not compelled them to act. The Earth dying twice within twenty-four
hours was almost more than they could endure.

Only the American commander, the man of stone, seemed not to feel.

Scone took his ship up against the face of the cliff until she was
just below the top. Here the cliff was thin because of the slope on
the other side. And here, hidden from view of the Russians, he drove a
tongue two decimeters wide through the rock.

And, at the moment three Russian destroyers hurtled over the edge,
tongues of compressed light lashing out on every side in the classic
flailing movement, Scone's beam broke through the cliff.

       *       *       *       *       *

The three empty USAF ships, on automatic, shot upwards at a speed that
would have squeezed their human occupants into jelly--if they had had
occupants. Their tongues shot out and flailed, caught the Russian
tongues, twisted, shot out and flailed, caught the Russian tongues,
twisted as the generators within the USAF vessels strove to outbend the
Russian tongues.

Then, the American vessels rammed into the Russians, drove them
upwards, flipped them over. And all six craft fell along the cliff's
face, Russian and American intermingled, crashing into each other,
bouncing off the sheer face, exploding, their fragments colliding, and
smashed into the bottom of the canyon.

Scone did not see this, for he had completed the tongue through the
tunnel, turned it off for a few seconds, and sent a video beam through.
He was just in time to see the big battlebird start to float off the
ground where it had been waiting. Perhaps, it had not accompanied
the destroyers because of Russian contempt for American ability. Or,
perhaps, because the commander was under orders not to risk the big
ship unless necessary. Even now, the _Lermontov_ rose slowly as if it
might take two paths: over the cliff or towards the _Zemlya_. But, as
it rose, Scone applied full power.

Some one, or some detecting equipment, on the _Lermontov_ must have
caught view of the tongue as it slid through space to intercept the
battlebird. A tongue shot out towards the American beam. But Scone, in
full and superb control, bent the axis of his beam, and the Russian
missed. Then Scone's was in contact with the hull, and a hole appeared
in the irradiated plastic.

Majestically, the _Lermontov_ continued rising--and so cut itself
almost in half. And, majestically, it fell.

Not before the Russian commander touched off all the missiles aboard
his ship in a last frenzied defense, and the missiles flew out in all
directions. Two hit the slope, blew off the face of the mountain on the
_Lermontov's_ side, and a jet of atomic energy flamed out through the
tunnel created by Scone.

But he had dropped his craft like an elevator, was halfway down the
cliff before the blasts made his side of the mountain tremble.

Half an hour later, the base of Eratosthenes sued for peace. For the
sake of human continuity, said Panchurin, all fighting must cease
forever on the moon.

The Chinese, who had been silent up to then despite their comrades'
pleas for help, also agreed to accept the policy of Nationalism.

Now, Broward expected Scone to break down, to give way to the strain.
He would only have been human if he had done so.

He did not. Not, at least, in anyone's presence.

       *       *       *       *       *

Broward awoke early during a sleep-period. Unable to forget the dream
he had just had, he went to find Ingrid Nashdoi. She was not in her
lab; her assistant told him that she had gone to the dome with Scone.

Jealous, Broward hurried there and found the two standing there and
looking up at the half-Earth. Ingrid was holding a puppy in her arms.
This was one of the few animals that had been taken unharmed from the
shattered tanks of the fallen _Zemlya_.

Broward, looking at them, thought of the problems that faced the Moon
people. There was that of government, though this seemed for the moment
to be settled. But he knew that there would be more conflict between
the bases and that his own promotion of the Athenian ideology would
cause grave trouble.

There was also the problem of women. One woman to every three men.
How would this be solved? Was there any answer other than heartaches,
frustration, hate, even murder?

"I had a dream," said Broward to them. "I dreamed that we on the Moon
were building a great tower which would reach up to the Earth and that
was our only way to get back to Earth. But everybody spoke a different
tongue, and we couldn't understand each other. Therefore, we kept
putting the bricks in the wrong places or getting into furious but
unintelligible argument about construction."

He stopped, saw they expected more, and said, "I'm sorry. That's all
there was. But the moral is obvious."

"Yes," said Ingrid, stroking the head of the wriggling puppy. She
looked up at Earth, close to the horizon. "The physicists say it'll
be two hundred years before we can go back. Do you realize that,
barring accident or war, all three of us might live to see that day?
That we might return with our great-great-great-great-great-great
grandchildren? And we can tell them of the Earth that was, so they
will know how to build the Earth that must be."

"Two hundred years?" said Broward. "We won't be the same persons then."

But he doubted that even the centuries could change Scone. The man was
made of rock. He would not bend or flow. And then Broward felt sorry
for him. Scone would be a fossil, a true stone man, a petrified hero.
Stone had its time and its uses. But leather also had its time.

"We'll never get back unless we do today's work every day," said Scone.
"I'll worry about Earth when it's time to worry. Let's go; we've work
to do."


                                THE END