The Traveling Crag
Theodore Sturgeon
From “Baby is Three”
Volume VI: The Complete Stories of Theodore Sturgeon

	"I know agents who can get work out of their clients," said the telephone acidly.
	"Yes, Nick, but—"
	"Matter of fact, I know agents who would be willing to drop everything and go out to that one-shot genius's home town and—"
	"I did!"
	"I know you did! And what came of it?"
	"I got a new story. It came in this morning."
	"You just don't know how to handle a real writer. All you have to do is—you what?"
	"I got a new story. I have it right here."
	A pause. "A new Sig Weiss story? No kidding?"
	"No kidding."
	The telephone paused a moment again, as if to lick its lips. "I was saying to Joe just yesterday that if there's an agent in town who can pry work out of a primadonna like Weiss, it's good old Crisley Post. Yes, sir. Joe thinks a lot of you, Cris. Says you can take a joke better than—how long is the story?"
	"Nine thousand."
	"Nine thousand. I've got just the spot for it. By the way, did I tell you I can pay an extra cent a word now? For Weiss, maybe a cent and a half."
	"You hadn't told me. Last time we talked rates you were overstocked. You wouldn't pay more than—"
	"Aw, now, Cris, I was just—"
	"Goodbye, Nick."
	"Wait! When will you send—"
	"Goodbye, Nick."
	It was quiet in the office of Crisley Post, Articles, Fiction, Photographs. Then Naome snickered.
	"What's funny?"
	"Nothing's funny. You're wonderful. I've been waiting four years to hear you tell an editor off. Particularly that one. Are you going to give him the story?"
	"I am not."
	"Good! Who gets it? The slicks? What are you going to do: sell it to the highest bidder?"
	"Naome, have you read it?"
	"No. I gave it to you as soon as it came in. I knew you'd want to—"
	"Read it."
	"Wh—now?"
	"Right now."
	She took the manuscript and carried it to her desk by the window. "Corny title," she said.
	"Corny title," he agreed.
	He sat glumly, watching her. She was too small to be so perfectly proportioned, and her hair was as soft as it looked, which was astonishing. She habitually kept him at arm's length, but her arms were short. She was loyal, arbitrary, and underpaid, and she ran the business, though neither of them would admit it aloud. He thought about Sig Weiss.
	Every agent has a Sig Weiss—as a rosy dream. You sit there day after day paddling through oceans of slush, hoping one day to run across a manuscript that means something—sincerity, integrity, high word rates—things like that. You try to understand what editors want in spite of what they say they want, and then you try to tell it to writers who never listen unless they're talking. You lend them money and psychoanalyze them and agree with them when they lie to themselves. When they write stories that don't make it, it's your fault. When they write stories that do make it, they did it by themselves. And when they hit the big time, they get themselves another agent. In the meantime, nobody likes you.
	"Real stiff opening," said Naome.
	"Real stiff," Cris nodded.
	And then it happens. In comes a manuscript with a humble little covering note that says, "This is my first story, so it's probably full of mistakes that I don't know anything about. If you think it has anything in it, I'll be glad to fix it up any way you say." And you start reading it, and the story grabs you by the throat, shakes your bones, puts a heartbeat into your lymph ducts and finally slams you down gasping, weak and oh so happy.
	So you send it out and it sells on sight, and the editor calls up to say thanks in an awed voice, and tells an anthologist, who buys reprint rights even before the yarn is published, and rumors get around, and you sell radio rights and TV rights and Portuguese translation rights. And the author writes you another note that claims volubly that if it weren't for you he'd never have been able to do it.
	That's the agent's dream, and that was Cris Post's boy Sig Weiss and The Traveling Crag. But, like all dream plots, this one contained a sleeper. A rude awakening.
	Offers came in and Cris made promises, and waited. He wrote letters. He sent telegrams. He got on the long distance phone (to a neighbor's house, Weiss had no phone).
	No more stories.

	So he went to see Weiss. He lost six days on the project. It was Naome's idea. "He's in trouble," she announced, as if she knew for sure. "Anyone who can write like that is sensitive. He's humble and he's generous and he's probably real shy and real good-looking. Someone's victimized him, that's what. Someone's taken advantage of him. Cris, go on out there and find out what's the matter."
	"All the way out to Turnville? My God, woman, do you know where that is? Besides, who's going to run things around here?" As if he didn't know.
	"I'll try, Cris. But you've got to see what's the matter with Sig Weiss. He's the—the greatest thing that ever happened around here."
	"I'm jealous," he said, because he was jealous.
	"Don't be silly," she said, because he wasn't being silly.
	So out he went. He missed connections and spent one night in a depot and had his portable typewriter stolen and found he'd forgotten to pack the brown shoes that went with the brown suit. He brushed his teeth once with shaving cream and took the wrong creaking rural bus and had to creak in to an impossibly authentic small town and creak out again on another bus. Turnville was a general store with gasoline pumps outside and an abandoned milk shed across the road, and Cris wasn't happy when he got there. He went into the general store to ask questions.
	The proprietor was a triumph of type-casting. "Whut c'n I dew f'r you, young feller? Shay—yer f'm the city, ain't cha? Heh!"
	Cris fumbled vaguely with his lapels, wondering if someone had pinned a sign on him. "I'm looking for someone called Sig Weiss. Know him?"
	"Sure dew. Meanest bastard ever lived. Wouldn't have nought to dew with him, I was you."
	"You're not," said Cris, annoyed. "Where does he live?"
	"What you want with him?"
	"I'm conducting a nation-wide survey of mean bastards," Cris said. "Where does he live?"
	"You're on the way to the right place, then. Heh! You show me a man's friends, I'll tell you what he is."
	"What about his friends?" Cris asked, startled.
	"He ain't got any friends."
	Cris closed his eyes and breathed deeply. "Where does he live?"
	"Up the road a piece. Two mile, a bit over. That way."
	"Thanks."
	"He'll shoot you," said the proprietor complacently, "but don't let it worry you none. He loads his shells with rock salt."

	Cris walked the two miles and a bit, every uphill inch. He was tired, and his shoes were designed only to carry a high shine and make small smudges on desk tops. It was hot until he reached the top of the mountain, and then the cool wind from the other side made him feel as if he were carrying sacks of crushed ice in his armpits. There was a galvanized tin mailbox on a post by the road with S. WEISS and advanced erosion showing on its ancient sides. In the cutbank near it were some shallow footholds. Cris sighed and started up.
	There was a faint path writhing its way through heavy growth. Through the trees he could see a canted shingle roof. He had gone about forty feet when there was a thunderous explosion and shredded greenery settled about his head and shoulders. Sinking his teeth into his tongue, he turned and dove head first into a tree-bole, and the lights went out.
	A fabulous headache was fully conscious before Cris was. He saw it clearly before it moved around behind his eyes. He was lying where he had fallen. A rangy youth with long narrow eyes was squatting ten feet away. He held a ready shotgun under his arm and on his wrist, while he deftly went through Cris's wallet.
	"Hey," said Cris.
	The man closed the wallet and threw it on the ground by Cris's throbbing head. "So you're Crisley Post," said the man, in a disgusted tone of voice.
	Cris sat up and groaned. "You're—you're not Sig Weiss?"
	"I'm not?" asked the man pugnaciously.
	"Okay, okay," said Cris tiredly. He picked up his wallet and put it away and, with the aid of the tree trunk, got to his feet. Weiss made no move to help him, but watchfully rose with him. Cris asked, "Why the artillery?"
	"I got a permit," said Weiss. "This is my land. Why not? Don't go blaming me because you ran into a tree. What do you want?"
	"I just wanted to talk to you. I came a long way to do it. If I'd known you'd welcome me like this, I wouldn't've come."
	"I didn't ask you to come."
	"I'm not going to talk sense if I get sore," said Cris quietly. "Can't we go inside? My head hurts."
	Weiss seemed to ponder this for a moment. Then he turned on his heel, grunted, "Come," and strode toward the house. Cris followed painfully.
	A gray cat slid across the path and crouched in the long grass. Weiss appeared to ignore it, but as he stepped by, his right leg lashed out sidewise and lifted the yowling animal into the air. It struck a tree trunk and fell, to lie dazed. Cris let out an indignant shout and went to it. The cat cowered away from him, gained its feet and fled into the woods, terrified.
	"Your cat?" asked Weiss coldly.
	"No, but damn if—"
	"If it isn't your cat, why worry?" Weiss walked steadily on toward the house.
	Cris stood a moment, shock and fury roiling in and about his headache, and then followed. Standing there or going away would accomplish nothing.
	The house was old, small, and solid. It was built of fieldstone, and the ceilings were low and heavy beamed. Overlooking the mountainside was an enormous window, bringing in a breathtaking view of row after row of distant hills. The furniture was rustic and built to be used. There was a fireplace with a crane, also more than ornamental. There were no drapes, no couch covers or flamboyant upholstery. There was comfort, but austerity was the keynote.
	"May I sit down?" Cris asked caustically.
	"Go ahead," said Weiss. "You can breathe, too, if you want to."
	Cris sat in a large split-twig chair that was infinitely more comfortable than it looked. "What's the matter with you, Weiss?"
	"Nothing the matter with me."
	"What makes you like this? Why the chip on your shoulder? Why this shoot-first-ask-questions-afterward attitude? What's it get you?"
	"Gets me a life of my own. Nobody bothers me but once. They don't come back. You won't."
	"That's for sure," said Cris fervently, " but I wish I knew what's eating you. No normal human being acts like you do."
	"That's enough," said Weiss very gently, and Cris knew how seriously he meant it. "What I do and why is none of your business. What do you want here, anyhow?"
	"I came to find out why you're not writing. That's my business. You're my client, remember?"
	"You're my agent," he said. "I like the sound of it better that way."
	Cris made an Olympian effort and ignored the remark. "The Traveling Crag churned up quite a stir. You made yourself a nice piece of change. Write more, you'll make more. Don't you like money?"
	"Who doesn't? You got no complaints out of me."
	"Fine. Then what about some more copy?"
	"You'll get it when I'm good and ready."
	"Which is how soon?"
	"How do I know?" Weiss barked. "When I feel like it, whenever that is."
	Cris talked, then, at some length. He told Weiss some of the ins and outs of publishing. He explained how phenomenal it was that a pulp sale should have created such a turmoil, and pointed out what could be expected in the slicks and Hollywood. "I don't know how you've done it, but you've found a short line to the heavy sugar. But the only way you'll ever touch it is to write more."
	"All right, all right," Weiss said at last. "You've sold me. You'll get your story. Is that what you wanted?"
	"Not quite." Cris rose. He felt better, and he could allow himself to be angry now that the business was taken care of. "I still want to know how a guy like you could have written The Traveling Crag in a place like this."
	"Why not?"
	Cris looked out at the rolling blue distance. "That story had more sheer humanity in it than anything I've ever read. It was sensitive and—damn it—it was a kind story. I can usually visualize who writes the stuff I read; I spend all my time with writing and writers. That story wasn't written in a place like this. And it wasn't written by a man like you."
	"Where was it written?" asked Weiss in his very quiet voice. "And who wrote it?"
	"Aw, put your dukes down," said Cris tiredly, and with such contempt that he apparently astonished Weiss. "If you're going to jump salty over every little thing that happens, what are you going to do when something big comes along and you've already shot your bolt?"
	Weiss did not answer, and Cris went on: "I'm not saying you didn't write it. All I'm saying is that it reads like something dreamed up in some quiet place that smelled like flowers and good clean sweat...Some place where everything was right and nothing was sick or off balance. And whoever wrote it suited that kind of a place. It was probably you, but you sure have changed since."
	"You know a hell of a lot, don't you?" The soft growl was not completely insulting, and Cris felt that in some obscure way he had scored. Then Weiss said, "Now get the hell out."
	"Real glad to," said Cris. At the door, he said, "Thanks for the drink."
	When he reached the cutbank he looked back. Weiss was standing by the corner of the house, staring after him.
	Cris trudged back to the crossroads called Turnville and stopped in at the general store. "Shay," said the proprietor. "Looks like a tree reached down and whopped ye. Heh!"
	"Heh!" said Cris. "One did. I called it a son of a beech."
	The proprietor slapped his knee and wheezed. "Shay, thet's a good 'un. Come out back, young feller, while I put some snake oil on your head. Like some cold beer?"
	Cris blessed him noisily. The snake oil turned out to be a benzo-caine ointment that took the pain out instantly, and the beer was a transfusion. He looked at the old man with new respect.
	"Had a bad time up on the hill?" asked the oldster.
	"No worse'n sharing an undershirt with a black widow spider," said Cris. "What's the matter with that character?"
	"Nobuddy rightly knows," said the proprietor. "Came up here about eight years ago. Always been thet way. Some say the war did it to him, but I knew him before he went overseas and he was the same. He jest don't like people, is all. Old Tom Sackett, drives the RFD wagon, he says Weiss was weaned off a gallbladder to a bottle of vinegar. Heh!"
	"Heh!" said Cris. "How's he live?"
	"Gits a check every month. Some trust company. I cash 'em. Not much, but enough. He don't dew nahthin. Hunts a bit, roams these hills a hull lot. Reads. Heh! He's no trouble, though. Stays on his own reservation. Just don't want folks barrelin' in on him. Here comes yer bus."

	"My God!" said Naome.
	"You're addressing me?" he asked.
	She ignored him. "Listen to this:
	Jets blasting, Bat Durston came screeching down through the atmosphere of Bbllzznaj, a tiny planet seven billion light years from Sol. He cut out his super-hyper-drive for the landing…and at that point a tall, lean spaceman stepped out of the tail assembly, proton gun-blaster in a space-tanned hand.
	'Get back from those controls, Bat Durston,' the tall stranger lipped thinly. 'You don't know it, but this is your last space trip.'"
	She looked up at him dazedly. "That's Sig Weiss?"
	"That's Sig Weiss."
	"The same Sig Weiss?"
	"The very same. Leaf through that thing, Naome. Nine bloody thousand words of it, and it's all like that. Go on—read it."
	"No," she said. It was not a refusal, but an exclamation. "Are you going to send it out?"
	"Yes. To Sig Weiss. I'm going to tell him to roll it and stuff it up his shotgun. Honey, we have a one-shot on our hands."
	"That is—it's impossible!" she blazed. "Cris, you can't give him up just like that. Maybe the next one...maybe you can...maybe you're right at that," she finished, glancing back at the manuscript.
	He said tiredly, "Let's go eat."
	"No. You have a lunch."
	"I have?"
	"With a Miss Tillie Moroney. You're quite safe. She's the Average American Miss. I mean it. She was picked out as such by pollsters last year. She's five-five, has had 2.3 years of college, is 24 years old, brown hair, blue eyes, and so on."
	"How much does she weigh?"
	"34B," said Naome, with instant understanding, "and presents a united front like a Victorian."
	He laughed. "And what have I to do with Miss Tillie Moroney?"
	"She's got money. I told you about her—that personals ad in the Saturday Review—remember? 'Does basic character ever change? $1000 for authentic case of devil into saint.'"
	"Oh my gosh yes. You had this bright idea of calling her in after I told you about getting the Weiss treatment in Turnville." He waved at the manuscript. "Doesn't that change your plans any? You might make a case out of The Traveling Crag versus the cat-kicking of Mr. Weiss, if you use that old man's testimony that he's been kicking cats and people for some years. But from my experience," he touched his forehead, which was almost healed, "I'd say it was saint into devil."
	"Her ad didn't mention temporary or permanent changes," Naome pointed out. "There may be a buck in it. You can handle her."
	"Thanks just the same, but let me see what she looks like before I do any such thing. Personally, I think she's a crank. A mystic maybe. Do you know her?"
	"Spoke to her on the phone. Saw her picture last year. The Average American Miss is permitted to be a screwball. That's what makes this country great."
	"You and your Machiavellian syndrome. Can't I get out of it?"
	"You cannot. What are you making such a fuss about? You've wined and dined uglier chicks than this."
	"I know it. Do you think I'd have a chance to see her if I acted eager?"
	"I despise you," said Naome. "Straighten your tie and go comb your hair. Oh, Cris, I know it sounds wacky. But what doesn't, in this business? What'll you lose? The price of a lunch!"
	"I might lose my honor."
	"Authors' agents have no honor."
	"As my friend in the general store is wont to remark: Heh! What protects you, little one?"
	"My honor," replied Naome.

	The brown hair was neat and so was the tailored brown suit that matched it so well. The blue eyes were extremely dark. The rest well befit her Average Miss title, except for her voice, which had the pitch of a husky one while being clear as tropical shoals. Her general air was one of poised shyness. Cris pulled out a restaurant chair for her, which was a tribute; he felt impelled to do that about one time in seven.
	"You think I'm a crank," she said when they were settled with a drink.
	"Do I?"
	"You do," she said positively. He did, too.
	"Well," he said, "your ad did make it a little difficult to suspend judgment."
	She smiled with him. She had good teeth. "I can't blame you, or the eight hundred-odd other people who answered. Why is it a thousand dollars is so much more appealing than such an incredible thought as a change from basic character?"
	"I guess because most people would rather see the change from a thousand dollars."
	He was pleased to find she had the rare quality of being able to talk coherently while she laughed. She said, "You are right. One of them wanted to marry me so I could change his character. He assured me that he was a regular devil. But—tell me about this case of yours."
	He did, in detail: Sig Weiss's incredible short story, its wide impact, its deep call on everything that is fine and generous in everyone who read it. And then he described the man who had written it.
	"In this business, you run into all kinds of flukes," he said. "A superficial, tone-deaf, materialistic character will sit down and write something that positively sings. You read the story, you know the guy, and you say he couldn't have written it. But you know he did. I've seen that time after time, and all it proves is that there are more facets to a man than you see at first—not that there's any real change in him. But Weiss—I'll admit that in his case the theory has got to be stretched to explain it. I'll swear a man like him simply could not contain the emotions and convictions that made The Traveling Crag what it is."
	"I've read it," she said. He hadn't noticed her lower lip was so full. Perhaps it hadn't been, a moment ago. "It was a beautiful thing."
	"Now, tell me about this ad of yours. Have you found such a basic change—devil into saint? Or do you just hope to?"
	"I don't know of any such case," she admitted. "But I know it can happen."
	"How?"
	She paused. She seemed to be listening. Then she said, "I can't tell you. I...know something that can have that effect, that's all. I'm trying to find out where it is."
	"I don't understand that. You don't think Sig Weiss was under such an influence, do you?"
	"I'd like to ask him. I'd like to know if the effect was at all lasting."
	"Not so you'd notice it," he said glumly. "He gave me that bouncing around after he wrote The Traveling Crag, not before. Not only that..." He told her about the latest story.
	"Do you suppose he wrote that under the same circumstances as The Traveling Crag?"
	"I don't see why not. He's a man of pretty regular habits. He probably—wait a minute! Just before I left, I said something to him...something about..." He drummed on his temples. "...Something about the Crag reading as if it had been written in a different place, by a different person. And he didn't get sore. He looked at me as if I were a swami. Seems I hit the nail right on the thumb."
	The listening expression crossed her smooth face again. She looked up, startled. "Has he got any..." She closed her eyes, straining for something. "Has he a radio? I mean—a shortwave set—a transmitter—diathermy—a fever cabinet—any...uh...RF generator of any kind?"
	"What in time made you ask that?"
	She opened her eyes and smiled shyly at him. "It just came to me."
	"Saving your presence, Miss Moroney, but there are moments when you give me the creeps," he blurted. "I'm sorry. I guess I shouldn't have said that, but—"
	"It's all right," she said warmly.
	"You hear voices?" he asked.
	She smiled. "What about the RF generator?"
	"I don't know." He thought hard. "He has electricity. I imagine he has a receiver. About the rest, I really can't say. He didn't take me on a grand tour. Will you tell me what made you ask that?"
	"No."
	He opened his mouth to protest, but when he saw her expression he closed it again. She asked, "What are you going to do about Weiss?"
	"Drop him. What else?"
	"Oh, please don't!" she cried. She put a hand on his sleeve. "Please!"
	"What else to you expect me to do?" he asked in some annoyance. "A writer who sends in a piece of junk like that as a followup to something like the Crag is more than foolish. He's stupid. I can't use a client like that. I'm busy. I got troubles.
	"Also, he gave you a bad time."
	"That hasn't anyth—well, you're right. If he behaved like a human being, maybe I would take a lot of trouble and analyze his trash and guide and urge and wipe his nose for him. But a guy like that—nah!"
	"He has another story like the Crag in him."
	"You think he has?"
	"I know he has."
	"You're very positive. Your...voices tell you that?"
	She nodded, with a small secret smile.
	"I have the feeling you're playing with me. You know this Weiss?"
	"Oh, no! And I'm not playing with you. Truly. You've got to believe me!" She looked genuinely distressed.
	"I don't see why I should. This begins to look real haywire, Tillie Moroney. I think maybe we'd better get down to basics here." She immediately looked so worried that he recognized an advantage. Not knowing exactly what she wanted of him, he knew she wanted something, and now he was prepared to use that to the hilt. "Tell me about it. What's your interest in Weiss? What's this personality-alteration gimmick? What are you after and what gave you your lead? And what do you expect me to do about it? That last question reads, 'What's in it for me?'"
	"Y-you're not always very nice, are you?"
	He said, more gently, "That last wasn't thrown in to be mean. It was an appeal to your good sense to appeal to my sincerity. You can always judge sincerity—your own or anyone else's—by finding out what's in it for the interested party. Altruism and real sincerity are mutually exclusive. Now, talk. I mean, talk, please."
	Again that extraordinary harking expression. Then she drew a deep breath. "I've had an awful time," she said. "Awful. You can't know. I've answered letters and phone calls. I've met cranks and wolves and religious fanatics who have neat little dialectical capsules all packed and ready to make saints out of devils. They all yap about proof—sometimes it's themselves and sometimes it's someone they know—and the proof always turns out to be a reformed drunk or a man who turned to Krishna and no longer beats his wife, not since Tuesday..." She stopped for breath and half-smiled at him and, angrily, he felt a warm surge of liking for her. She went on, "And this is the first hint I've had that what I'm looking for really exists."
	She leaned forward suddenly. "I need you. You already have a solid contact with Sig Weiss and the way he works. If I had to seek him out myself, I—well, I just wouldn't know how to start. And this is urgent, can't you understand—urgent!"
	He looked deep into the dark blue eyes and said, "I understand fine."
	She said, "If I tell you a...story, will you promise not to ask me any questions about it?"
	He fiddled about with his fork for a moment and then said, "I once heard tell of a one-legged man who was pestered by all the kids in the neighborhood about how he lost his leg. They followed him and yelled at him and tagged along after him and made no end of a nuisance of themselves. So one day he stopped and gathered them all around him and asked if they really wanted to know how he lost his leg, and they all chorused YES! And he wanted to know if he told them, would they stop asking him, and they all promised faithfully that they would stop. 'All right,' he said. 'It was bit off.' And he turned and stumped away. As to the promise you want—no."
	She laughed ruefully. "All right. I'll tell you the story anyway. But you've got to understand that it isn't the whole story, and that I'm not at liberty to tell the whole story. So please don't pry too hard."
	He smiled. He had, he noticed in her eyes, a pretty nice smile. "I'll be good."
	"All right. You have a lot of clients who write science fiction, don't you?"
	"Not a lot. Just the best," he said modestly.
	She smiled again. Two curved dimples put her smile in parenthesis. He liked that. She said, "Let's say this is a science fiction plot. How to begin..."
	"Once upon a time..." he prompted.
	She laughed like a child. "Once upon a time," she nodded, "there was a very advanced humanoid race in another galaxy. They had had wars—lots of them. They learned how to control them, but every once in a while things would get out of hand and another, and worse, war would happen. They developed weapon after weapon— things which make the H-bomb like a campfire in comparison. They had planet-smashers. They could explode a sun. They could do things we can only dimly understand. They could put a local warp in time itself, or unify the polarity in the gravitomagnetic field of an entire solar system."
	"Does this gobbledegook come easy to you?" he asked.
	"It does just now," she answered shyly. "Anyway, they developed the ultimate weapon—one which made all the others obsolete. It was enormously difficult to make, and only a few were manufactured. The secret of making it died out, and the available stocks were used at one time or another. The time to use them is coming again— and I don't mean on Earth. The little fuses we have are flea-hops. This is important business.
	"Now, a cargo ship was traveling between galaxies on hyper-spatial drive. In a crazy, billion-to-one odds accident, it emerged into normal space smack in the middle of a planetoid. It wasn't a big one; the ship wasn't atomized, just wrecked. It was carrying one of these super-weapons. It took thousands of years to trace it, but it has been traced. The chances are strong that it came down on a planet. It's wanted.
	"It gives out no detectable radiation. But in its shielded state, it has a peculiar effect on living tissues which come near it."
	"Devils into saints?"
	"The effect is...peculiar. Now..." She held up fingers. "If the nature of this object were known, and if it fell into the wrong hands, the effect here on Earth could be dreadful. There are megalomaniacs on Earth so unbalanced that they would threaten even their own destruction unless their demands were met. Point two: If the weapon were used on Earth, not only would Earth as we know it cease to exist, but the weapon would be unavailable to those who need it importantly."
	Cris sat staring at her, waiting for more. There was no more. Finally he licked his lips and said, "You're telling me that Sig Weiss has stumbled across this thing."
	"I'm telling you a science fiction plot."
	"Where did you get your...information?"
	"It's a science fiction story."
	He grinned suddenly, widely. "I'll be good," he said again. "What do you want me to do."
	Her eyes became very bright. "You aren't like most agents," she said.
	"When I was in a British Colony, the English used to say to me, every once in a while, 'You aren't like most Americans.' I always found it slightly insulting. All right; what do you want me to do?"
	She patted his hand. "See if you can make Weiss write another Traveling Crag. If he can, then find out exactly how and where he wrote it. And let me know."
	They rose. He helped her with her light coat. He said, "Know something?" When she smiled up at him he said, "You don't strike me as Miss Average."
	"Oh, but I was," she answered softly. "I was."
	
TELEGRAM
SIG WEISS 
JULY 15
TURNVILLE

PLEASE UNDERSTAND THAT WHAT FOLLOWS HAS NOTHING WHATEVER TO DO WITH YOUR GROSS LACK OF HOSPITALITY. I REALIZE THAT YOUR WAY OF LIFE ON YOUR OWN PROPERTY IS JUSTIFIED IN TERMS OF ME, AN INTRUDER. I AM FORGETTING THE EPISODE. I ASSUME YOU ALREADY HAVE. NOW TO BUSINESS: YOUR LAST MANUSCRIPT IS THE MOST UTTERLY INSULTING DOCUMENT I HAVE SEEN IN FOURTEEN PROFESSIONAL YEARS. TO INSULT ONE'S AGENT IS STANDARD OPERATING PROCEDURE: TO INSULT ONESELF IS INEXCUSABLE AND BROTHER YOU'VE DONE IT. SIT DOWN AND READ THE STORY THROUGH, IF YOU CAN, AND THEN REREAD THE TRAVELING CRAG. YOU WILL NOT NEED MY CRITICISM. MY ONLY SUGGESTION TO YOU IS TO DUPLICATE EXACTLY THE CIRCUMSTANCES UNDER WHICH YOU WROTE YOUR FIRST STORY. UNLESS AND UNTIL YOU DO THIS WE NEED HAVE NO FURTHER CORRESPONDENCE. I ACCEPT YOUR SINCERE THANKS FOR NOT SUBMITTING YOUR SECOND STORY ANYWHERE.

CRISLEY POST

	Naome whistled. "Really—a straight telegram? What about a night letter?"
	Cris smiled at the place where the wall met the ceiling. "Straight rate."
	"Yes, master." She wielded a busy pencil. "That's costing us $13.75, sir?" she said at length, "plus tax. Grand total, $17.46. Cris, you have a hole in your head!"
	"If you know of a better 'ole, go to it," he quoted dreamily. She glared at him, reached for the phone and continued to glare as she put the telegram on the wire.
	In the next two weeks Cris had lunch three times with Tillie Moroney, and dinner once. Naome asked for a raise. She got it, and was therefore frightened.
	Cris returned from the third of these lunches (which was the day after the dinner) whistling. He found Naome in tears.
	"Hey...what's happening here? You don't do that kind of thing, remember?"
	He leaned over her desk. She buried her face in her arms and boohooed lustily. He knelt beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. "There," he said, patting the nape of her neck. "Take a deep breath and tell me about it."
	She took a long, quavering breath, tried to speak, and burst into tears again. "F-f-fi-fi..."
	"What?"
	"F—" She swallowed with difficulty, then said, "Fire of Heaven!" and wailed.
	"What?" he yelled. "I thought you said 'Fire of Heaven. '''
	She blew her nose and nodded. "I did," she whispered. "H-here." She dumped a pile of manuscript in front of him and buried her face in her arms again. "L-leave me alone."
	In complete bewilderment, he gathered up the typewritten sheets and took them to his desk.
	There was a covering letter.
	Dear Mr. Post: There will never be a way for me to express my thanks to you, nor my apologies for the way I treated you when you visited me. I am willing to do anything in my power to make amends.
	Knowing what I do of you, I think you would be most pleased by another story written the way I did the Crag. Here it is. I hope it measures up. If it doesn't, I earnestly welcome any suggestions you may have to fix it up.
	I am looking forward very much indeed to meeting you again under better circumstances. My house is yours when you can find time to come out, and I do hope it will be soon. Sincerely, S.W.
	With feelings of awe well mixed with astonishment, Cris turned to the manuscript. Fire of Heaven, by Sig Weiss, it was headed. He began to read. For a moment, he was conscious of Naome's difficult and diminishing sniffs, and then he became completely immersed in the story.
	Twenty minutes later, his eyes, blurred and smarting, encountered "The End." He propped his forehead on one palm and rummaged clumsily for his handkerchief. Having thoroughly mopped and blown, he looked across at Naome. Her eyes were red-rimmed and still wet. "Yes?" she said.
	"Oh my God yes," he answered.
	They stared at each other for a breathless moment. Then she said in a soprano near-whisper: "Fire of..." and began to cry again.
	"Cut it out," he said hoarsely.
	When he could, he got up and opened the window. Naome came and stood beside him. "You don't read that," he said after a time. "It...happens to you."
	She said, "What a tragedy. What a beautiful, beautiful tragedy."
	"He said in his letter," Cris managed, "that if I had any suggestions to fix it up..."
	"Fix it up," she said in shaken scorn. "There hasn't been anything like him since—"
	"There hasn't been anything like him period." Cris snapped his fingers. "Get on your phone. Call the airlines. Two tickets to the nearest feederfield to Turnville. Call the Drive-Ur-Self service. Have a car waiting at the field. I'm not asking any woman to climb that mountain on foot. Send this telegram to Weiss: Taking up your very kind offer immediately. Bringing a friend. Will wire arrival time. Profound thanks for the privilege of reading Fire of Heaven. From a case-hardened ten-percenter those words come hard and are well earned. Post."
	"Two tickets," said Naome breathlessly. "Oh! Who's going to handle the office?"
	He thumped her shoulder. "You can do it, kid. You're wonderful. Indispensable. I love you. Get me Tillie Moroney's number, will you?"
	She stood frozen, her lips parted, her nostrils slightly distended. He looked at her, looked again. He was aware that she had stopped breathing. "Naome!"
	She came to life slowly and turned, not to him, but on him. "You're taking that—that Moron-y creature—"
	"Moroney. What's the matter with you?"
	"Oh Cris, how could you?"
	"What have I done? What's wrong? Listen, this is business. I'm not romancing the girl! Why—"
	She curled her lip. "Business! Then it's the first business that's gone on around here that I haven't known about."
	"Oh, it isn't office business, Naome. Honestly."
	"Then there's only one thing it could be!"
	Cris threw up his hands. "Trust me this once. Say! Why should it eat you so much, even if it was monkey-business, which it isn't?"
	"I can't bear to see you throw yourself away!"
	"You—I didn't know you felt—"
	"Shut up!" she roared. "Don't flatter yourself. It's just that she's...average. And so are you. And when you add an average to an average, you've produced NOTHING!"
	He sat down at his desk with a thump and reached for the phone, very purposefully. But his mind was in such a tangle at the moment, that he didn't know what to do with the phone once it was in his hands, until Naome stormed over and furiously dropped a paper in front of him. It had Tillie's number on it. He grinned at her stupidly and sheepishly and dialed. By this time, Naome was speaking to the airlines office, but he knew perfectly well that she could talk and listen at the same time.
	"Hello?" said the phone.
	"Ull-ull," he said, watching Naome's back stiffen. He spun around in his swivel chair so he could talk facing the wall.
	"Hello?" said the phone again.
	"Tillie, Weiss found it he wrote another story it's a dream he invited me down and I'm going and you're coming with me," he blurted.
	"I beg your—Cris, is anything the matter? You sound so strange."
	"Never mind that," he said. He repeated the news more coherently, acutely conscious of Naome's attention to every syllable. Tillie uttered a cry of joy and promised to be right over. He asked her to hang on and forced himself to get the plane departure from Naome. Pleading packing and business odds and ends, he asked her to meet him at the airport. She agreed, for which he was very thankful. The idea of her walking into the office just now was more than he could take.
	Naome had done her phoning and was in a flurry of effort involving her files, which had always been a mystery to Cris. She kept bringing things over to him. "Sign these." "You promised to drop Rogers a note about this." "What do you want done about Borilla's scripts?" Until he was snowed under. "Hold it! These things can wait!"
	"No they can't," she said icily. "I wouldn't want them on my conscience. You see, this is my last day here."
	"Your—Naome! You can't quit. You can't!"
	"I can and I am and I do. Check this list."
	"Naome, I—"
	"I won't listen. My mind's made up."
	"All right then. I'll manage. But it's a shame about Fire of Heaven. Such a beautiful job. And here it must sit until I get back. I did want you to market it."
	"You'd trust me to market that story?" Her eyes were huge.
	"No one else. There isn't anyone who knows the market better, or who would make a better deal. I trust you with it absolutely. After you've done that one last big thing for me—go, then, if you'll be happier somewhere else."
	"Crisley Post, I hate you and despise you. You're a fiend and a spider. Th-thank you. I'll never forget you for this. I'll type up four originals and sneak them around. Movies, of course. What a TV script! And radio...let's see; two, no—three British outfits can bid against each other...you're doing this on purpose to keep me from leaving!"
	"Sure," he said jovially. "I'm real cute. I wrote the story myself just because I couldn't get anyone to replace you."
	At last she laughed. "There's one thing I'm damn sure you didn't do. An editor is a writer who can't write, and an agent is a writer who can't write as well as an editor."
	He laughed with her. He bled too, but it was worth it, to see her laughing again.

	The plane trip was pleasant. It lasted a long time. The ship sat down every 45 minutes or so all the way across the country. Cris figured it was the best Naome could do on short notice. But it gave them lots of time to talk. And talking to Tillie was a pleasure. She was intelligent and articulate, and had read just as many of his favorite books as he had of hers. He told her enough about Fire of Heaven to intrigue her a lot and make her cry a little, without spoiling the plot for her. They found music to disagree about, and shared a view of a wonderful lake down through the clouds, and all in all it was a good trip. Occasionally, Cris glanced at her—most often when she was asleep—with a touch of surmise, like a little curl of smoke, thinking of Naome's suspicions about him and Tillie. He wasn't romancing Tillie. He wasn't. Was he?
	They landed at last, and again he blessed Naome; the Drive-Ur-Self car was at the airfield. They got a road map from a field attendant and drove off through the darkest morning hours. Again Cris found himself glancing at the relaxed girl beside him, half asleep in the cold glow of the dash lights. A phrase occurred to him: "undivided front like a Victorian"—Naome's remark. He flushed. It was true. An affectation of Tillie's, probably; but everything she wore was highnecked and full-cut.
	The sky had turned from grey to pale pink when they pulled up at the Turnville store. Cris honked, and in due course the screen door slammed and the old proprietor ambled down the wooden steps and came to peer into his face.
	"Heh! If 'tain't that city feller. How're ya, son? Didn't know you folks ever got up and about this early."
	"We're up late, dad. Got some gas for us?"
	"Reckon there's a drop left."
	Cris got out and went back with the old man to unlock the gas tank. "Seen Weiss recently?" he asked.
	"Same as usual. Put through some big orders. Seen him do that before. Usually means he's holing up for five, six months. Though why he bought so much liquor an' drape material and that, I can't figure."
	"How'd he behave?"
	"Same as ever. Friendly as a wet wildcat with fleas."
	Cris thanked him and paid him and they turned up the rocky hill road. As they reached the crest, they gasped together at the sun-flooded valley that lay before them. "Memories are the only thing you ever have that you always keep," said Tillie softly, "and this is one for both of us. I'm...glad you're in it for me, Cris."
	"I love you, too," he said in the current idiom, and found himself, hot-faced, looking into a face as suffused as his. They recoiled from each other and started to chatter about the weather—stopped and roared together with laughter. He took her hand and helped her up the cutbank. They paused at the top. "Listen," he said in a low voice. "That old character in the store has seen Weiss recently. And he says there's no change. I think we'd better be just a little bit careful."
	He looked at her and again caught that listening expression. "No," she said at length, "it's all right. The store's outside the...the influence he's under. He's bound to revert when it's gone. But he'll be all right now. You'll see."
	"Will you tell me how you know these things?" he demanded, almost angry.
	"Of course," she smiled. Then the smile vanished. "But not now."
	"That's more than I've gotten so far," he grumbled. "Well, let's get to it."
	Hand in hand, they went up the path. The house seemed the same, and yet...there was a difference, an intensification. The leaves were greener, the early sun warmer.
	There were three grey kittens on the porch.
	"Ahoy the house!" Cris called self-consciously.
	The door opened, and Weiss stood there, peering. He looked for a moment exactly as he had when he watched Cris stride off on the earlier visit. Then he moved out into the sun. He scooped up one of the kittens and came swiftly to meet them. "Mr. Post! I got your wire. How good of you to come."
	He was dressed in a soft sport shirt and grey slacks—a startling difference from his grizzled boots-and-khaki appearance before. The kitten snuggled into the crook of his elbow, made a wild grab at his pocket-button, caught its tail instead. He put it down, and it fawned and purred and rubbed against his shoe.
	Weiss straightened up and smiled at Tillie. "Hello."
	"Tillie, this is Sig Weiss. Miss Moroney."
	"Tillie," she said, and gave him her hand.
	"Welcome home," Weiss said. He turned to Cris. "This is your home, for as long as you want it, whenever you can come."
	Cris stood slack-jawed. "I ought to be more tactful," he said at length, "but I just can't believe it. I should have more sense than to mention my last visit, but this—this—"
	Weiss put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm glad you mentioned it. I've been thinking about it, too. Hell—if you'd forgotten all about it, how could you appreciate all this? Come on in. I have some surprises for you."
	Tillie held Cris back a moment. "It's here," she whispered. "Here in the house!"
	The weapon—here? Somehow he had visualized it as huge—a great horned mine or a tremendous torpedo shape. He glanced around apprehensively. The ultimate weapon—invented after the planet-smasher, the sun-burster—what incredible thing could it be?
	Weiss stood by the door. Tillie stepped through, then Cris.
	The straight drapes, the solid sheet of plate glass that replaced the huge sashed window; the heavy skins that softened the wide-planked floor, the gleaming andirons and the copper pots on the fieldstone wall; the record-player and racks of albums—all the other soothing, comforting finishes of the once-bleak room—all these Cris noticed later. His big surprise was not quite a hundred pounds, not quite five feet tall—
	"Cris..."
	"Naome's here," he said inanely, and sat down to goggle at her.
	Weiss laughed richly. "Why do you suppose you and Tillie got that pogo-plane cross country, stopping at every ball-park and cornfield? Naome got a non-stop flight to within fifty miles of here, and air-taxi to the bottom of the mountain, and came up by cab."
	"I had to," said Naome. "I had to see what you were getting into. You're so—impetuous." She came smiling to Tillie. "I am glad to see you."
	"Why, you idiot!" said Cris to Naome. "What could you have done if he—if—"
	"I'm prettier than you are, darling," laughed Naome.
	"She came pussyfooting up to the house like a kid playing Indian," said Weiss. "I circled through the woods and pussyfooted right along with her. When she was peeping into the side window, I reached out and put a hand on her shoulder."
	"You might have scared her into a conniption!"
	"Not here," said Weiss gravely.
	Surprisingly, Tillie nodded. "You can't be afraid here, Cris. You're saying all those things about what might have happened, but they're not frightening to think about now, are they?"
	"No," Cris said thoughtfully. "No." He gazed around him. "This is—crazy. Everybody should be this crazy."
	"It would help," said Weiss. "How do you like the place now, Cris?"
	"It's—it's grand," said Cris. Naome laughed. She said, "Listen to the vocabulary kid there. 'Grand.' You meant 'Peachy,' didn't you?"
	"Cris didn't laugh with the others. "Fear," he said. "You can't eliminate fear. Fear is a survival emotion. If you didn't know fear, you'd fall out of windows, cut yourself on rocks, get hunted and killed by mountain lions."
	"If I open the window," Weiss asked, "would you be afraid to jump out? Come over here and look."
	Cris stepped to the great window. He had not known that the house was built so close to the edge. Crag on crag, fold after billow, the land fell down and away to the distant throat of the valley. Cris stepped back respectfully. "Open it if you like," he said, and swallowed, "and somebody else can jump. Not me, kiddies."
	Sig Weiss smiled. "Q.E.D. Survival fear is still with us. What we've lost here is fear of anything that is not so. When you came here, you saw a very frightened man. Most of my fears were "might-be" fears. I was afraid people might attack me, so I attacked first. I was afraid of seeming different from people, so I stayed where my imagined difference would not show. I was afraid of being the same as people, so I tried to be different."
	"What does it?" Cris asked.
	"What makes us all what we are now? Something I found. I won't tell you what it is or where it is. I call it an amulet, a true magic amulet, knowing that it's no more or less magic than flame springing to the end of a wooden stick." He took a kitchen match from his pocket and ran his thumbnail across it. It flared up, and he flipped it into the fireplace. "I won't tell you where or what it is because, although I've lost my fear, I haven't lost my stubbornness. I've lived miserably, a partial, hunted, hunting existence, and now I'm alive. And I mean to stay this way."
	"Where did you find it?" Tillie asked. "Mind telling us that?"
	"Not at all. A half mile down the mountain there was a tremendous rockfall a couple of years ago. No one owns that land; no one noticed. I climbed down there once looking for hawks' eggs. I found a place...
	"How can I tell you what that place was like, or what it was like to find it? It was a brush-grown, rocky hillside near the gaping scar of the slide, where the crust of years had sloughed away. Maybe the mountain moved its shoulder in its sleep. There were flowers—ordinary wildflowers—but perfect, vivid, vital. They lived long and hardily, and they were beautiful. The bushes had an extraordinary green and a fine healthy gloss, and it was a place where the birds came close to me as I sat and watched them. It was the birds who taught me that fear never walked in that place.
	"How can I tell you—what can I say about the meaning of that place to me? I'd been a psychic cripple all my life, hobbling through the rough country of my own ideas, spending myself in battle against ghosts I had invented to justify my fears, for fear was there first. And when I found that place, my inner self threw away its crutches. More than that—it could fly!
	"How can I tell you what it meant to me to leave that place? To walk away from it was to buckle on the braces, pick up the crutches again, to feel my new wings molt and fall away.
	"I went there more and more. Once I took my typewriter and worked there, and that was The Traveling Crag. Cris never knew how offended I was, how invaded, to find that he had divined the existence of that place through the story. That was why I turned out that other abortion, out of stubbornness—a desire to prove to Cris and to myself that my writing came from me and not from the magic of that place. I know better now. I don't know what another writer would do here. Better than anything he could conceivably do anywhere else. But it wouldn't be the Crag or Fire, because they could only have been mine."
	Cris asked, "Would you let another writer work here?"
	"I'd love it! Do you mean to ask if I want to monopolize this place, and the wonders it works? Of course not. One or another fear or combinations of fear are at the base of any monopoly, whether it's in industry, or in politics, or in the area of religious thought. And there's no fear here."
	"There should be some sort of a—a shrine here," murmured Naome.
	"There is. There will be, as long as I can keep the amulet. I found it, you see. It was lying right out in the sun. I took it and brought it here. The birds wouldn't forgive me for a while, but I've made them happy here since. And here it is and here it will stay, and there's your shrine."
	Fear walked in then. It closed gently on Cris's heart, and he turned to look at Tillie. Her eyes were closed. She was listening.
	A hell of an agent I turned out to be, he thought. How much I was willing to do for Weiss, how much for all the world through his work! By himself he found himself, the greatest of human achievements. And I have done the one thing that will take that away from him and from us all, leaving only the dwindling memory of this life without fear—and two great short stories.
	He looked at Tillie again. His gaze caught hers, and she rose. Her features were rigidly controlled, but through his mounting fear Cris could recognize the thing she was fighting. She surely understood what was about to happen to Weiss and to the world if she succeeded. Her understanding versus her...orders, was it?
	Cris had sat in that incredible aura, listening to the joyous expression of Sig Weiss's delivery from fear, and he had thought of killing. Now, he realized that part of her already thought as he did, and perhaps...perhaps...
	"Sig, can we look around outside?" Cris had stepped over to Tillie almost before he knew he wanted to.
	"You own the place," said Weiss cheerfully. "Naome and I'll stir up some food. You've had a nice leisurely trip. I wonder if you realize that Naome spent fourteen hours on a typewriter before she took that long hop? Fire of Heaven's well launched now, thanks to her. Anyway, she deserves food."
	"And a golden crown, which I shall include in the next pay envelope. Thank you, Naome. You're out of your mind."
	"Thank you," she twinkled.
	Cris led Tillie out, and they walked rapidly away from the house. "Not too far," she cautioned. "Let's stay where we can think. We're in a magic circle, you know, and outside we'll be afraid of each other, and of ourselves and of all our ghosts."
	He asked her, "What are you going to do?"
	"I shouldn't have got you into this. I should have come by myself."
	"I'd have stopped you then. Don't you see? Sig would have told me. Even with whatever help you have, you couldn't have succeeded in getting the weapon on the first try. He's too alert, too alive, far too jealous of what the 'amulet' has given him. He'd have told me, and I'd have stopped you, to save him and his work. You made me an ally, and that prevented me."
	"Cris, Cris, I didn't think that out!"
	"I know you didn't. It was done for you. Who is it, Tillie? Who?"
	"A ship," she whispered. "A space ship."
	"You've seen it?"
	"Oh, yes."
	"Where is it?"
	"Here."
	"Here, in Turnville?"
	She nodded.
	"And it—they—communicate with you?"
	"Yes."
	He asked her again. "What are you going to do?"
	"If I tell you I'll get the weapon, you'll kill me to save Weiss, and his work, and his birds, and his shrine, and all they mean to the world. Won't you, Cris?"
	"I will certainly try."
	"And if I refuse to get it for them—"
	"Would they kill you?"
	"They could."
	"If they did, could they then get the weapon?"
	"I don't know. I don't think so. They've never forced me, Cris, never. They've always appealed to my reason. I think if they could control me or anyone else, they'd have done it. They'd have to find another human ally, and start the persuading process all over again. By which time Weiss and everyone else would be warned, and it would be much more difficult for them."
	"Nothing's difficult for them," he said suddenly. "They can smash planets."
	"Cris, we don't think as well as they do, but we don't think the way they do, either. And from what I can get, I'm sure that they're good—that they will do anything they can to spare this planet and the life on it. That seems to be one of the big reasons for their wanting to get that weapon away from here."
	"And what of their other aims, then? Can we take all this away from humanity in favor of some cosmic civilization that we don't know and have never seen, which regards us as a dust-fleck in a minor galaxy? Let's face it, Tillie: they'll get it sooner or later. They're strong enough. But let's keep it while we can. A minute, a day of this aura is a minute or a day in which a human being can know what it's like to live without fear. Look at what it's done for Weiss; think what it can do for others. What are you going to do?"
	"I—Kiss me, Cris."
	His lips had just touched hers when there was a small giggle behind them. Cris whirled.
	"Bless you, my children."
	"Naome!"
	"I didn't mean to bust anything up. I mean that." She skipped up to them. "You can go right back to it after I've finished interrupting. But I've just got to tell you. You know the fright Sig tried to throw into me when I got here last night? I'm getting even. I found his amulet. I really did. It was stuck to the underside of a shelf in the linen closet. You'd have to be my size to see it. I swiped it."
	Tillie's breath hissed in. "Where is it? What did you do with it?"
	"Oh, don't worry, it's safe enough. I hid it good, this time. Now we'll make him wonder where it is."
	"Where is it?" asked Cris.
	"Promise not to tell him?"
	"Of course."
	"Well, it's smack in the innards of one of his pet new possessions. You haven't been in the west room—the ell he calls a library—have you?"
	They shook their heads.
	"Well, he's got himself a great big radio. I lifted the lid, see, and down inside among the tubes and condensers and all that macaroni are some wire hoops, sort of. This amulet, it's a tiny thing—maybe four inches long and as wide as my two thumbs. It's sort of—blurry around the edges. Anyway, I stuck it inside one set of those hoops. Cris—you're green! What's the matter?"
	"Tillie—the coil—the RF coil! If he turns that set on—"
	"Oh, dear God..." Tillie breathed.
	"What's the matter with you two? I didn't do anything wrong, did I?"
	They raced into the house, through the living room. "In here!" bellowed Cris. They pounded to the west room, getting into each other's way as they went in.
	Sig Weiss was there, smiling. "Just in time. I want to show you the best damn transceiver in—"
	"Don't! Don't touch it—"
	"Oh, a little hamming won't hurt," said Sig.
	He threw the switch.
	There was a loud click and a shower of dust.
	And silence.
	Naome came all the way in, went like a sleepwalker to the radio and opened the lid. There was a hole in the grey crinkle-finished steel, roughly rectangular. Weiss looked at it curiously, touched it, looked up. There was a similar hole in the ceiling. He bent over the chassis. "Now how do you like that! A coil torn all to hell. Something came down through the roof—see?—and smashed right through my new transmitter."
	"It didn't go down," said Cris hoarsely. "It went up."
	Naome began to cry.
	"What the hell's the matter with you people?" Sig demanded.
	Cris suddenly clutched Tillie's arm. "The ship! The space ship! They wouldn't let it go off while they're here!"
	"They did," said Tillie in a flat voice.
	"Will somebody please tell me what gives here?" asked Sig plaintively.
	Through a thick silence, Tillie said, "I'll tell it." She sank down on her knees, slowly sat on the rug. "Cris knows most of this," she said. Don't stop to wonder if it's all true. It is." She told about the races, the wars, the weapons of greater and greater destructiveness and, finally, the ultimate weapon, and its strange effect on living tissue. "Eight months ago, the ship contacted me. There was a connection made with my nerve-endings. I don't understand it. It wasn't telepathy; they were artificial neural currents. They talked to me. They've been talking ever since."
	"My amulet!" Sig suddenly cried. "Sit down," said Tillie flatly. He sat.
	Cris said, "I thought you required some physical contact for them to communicate with you. But I've been with you while you were communicating, and you had no contact."
	"I hadn't?" She began to unbutton her blouse at the throat. She stopped with the fourth button, and gently drew out a metal object shaped somewhat like a bulbous spearhead with a blunt point. It glittered strangely with a color not quite that of gold and not quite of polished brass. It seemed to be glazed with a thin layer of clear crystal.
	"Oh-h-h," breathed Naome, in a revelatory tone.
	Tillie smiled suddenly at her. "You minx. You always wondered why I never wore a V-neck. Come here, all of you. Down on the rug."
	Mystified, they gathered around. "Put your hands on it." They did so, and stared at each other and at their hands, waiting like old maids over a Ouija board. "It hurts a tiny bit at first as the probes go in, but it passes quickly. Be very still."
	A strange, not unpleasant prickling sensation came and went. There was a slight shock, another; more prickling.
	Testing. Testing. Naome Cris Sig Tillie...
	"Everybody get that?" asked Tillie calmly.
	Naome squeaked. "It's like someone talking inside my sinuses!"
	"It said our names," said Sig tautly. Cris nodded, fascinated.
	The silent voice spoke: Sig, your amulet is gone and you have lost nothing.
	Tillie, you have been faithful to your own.
	Naome, you have been used, and you have done no wrong.
	Cris, we have observed that it takes superhuman understanding to guide and direct work you cannot do yourself.
	Reorient your thinking, all of you. You insist that what is lethal or cosmically important must be huge. You insist that anything which transcends a horror must be greater horror.
	The amulet was indeed the ultimate weapon. Its effect is not to destroy, but to stop useless conflict. At this moment there is a chain reaction occurring throughout this planet's atmosphere affecting only one rare isotope of nitrogen. In times to come, your people will understand its radio chemistry; it is enough for you now to know that its most significant effect is to turn on the full analytical powers of the mind whenever fear is experienced. Panic occurs when analysis is shut off. Embarrassment occurs when fear is not analyzed. Hereafter, no truck-driver will fear to use the word 'exquisite,' no propagandist will create the semblance of truth by repeating falsehoods, no human group will be able to instill fears about any other human group which are not common to the respective individuals of the groups. There will be no fear-ridden movements of securities, and no lovers will be with each other and afraid to state their love. In large issues and in small ones, the greater the emergency the greater will be the stimulation of the analytical powers.
	That is the meaning and purpose and constitution of the ultimate weapon. To you it is a gift. There are few races in cosmic history with a higher potential than yours, or with a more miserable expression of it. The gift is yours because of this phenomenon.
	As for us, our quest is as stated to you. We were to seek out the weapon and bring it back with us. We gave it to you instead, by manipulation of your impulses, Naome, and yours, Sig, with the radio. Earth needs it more than we do.
	But we have not failed. The radio-chemistry of the nitrogen-isotope reaction and its catalyses are now widely available to us. It will be simplicity itself for us to recreate the weapon, and the time it will take us is as nothing...
	...For we are a race which commands the fluxes of time, and we can braid a distance about our fingers, and hold the Alpha and Omega together in the palms of our hands.

	"The probes are gone," said Tillie, after a long silence.
	Reluctantly, they removed their hands from the communicator, and flexed them.
	Cris said, "Tillie, where is the ship?"
	She smiled. "Remember? 'You insist that what is cosmically important must be huge.'" She pointed. "That is the ship."
	They stared at the bulbous arrowhead. It rose and drifted toward the door. It paused there, tilted toward them in an obvious salute, and then, like a light extinguished, it was gone.
	Naome sprang to her feet. "Is it all true, about the propaganda, the panic, the—the lovers who can speak their minds?"
	Naome said, "Testing. Testing. Sig Weiss, I love you."
	Sig picked her up and hugged her. "Come on, all of you. I want to walk clear down to the corners and have a beer with the old man. I want to tell him something I've never said before—that he's my neighbor."
	Cris helped Tillie up. "I think he stocks some real V-type halters." Outside, it was a greener world, and all over it the birds sang.