Campbell, John W Jr - The Planeteers - SS Collection

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JOHN W. CAMPBELL Books in Ace editions:

THE BLACK STAR PASSES (F-346)

THE MIGHTIEST MACHINE (F-364)

ISLANDS OF SPACE (M-143)

THE PLANETEERS

JOHN W. CAMPBELL

ACE BOOKS, INC.

1120 Avenue of the Americos

New York, N.Y. 10036

THE PLANETEEBS

Individual stories copyright, 1936, 1937, 1938, by Better Publications, Inc.

THE ULTIMATE WEAPON

Printed in U.S.A.

Contents

THE BRAIN STEALERS OF MARS

THE DOUBLE MINDS

THE IMMORTALITY SEEKERS

THE TENTH WORLD

THE BRAIN PIRATES

THE BRAIN STEALERS OF MARS

Chapter 1 - Imitation of Life

Rod Blake looked up with a deep chuckle. The sky of Mars was almost black, despite the small, brilliant sun, and the

brighter stars and planets that shone visibly, Earth most brilliant of all, scarcely sixty million miles away.

"They'll have a fine time chasing us, back there, Ted." He nodded toward the brilliant planet.

Ted Penton smiled beatifically.

"They're probably investigating all our known haunts. It's their own fault if they can't find us -- outlawing research on

atomic power."

"They had some provocation, you must admit. Koelenberg should have been more careful. When a man takes off some

three hundred square miles of territory spang in the center of Europe in an atomic explosion, you can't blame the rest of

the world for being a bit skittish about atomic power research."

"But they might have had the wit to see that anybody that did get the secret would not wait around for the Atomic

Power Research Death Penalty, but would light out for parts and planets quite unknown and leave the mess in the

hands of a lawyer till the fireworks quieted down. It was obvious that when we developed atomic power we'd be the

first men to reach Mars, and nobody could follow to bring us back unless they accepted the hated atomic power and

used it," argued Blake.

"Wonder how old Jamison Montgomery Palborough made out with our claims," mused Penton. "He said he'd have it

right in three months, and this is the third month and the third planet. We'll let the government stew, and sail on, fair

friend, sail on. I still say that was a ruined city we saw as we landed."

"I think it was, myself, but I remember the way you did that kangaroo leap on your neck the first time you stepped out

on the moon. You certainly saw stars."

"We're professionals at walking under cockeyed gravities now. Moon -- Venus -- "

"Yes, but I'm still not risking my neck on the attitude of a strange planet and a strange race at the same time. We'll

investigate the planet a bit first, and yonder mudhole is the first stop. Come on."

They reached the top of one of the long rolling sand dunes and the country was spread out below them. It looked

exactly as it had been from the last dune that they had struggled up, just as utterly barren, utterly bleak, and

unendingly red. Like an iron planet, badly neglected and rusted.

The mudhole was directly beneath them, an expanse of red and brown slime, dotted here and there with clumps of dark

red foliage.

"The stuff looks like Japanese maple," said Blake.

"Evidently doesn't use chlorophyll to get the sun's energy. Let's collect a few samples. You have your violet-gun and I

have mine. I guess it's safe to split. There's a large group of things down on the left that look a little different. I'll take

them while you go straight ahead. Gather any flowers, fruits, berries or seeds you see. Few leaves -- oh, you know.

What we got on Venus. General junk. If you find a small plant, put on your gloves and yank it out. If you see a big one,

steer clear. Venus had some peculiarly unpleasant specimens."

Blake groaned. "You telling me. I'm the bright boy that fell for that pretty fruit and climbed right up between the stems

of a scissor tree. Uhuh. I shoot 'em down. Go ahead, and good luck."

Penton swung off to the left, while Blake slogged ahead to a group of weird-looking plants. They were dome-shaped

things, three feet high, with a dozen long, drooping, sword-shaped leaves.

Cautiously Blake tossed a bit of stone into the center of one. It gave off a mournful, drumming boom, but the leaves

didn't budge. He tried a rope on one leaf but the leaf neither stabbed, grabbed, nor jerked away, as he had half

expected after his lesson with the ferocious plants of Venus. Blake pulled a leaf off, then a few more. The plant acted

quite plant-like, which pleasantly surprised him.

The whole region seemed seeded with a number of the things, nearly all about the same size. A few, sprinkled here and

there, were in various stages of development, from a few protruding sword-leaves, to little three-inch domes on up to

the full-grown plant. Carefully avoiding the larger ones, Rod plucked two small ones and thrust them into his specimen

bag. Then he stood off and looked at one of the domes that squatted so dejectedly in the thick, gummy mud.

"I suppose you have some reason for being like that, but a good solid tree would put you all in the shade, and collect

all the sunlight going. Which is little enough." He looked at them for some seconds picturing a stout Japanese maple

in this outlandish red-brown gum.

He shrugged, and wandered on, seeking some other plant. There were few others. Apparently this particular species

throttled out other varieties very thoroughly. He wasn't very anxious anyway; he was much more interested in the

ruined city they had seen from the ship. Ted Penton was cautious.

Eventually Blake followed his winding footsteps back toward the ship, and about where his footsteps showed he'd

gathered his first samples, he stopped. There was a Japanese maple there. It stood some fifteen feet tall, and the bark

was beautifully regular in appearance. The leaves were nearly a quarter of an inch thick, and arranged with a peculiar

regularity, as were the branches. But it was very definitely a Japanese maple.

Rod Blake's jaw put a severe strain on the hinges thereof. It dropped some three inches, and Blake stared. He stared

with steady, blank gaze at that perfectly impossible Japanese maple. He gawked dumbly. Then his jaw snapped shut

abruptly, and he cursed softly. The leaves were stirring gently, and they were not a quarter of an inch thick. They were

paper thin, and delicately veined. Further, the tree was visibly taller, and three new branches had started to sprout,

irregularly now. They sprouted as he watched, growing not as twigs but as fully formed branches extending

themselves gradually. As he stared harder at them they dwindled rapidly to longer twigs, and grew normally.

Rod let out a loud yip, and made tracks rapidly extending themselves toward the point where he'd last seen Ted

Penton. Penton's tracks curved off, and Rod steamed down as fast as Mars' light gravity permitted, to pull up short as

he rounded a corner of another sword-leaf dome clump. "Ted," he panted, "come over here. There's a -- a -- weird

thing. A -- it looks like a Japanese maple, but it doesn't. Because when you look at it, it changes."

Rod stopped, and started back, beckoning Ted.

Ted didn't move.

"I don't know what to say," he said quite clearly, rather panting, and sounding excited, though it was a quite

unexciting remark, except for one thing. He said it in Rod Blake's voice!

Rod stiffened. Then he backed away hurriedly, stumbled over his feet and sat down heavily in the sand. "For the love

of -- Ted -- Ted, wh-what did you s-s-say?"

"I don't know wh-what to s-s-say."

Rod groaned. It started out exactly like his own voice, changed rapidly while it spoke, and wound up a fair imitation of

Ted's. "Oh, Lord," he groaned, "I'm going back to the ship. In a hurry."

He started away, then looked back over his shoulder. Ted Penton was moving now, swaying on his feet peculiarly.

Delicately he picked up his left foot, shook it gently, like a man trying to separate himself from a piece of flypaper. Rod

moved even more rapidly than he had before. Long, but rapidly shrinking roots dangled from the foot, gooey mud

dropping from them as they shrank into the foot. Rod turned again with the violet-gun in his hand. It thrummed to

blasting atomic energy, and a pencil beam of ravening ultra-violet fury shot out and a hazy bail of light surrounded it.

The figure of Ted Penton smoked suddenly, and a hole the size of a golf ball drove abruptly through the center of the

head, to the accompaniment of a harsh whine of steam and spurts of oily smoke. The figure did not fall. It slumped. It

melted rapidly, like a snow-man in a furnace, the fingers ran together, the remainder of the face dropped, contracted,

and became horrible. It was suddenly the face of a man whose pouched and dulled eyes had witnessed and enjoyed

every evil the worlds knew, weirdly glowing eyes that danced and flamed for a moment in screaming fury of deadly

hate -- and dissolved with the last dissolution of the writhing face.

And the arms grew long, very long and much wider. Rod stood frozen while the very wide and rapidly widening arms

beat up and down. The thing took off and flapped awkwardly away, and for an instant the last trace of the hate-filled

eyes glittered again in the sun.

Rod Blake sat down and laughed. He laughed, and laughed again at the very funny sight of the melting face on the

bat-bodied thing that had flown away with a charred hole in the middle of its grape-fruit-sized head. He laughed even

louder when another Ted-Penton-thing came around the corner of the vegetable clump, on the run. He aimed at the

center of its head. "Fly away!" he yelled as he pressed the little button down.

This one was cleverer. It ducked. "Rod -- for the love of -- Rod, shut up," it spoke.

Rod stopped, and considered slowly. This one talked with Ted Penton's voice. As it got up again he aimed more

carefully and flashed again. He wanted it to fly away too. It ducked again, in another direction this time, and ran in

rapidly. Rod got up hastily and ran. He fell suddenly as some fibrous thing lashed out from behind and wrapped itself

unbreakably about his arms and body, binding him helplessly.

Penton looked down at him, panting heavily.

"What's the trouble, Rod; and why in blazes were you shooting your gun at me?"

Rod heard himself laugh again, uncontrollably. The sight of Ted's worried face reminded him of the flying thing, with

the melted face. Like an overheated wax figure. Penton reached out a deliberate hand and cracked him over the face,

hard. In a moment Rod steadied, and Penton removed the noose from his arms and body. Blake sighed with relief.

"Thank God, it's you, Ted," he said. "Listen, I saw you -- you -- not thirty seconds ago. You stood over there, and I

spoke to you. You answered in my voice. I started off, and your feet came up out of the ground with roots on them,

like a plant's. I shot you through the forehead, and you melted down like a wax doll to a bat-thing that sprouted wings

and flew away."

"Uhh -- " said Penton soothingly. "Funny, at that. Why were you looking for me?"

"Because there's a Japanese maple where I was that grew while my back was turned, and changed its leaves while I

looked at it."

"Oh, Lord," said Penton unhappily, looking at Rod. Then more soothingly, "I think we'd better look at it."

Rod led the way back on his tracks. When the maple should have been in sight, it wasn't at all. When they reached the

spot where Rod's tracks showed it should have been, it wasn't there. There was only a somewhat wilted sword-bush.

Rod stared blankly at it, then he went over and felt it cautiously. It remained placidly squatted, a slightly bedraggled

lump of vegetation.

"That's where it was," said Blake dully. "But it isn't there any more. I know it was there."

"It must have been an -- er -- mirage," decided Penton. "Let's get back to the ship. We've had enough walking

practice."

Rod followed him, wonderingly shaking his head. He was so wrapped up in his thoughts, that he nearly fell over

Penton, when Ted stopped with a soft, unhappy, gurgling noise. Ted turned around and looked at Rod carefully. Then

he looked ahead again.

"Which," he asked at length, "is you?"

Rod looked ahead of Penton, over his shoulder. Another Rod was also standing in front of Penton. "My God," said

Rod, "it's me this time!"

"I am, of course," said the one in front. It said it in Rod Blake's voice.

Ted looked at it, and finally shut his eyes.

"I don't believe it. Not at all. Wo bist du gewesen, mein Freund?"

"Was sagst du?" said the one in front. "But why the Deutsch?"

Ted Penton sat down slowly and thoughtfully. Rod Blake stared at Rod Blake blankly, slightly indignant.

"Let me think," said Penton unhappily. "There must be some way to tell. Rod went away from me, and then I come

around the corner and find him laughing insanely. He takes a shot at me. But it looks, and talks like Rod. But he says

crazy things. Then I go for a walk with him -- or it -- and meet another one that at least seems less insane than the first

one. Well, well. I know German of course, and so does Rod. Evidently this thing can read minds. Must be like a

chameleon, only more so."

"What do you mean?" asked Rod Blake. It doesn't particularly matter which one.

"A chameleon can assume any color it wants to at will. Lots of animals have learned to imitate other animals for safety,

but it takes them generations to do it. This thing, apparently, can assume any shape or color at will. A minute ago it

decided the best form for the locality was a swordbush. Some of these things must be real plants then. Rod thought of

a maple tree, thought of the advantages of a maple tree, so it decided to try that, having read his mind. That was why it

was wilted-looking; this isn't the right kind of country for maple trees. It lost water too fast. So it went back to the

sword-bush.

"Now this one has decided to try being Rod Blake, clothes and all. But I haven't the foggiest notion which one is Rod

Blake. It won't do a bit of good to try him on languages we know, because he can read our minds.

I know there must be some way. There must -- there must -- Oh yes. It's simple. Rod, just burn me a hole in that thing

with your violet-gun."

Rod reached for his gun at once with a sigh of relief and triggered quickly. The phoney Rod melted hastily. About half

of it got down into the boiling mud before Rod incinerated the rest with the intense ultraviolet flare of the pistol. Rod

sighed. "Thank the Lord it was me. I wasn't sure for a while, myself."

Ted shook himself, put his head in his hands, and rocked slowly. "By the Nine Gods of the Nine Planets, what a world!

Rod, for the love of heaven, stay with me hereafter. Permanently. And whatever you do, don't lose that pistol. They

can't grow a real violet-gun, but if they pick one up, may God help us. Let's get back to the ship, and away from this

damned place. I thought you were mad. My error. It's just the whole bloody planet that's mad."

"I was -- for a while. Let's move."

They moved. They moved hastily back across the sand dunes to the ship.

Chapter 2 - The Secret of the Thushol

"They're centaurs," gasped Blake. "Will you look at that one over there -- a nice little calico. There's a beautiful little

strawberry roan. What people! Wonder why the city is so dilapidated, if the people are still here in some numbers. Set

'er down, will you, Ted. They haven't anything dangerous, or they'd have a better city."

"Uhmmm -- I suppose that's right. But I'd hate to have one of those fellows nudge me. They must weigh something

noticeable, even here -- about twelve hundred pounds back on Earth. I'm setting down in that square. You keep your

hand on that ten-inch ion-gun while I step out."

The ship settled with a soft thumpf in the deep sandy dust of the ruined city square. Half a hundred of the centaurs

were trotting leisurely up, with a grizzled old Martian in the lead, his mane sparse and coarse. Ted Penton stepped out

of the lock.

"Pholshth," the Martian said after a moment's inspection. He extended his hands out horizontally from his shoulders,

palms upward and empty.

"Friends," said Ted, extending his arms in a similar gesture, "I am Penton."

"Fasthun Loshthu," explained the centaur, indicating himself. "Penshun."

"He sounds like an ex-soldier," came Blake's voice softly. "Pension. Is he O.K.?"

"I think so. You can leave that post anyway, and shut off the main atomics, start auxiliary B, and close the rooms. Lock

the controls with the combination and come on out. Bring your ion-gun as well as your ultraviolet. Lock the lock

doors."

"Blazes. I want to come out this afternoon. Oh well, O.K." Blake went to work hurriedly and efficiently. It was some

thirty seconds before he was through in the power room. He stepped eagerly into the lock.

He stopped dead. Penton was on his back, moving feebly, the old centaur bent over him, with his long, powerful

fingers fixed around the man's throat. Penton's head was shaking slowly back and forth on the end of his neck, in a

loose, rather detached-looking way.

Blake roared and charged out of the lock, his two powerful pistols hastily restored to his holsters. He charged out --

and sailed neatly over the centaur's back, underestimating Mars' feeble grip. In an instant he was on his feet again, and

returning toward his friend when a skillful left forefoot caught his legs, and sent him tumbling as the heavy bulk of an

agile young centaur landed on his back. Blake turned; a smaller, lighter body far more powerfully muscled. In a moment

the Earthman broke the centaurs' grip and started through the six or seven others that surrounded him.

A grunted word of command dissolved the mêlée, and Blake stood up, leaping toward Penton.

Penton sat on the ground, rocking slowly back and forth, his head between his hands. "Oh, Lord, they all do it here."

"Ted -- are you all right?"

"Do I sound it?" Penton asked unhappily. "That old bird just opened up my skull and poured a new set of brains in.

Hypnotic teaching -- a complete university education in thirty seconds -- all done with hypnotism and no mirrors used.

They have the finest education system. God preserve us from it."

"Shthuntho ishthu thiu loinal?" asked the old Martian pleasantly.

"Ishthu psoth lonthul timul," groaned Penton. "The worst of it is, it works. I know his language as well as I know

English." Suddenly he managed a slight grin. He pointed to Blake and said: "Blake omo phusthu ptsoth."

The old centaur's lined, sparsely bearded face smiled like a pleased child's. Blake looked at him uneasily.

"I don't like that fellow's fa -- " He stopped, hypnotized. He walked toward the old Martian with blank eyes and the

grace of an animated tailor's dummy. He lay down in sections, and the old Martian's long, supple fingers circled his

neck. Gently they massaged the back of his spine up to the base of his skull.

Penton smiled sourly from where he sat. "Oh, you don't like his face, eh? Wait and see how you like his system."

The centaur straightened. Slowly Blake sat up. His head continued to nod and weave in a detached sort of way, till he

gingerly reached up, felt around for it and took it firmly in his hands. He rested his elbows on his knees.

"We didn't both have to know his blasted language," he managed bitterly at last. "Languages always did give me

headaches anyway."

Penton watched him unsympathetically.

"I hate repeating things, and you'll find it useful, anyway."

"You are from the third planet," the Martian stated politely.

Penton looked at him in surprise, started up, then rose to his feet gingerly.

"Get up slowly, Blake, I advise you for your own good." Then to the Martian: 'Why, yes. But you knew! How?"

"My great-great grandfather told me of this trip to the third planet before he died. He was one of those that returned."

"Returned? You Martians have been to Earth?" gasped Blake.

"I guessed that," said Penton softly. "They're evidently the centaurs of legend. And I think they didn't go alone from

this planet."

"Our people tried to establish a colony there, many, many years ago. It didn't succeed. They died of lung diseases

faster than they could cross space. The main reason they went in the first place was to get away from the thushol. But

the thushol simply imitated local Earth-animals and thrived. So the people came back. We built many ships, hoping

that since we couldn't go, the thushol would. But they didn't like Earth." He shook his head sorrowfully.

"The thushol. So that's what you call 'em." Blake sighed. "They must be a pest."

"They were then. They aren't much any more."

"Oh, they don't bother you any more?" asked Penton.

"No," said the old centaur apathetically. "We're so used to them."

"How do you tell them from the thing they're imitating?" Penton asked grimly. "That's what I need to know."

"It used to bother us because we couldn't," Loshthu sighed. "But it doesn't any more."

"I know -- but how do you tell them apart? Do you do it by mindreading?"

"Oh, no. We don't try to tell them apart. That way they don't bother us any more."

Penton looked at Loshthu thoughtfully for some time. Blake rose gingerly, and joined Penton in his enwrapped

contemplation of the grizzled Martian. "Uhmmmm," said Penton at last, "I suppose that is one way of looking at it. I

should think it would make business rather difficult though. Also social relations, not knowing whether it was your

wife or just a real good imitation."

"I know. We found it so for many years," Loshthu agreed. "That was why our people wanted to move to Earth. But

later they found that three of the ship commanders were thushol, so the people came back to Mars where they could

live at least as easily as the thushol."

Penton mentally digested this for some moments, while the half hundred centaurs about stood patiently, apathetically

motionless.

"We have myths on Earth of centaurs, people like you, and of magic creatures who seemed one thing, but when

captured became snakes or tigers or other unpleasant beasts, but if held long enough reverted to human shape and

would then grant a wish. Yes, the thushol are intelligent; they could have granted a simple Earth barbarian's wish."

Loshthu shook his head slowly.

"They are not intelligent, I believe. Maybe they are. But they have perfect memories for detail. They would imitate one

of our number, attend our schools, and so learn all we knew. They never invented anything for themselves."

"What brought about the tremendous decline in your civilization? The thushol?"

The centaur nodded.

"We forgot how to make space ships and great cities. We hoped that would discourage the thushol so they would

leave us. But they forgot too, so it didn't help."

"Good Lord," Blake sighed, "how in the name of the Nine Planets do you live with a bunch like that?"

Loshthu looked at Blake slowly.

"Ten," he said. "Ten planets. You can't see the tenth with any practicable instrument till you get out beyond Jupiter.

Our people discovered it from Pluto."

Blake stared at him owlishly. "But how can you live with this gang? With a civilization like that -- I should think you'd

have found some means of destroying them."

"We did. We destroyed all the thushol. Some of the thushol helped us, but we thought that they were our own people.

It happened because a very wise, but very foolish philosopher calculated how many thushol could live parasitically on

our people. Naturally the thushol took his calculations to heart. Thirty-one percent of us are thushol."

Blake looked around with a swiftly unhappy eye.

"You mean -- some of these here are thushol?" he asked.

Loshthu nodded.

"Always. They reproduced very slowly at first, in the form of an animal that was normally something like us, and

reproduced as did other animals. But then they learned to imitate the amoebae when they studied in our laboratories.

Now they simply split. One big one will split into several small ones, and each small one will eat one of the young of

our people, and take its place. So we never know which is which. It used to worry us." Loshthu shook his head slowly.

Blake's hair rose slightly away from his head, and his jaw dropped away. "My God," he gasped. "Why didn't you do

something?"

"If we killed one we suspected, we might be wrong, which would kill our own child. If we didn't, and just believe it our

own child anyway, it at least gave us the comfort of believing it. And if the imitation is so perfect one can't tell the

difference, what is the difference?"

Blake sat down again, quietly.

"Penton," he sighed, at length, "those three months are up, let's get back to Earth -- fast."

Penton looked at him. "I wanted to a long time back. Only I thought of something else. Sooner or later, some other man

is going to come here with atomic power, and if he brings some of those thushol back to Earth with him, accidentally,

thinking it's his best friend -- well, I'd rather kill my own child than live with one of those, but I'd rather not do either.

They can reproduce as fast as they can eat, and if they eat like an amoeba -- God help us. If you maroon one on a

desert island, it will turn into a fish, and swim home. If you put it in jail it will turn into a snake and go down the drain

pipe. If you dump it in the desert it will turn into a cactus and get along real nice, thank you."

"Good God."

"And they won't believe us, of course. I'm sure as blazes not going to take one back to prove it. I'll just have to get

some kind of proof from this Loshthu."

"I hadn't thought of that. What can we get?"

"All I can think of is to see what they can let us have, then take all we can, and make a return trip with reputable and

widely believed zoologists and biologists to look into this thing. Evolution has produced some weird freaks, but this is

a freakier weirdness than has ever been conceived."

"I still don't really believe it," Blake said. "The only thing I am firmly convinced of is my headache."

"It's real enough and logical enough. Logical as hell. And hell on Earth if they ever get there. Evolution is always

trying to produce an animal that can survive anywhere, conquer all enemies, the fittest of, the surviving fit. All life is

based on one thing: protoplasm. Basically, it's the same in every creature, every living thing, plant and animal, amoeba

and man. It is just modified slightly, hooked together in slightly different ways. The thushol are built of protoplasm --

but infinitely more adaptable protoplasm. They can do something about it, make it take the form of a bone cell and be

part of a thigh bone, or be a nerve cell in a brain. From some of that ten-second-college-course Loshthu poured into

me, I gather that at first the thushol were good imitations outside, but if you cut into one, you could see that the

organs weren't there. Now they have everything. They went through Martian medical colleges, of course, and know all

about what makes a centaur tick, and so they make themselves with the same kind of tickers. Oh, very nice."

"They don't know much about us. Maybe with the X-ray fluoroscope screen we could have told those imitations of

us," suggested Blake.

"Oh, no, by no means. If we knew the right form, they'd read it in our minds, and have it. Adaptive protoplasm. Just

think, you couldn't kill it in an African jungle, because when a lion came along, it would be a little, lady lion, and when

an elephant showed up, it would be a helpless baby elephant. If a snake bit it, I suppose the damned thing would turn

into something immune to snake bites -- a tree, or something like that. I just wonder where it keeps the very excellent

brain it evidently has."

"Well, let's find out what Loshthu can offer us by way of proofs."

Chapter 3 - Mind-Readers and Company

It developed that the Martians had once had museums. They still had them, because nobody was sufficiently

interested to disturb their age-long quiet. Martians lived centuries, and their memories were long; but once or twice in

a lifetime did a Martian enter the ancient museums.

Penton and Blake spent hours in them, intensive hours under Loshthu's guidance. Loshthu had nothing but time, and

Penton and Blake didn't want to linger. They worked rapidly, collecting thin metal sheaves of documents, ancient

mechanisms, a thousand things. They baled them with rope that they had brought from the ship when they moved it

nearer the museum. Finally, after hours of labor, bleary-eyed from want of sleep, they started out again to the ship.

They stepped out of the gloomy dusk of the museum into the sun-lit entranceway. Immediately, from behind a dozen

pillars, a leaping, flashing group of men descended upon them, tore the books, the instruments, the data sheaves from

their hands. They were upset, slugged, trampled on and spun around. There were shouts and cries and curses.

Then there was silence. Twelve Pentons and thirteen Blakes sat, lay or stood about on the stone stairway. Their

clothes were torn, their faces and bodies bruised, there was even one black eye, and another developing swiftly. But

twelve Pentons looked exactly alike, each clasping a bit of data material. Thirteen Blakes were identical, each carrying a

bit of factual mustiness under his arm or in his hand.

Loshthu looked at them, and his lined, old face broke into a pleased smile. "Ah," he said. "There are more of you.

Perhaps some can stay with us to talk now."

Penton looked up at Loshthu, all the Pentons did. Penton was quite sure he was the Penton, but he couldn't think of

any way to prove it. It was fairly evident that thushol had decided to try Earth again. He began to wonder just -- "

"Loshthu, just why," asked one of the Pentons in Penton's voice, "did the thushol not stay on Earth if they could live

there?"

Penton was quite sure he had been the one to think of that panic -- "Pardon me, but wasn't that the question I was

going to ask?" said another Penton in well-controlled fury. Penton smiled gently. It seemed evident that -- "I can

apparently be spared the trouble of doing my own talking. You all help so," said one of the numerous Pentons angrily.

"Say, how in hell are we going to tell who's who?" demanded one of the Blakes abruptly.

"That damned mind-thief stole my question before I had a chance -- "

"Why you -- you -- you talking! I was just about -- "

"I think," said one of the Pentons wearily, "you might as well stop getting peeved, Blake, because they'll all act peeved

when you do. What do you know. I beat all my imitators to the draw on that remark. A noble achievement, you'll find,

Rod. But you might just as well pipe down, and I'll pipe down, and we'll see what our good friend, Loshthu, has to

say."

"Eh," sighed Loshthu. "You mean about the thushol leaving Earth? They did not like it. Earth is a poor planet, and the

people were barbarians. Evidently they are not so now. But the thushol do not like work, and they found richer

sustenance on Mars."

"I thought so," said Penton. (Does it matter which one?) "They've decided that Earth is richer than Mars now, and

want a new host. Don't draw that pistol, Blake! Unfortunately, my friend, we had twenty-five ionguns and twenty-five

violet-guns made up. If we'd had more we would have more companions. We were exceedingly unfortunate in

equipping ourselves so well in the matter of clothing, and being so. thoughtful as to plan all of it right, so we carried a

lot of each of the few kinds. Exceedingly. However, I think we can improve things a little bit. I happen to remember that

one ion-gun is out of commission, and I had the coils out of two of the violet-guns to repair them. That makes three

guns out of service. We will each stand up and fire, one at a time, at the sand in front there. The line forms on the

right."

The line formed. "Now," continued that particular Penton, "we will each fire, beginning with myself, one at a time. First

ion, then violet. When one of us evidences lack of a serviceable gun, the others will join in removing him rapidly but

carefully. Are we ready? Yes?" That Penton held up his ion-gun, and pushed the button.

It didn't fire, and immediately the portico stank with his smoke.

"That's one," said the next Penton. He raised his ion-gun and fired.. Then his violet-gun. Then he raised it and fired

again, at a rapidly dissolving Blake. "That makes two. That one evidently found, when we fired at the first one, that his

didn't work. We have one more to eliminate. Next?"

Presently another Blake vanished. "Well, well," said Penton pleasantly, "the Blake-Penton odds are even. Any

suggestions?"

"Yes," said Blake tensely. "I've been thinking of a patch I put in one suit that I ripped on Venus." Another Blake

vanished under the mutual fire.

"There's one more thing I want to know. Why in blazes are those phonies so blasted willing to kill each other, and

though they know which is which, don't kill us? And how did they enter the ship?" Rod demanded. Or at least a Rod.

"They," said two Pentons at once. Another one looked at them. "Bad timing, boys. Rodney, my son, we used a

combination lock. These gentlemen are professional mind-readers. Does that explain their possession of the guns? I've

been thinking right along of one way to eliminate these excessive excrescences, consisting of you going into a huddle

with your tribe, and eliminating all but the one you know to be yourself, and I doing the same. Unfortunately, while

they're perfectly willing to kill each other so long as they don't die, they will prevent their own deaths by adequate,

unfortunately adequate defense.

"Now since these little gun tests and others have been made I think it fairly evident that we are not going to leave this

planet until the two right men are chosen and only two go into that ship with us. Fortunately they can't go without us,

because while they can read minds, it takes more than knowledge to navigate a space ship, at least such knowledge as

they can get from us. It takes understanding, which mere memory will not supply. They need us.

"We will, therefore, march dutifully to the ship, and each of us will replace his guns carefully in the prepared racks. I

know that I'm the right Penton -- but you don't. So no movement will be made without the unanimous agreement of all

Pentons and Blakes."

Blake looked up, white-faced.

"If this wasn't so world-shakingly serious, it would be the damnedest comic opera that ever happened. I'm afraid to

give up my gun."

"If we all give them up, I think it puts us even. We have some advantage in that they don't want to kill us, and if worst

comes to worst, we could take them to Earth, making damned sure that they didn't get away. On Earth we could have

protoplasmic tests made that would tell the story. By the way, that suggests something. Yes indeed, I think we can

make tests here. Let us repair to this ship."

Chapter 4 - Penton's Strategy

The Blakes sat down and stayed down. "Ted, what in blazes can we do?" His voice was almost tearful. "You can't tell

one of these ghastly things from another. You can't tell one from me. We can't -- "

"Oh, God," said another Blake, "that's not me. That's just another one of those damned mind stealers."

Another one groaned hopelessly.

"That wasn't either." They all looked helplessly at the line of Pentons. "I don't even know who's my friend."

Penton nodded. All the Pentons nodded, like a grotesquely solemn chorus preparing to recite some blessing. They

smiled in superhuman unity. "That's all right," they said in perfect harmony. "Well, well. A new stunt. Now we all talk

together. That makes things easier. I think there may be a way to tell the difference. But you must absolutely trust me,

Blake. You must give up your guns, putting all faith in my ability to detect the right one, and if I'm wrong, realize that I

will not know. We can try such simple tests as alcohol, whiskey, to see if it makes them drunk, and pepper to see if it

bums their tongues -- "

"It won't work," said Blake tensely. "Lord, Penton, I can't give up my guns -- I won't -- "

Penton, all the Pentons smiled gently. "I'm half again as fast as you are, Blake, and no Martian-born imitation of you is

going to be faster. Maybe these Martian imitations of me are as fast as I am. But you know perfectly well that I could

ray the whole gang of you, all ten of you, out of existence before any one of you could move a finger. You know that,

don't you, Rod?"

"Lord, yes, but Ted, Ted, don't do that -- don't make me give up my guns -- I've got to keep them. Why should I give

up mine, if you keep yours?"

"That probably was not you speaking, Rod, but it doesn't matter. If it wasn't what you thought, we could do

something about it. Therefore, that is what you wanted to say, just as this is what I wanted to say, whether I said it or

not. Oh, Lord preserve us. It talks with my voice! But anyway, the situation is this; one of us has to have

unquestioned superiority over the other gang. Then, the one with the whip hand can develop proof of identity, and

enforce his decisions. As it is, we can't."

"Let me be that one, then," snapped one Blake.

"I didn't mean that," sighed another. "That wasn't me."

"Yes it was," said the first. "I spoke without thinking. Go ahead. But how are you going to make the others give up

their guns? I'm willing. You can't make them?"

"Oh, yes I can. I have my faithful friends, here," said Penton grimly, his eleven hands waving to his eleven

counterparts. "They agree with me this far, being quite utterly selfish."

"But what's your system. Before I put my neck in the noose, I have to know that noose isn't going to tighten on it."

"If I had a sound system in mind -- I'm carefully refraining from developing one -- they'd read it, weigh it, and wouldn't

agree at all. They still have hopes. You see that pepper and alcohol system won't work perfectly because they can read

in my mind the proper reaction, and be drunk, or have an inflamed tongue at will, being perfect actors. I'm going to try

just the same. Rod, if you ever trusted me, trust me now."

"All right, come on. We'll go to the ship, and any one of these things that doesn't part with its gun is not me. Ray it."

Blake rose jerkily, all ten of him, and went down to the ship.

The Pentons followed faithfully after. Abruptly Penton rayed one Blake. His shoulder blades had humped curiously

and swiftly. Wings were developing. "That helps," said Penton, holstering his guns.

The Blakes went on, white-faced. They put the weapons in the racks in the lock stoically. The Martians had seen the,

to them, inconceivably swift movements of Penton's gun hands, and Penton knew that he, himself, had done the

raying that time. But he still didn't know a way to prove it without causing a general mêlée which would bring about

their own deaths. That wasn't so important. The trouble was that given fifty years, the rest of the world would descend

on this planet unwarned. Then all Earth would be destroyed. Not with flame and sword and horrible casualty lists, but

silently and undetectably.

The Blakes came out, unarmed. They shuffled and moved about uneasily, tensely, under the watchful eyes of eleven

Pentons armed with terrifically deadly weapons.

Several Pentons went into the ship, to come out bearing pepper, saccharine tablets, alcohol, the medicine chest. One of

them gathered them together and looked them over. "We'll try pepper," he said, rather unhappily. "Line up!"

The Blakes lined up, hesitantly. "I'm putting my life in your hands, Ted," said two of them in identical, plaintive tones.

Four Pentons laughed shortly. "I know it. Line up. Come and get it."

"First," he sighed, after a moment, "stick out the tongue, patient."

With unsteady hands he put a bit of pepper from the shaker on the fellow's tongue. The tongue snapped in instantly,

the Blake clapped his hands to his mouth, gurgling unpleasantly. "Waaaar!" he gasped. "Waar -- achooo -- damnt!"

With hands like flashing light, Penton pulled his own, and a neighbor's ion-gun. In a fiftieth of a second all but the

single gagging, choking, coughing Blake were stinking, smoking, swiftly dissolving and flowing rubbish. The other

Penton methodically helped destroy them.

Blake stopped gagging in surprise.

"My God, it might not have been the right one!" he gasped.

The ten Pentons sighed softly. "That finally proves it. Thank God. Definitely. That leaves me to find. And it won't

work again, because while you can't read my mind to find the trick that told, these brothers of mine have. The very fact

that you don't know how I knew, proves that I was right."

Blake stared at him dumbly. "I was the first one -- " he managed between a cough and a sneeze.

"Exactly. Go on inside. Do something intelligent. Use your head. See what you can think of to locate me. You have to

use your head in some such way that they don't mind-read it first, though. Go ahead."

Blake went, slow-footed. The first thing he did was to close the lockdoor, so that he was safely alone in the ship. Blake

went into the control room, donned an air-suit complete with helmet, and pushed a control handle over. Then a

second. Presently he heard curious bumpings and thumpings, and strange floppings and whimperings. He went back

rapidly, and rayed a supply chest and two crates of Venusian specimens that had sprouted legs and were rapidly

growing arms to grasp ray pistols. The air in the ship began to look thick and greenish; it was colder.

Contentedly Blake watched, and opened all the room doors. Another slithering, thumping noise attracted him, and with

careful violet-gun work he removed an unnoticed, extra pipe that was crawling from the crossbrace hangers. It broke

up into lengths that rolled about unpleasantly. Rod rayed them till the smallest only, the size of golf balls with curious

blue-veined legs, staggered about uncertainly. Finally even they stopped wriggling.

Half an hour Rod waited, while the air grew very green and thick. Finally, to make sure, he started some other

apparatus, and watched the thermometer go down, down till moisture grew on the walls and became frost, and no more

changes took place. Then he went around with an opened ion-gun with a needle beam and poked everything visible

with it.

The suction fans cleared out the chlorine-fouled atmosphere in two minutes, and Blake sat down wearily. He flipped

over the microphone switch and spoke into the little disc. "I've got my hand on the main ion-gun control. Penton, I

love you like a brother, but I love Earth more. If you can induce your boy friends to drop their guns in a neat pile and

retire -- O.K. If not, and I mean if not within thirty seconds, this ion-gun is going into action and there won't be any

more Pentons. Now, drop!"

Grinning broadly, with evident satisfaction, ten Pentons deposited twenty heart-cores of ultra-essence of destruction,

and moved off. "Way off," said Blake grimly. They moved.

Blake collected twenty guns. Then he went back into the ship. There was a fine laboratory at one end, and with grim

satisfaction, he took down three cotton-stoppered tubes, being very careful to handle them with rubber gloves. "You

never did man a good turn before, tetanus, but I hope you spread high, wide and handsome here -- "

He dumped them into a beaker of water, and took beaker and glass down to the lock and out. The ten waited at a

distance.

"All right, Penton. I happen to know you took a shot of tetanus antivaccine some while ago, and are immune. Let's see

if those blasted brain stealers can steal the secret of something we know how to make, but don't know anything about.

They can gain safety by turning into a chicken, which is immune, but not as human creatures. That's a concentrated

dose of tetanus. Go drink it. We can wait ten days if we have to."

Ten Pentons marched boldly up to the beaker, resting beside the ship. One stepped forward to the glass -- and nine

kept right on stepping. They stepped into the lee of the ship where the ion-gun could not reach.

Blake helped Penton into the ship with a broad grin.

"Am I right?"

"You're right," sighed Penton, "but God knows why. You can't get tetanus by swallowing it, and lockjaw doesn't

develop so quickly as ten days."

"I didn't know for sure," grinned Blake. "They were too busy trying to find out what I was doing to follow your mind.

Ah -- there they go. Will you ray them or shall I?" asked Blake politely, sighting the ion-gun at the nine flapping,

rapidly vanishing things scuttling across the red, rusty planet. The ship dipped sharply in pursuit. "There's one thing

-- ahhh -- " he straightened as the incredible glare died in thin air. "I want to know. How in blazes did you pick me

out?"

"To do what you did requires some five hundred different sets of muscles in a beautifully coordinated neuromuscular

hookup, which I didn't believe those things could imitate without a complete dissection. I took the chance it was you."

"Five hundred sets of muscles! What the heck did I do?"

"You sneezed."

Rod Blake blinked slowly, and slowly his jaw tested again its supports and their flexibility.

THE DOUBLE MINDS

PRISONERS ON GANYMEDE

"p'holkuun's coming back," Ted Penton sighed. "Maybe he meant it."

Rod Blake stirred restlessly on the bunk.

"Will you make your news reports more explicit? You have your mug against the only clear spot on the damn glass

door. Which one of those animated beanpoles is P'hol-kuun?"

"How can I describe him? He's a Ganymedian jailer, to you. They all look alike. Since we are the first human beings ever

to see Ganymedians—or Ganymede itself—there aren't any words in the language to describe him. He is seven feet

three inches tall, weighs about one hundred and fifty—or he would on Earth. He has that attractive green hair they all

have, and he is wearing a Shaloor guard's uniform. He is shooing away our other guard."

"I guess he is as good an orator as you were," Blake grunted. "In five minutes you learned their language, found his

political opinions, and had him sold on you to start a revolution. Man, you are political dynamite!"

"Political atomic power," Penton replied sourly. "I got us kicked out of Earth first for experimenting with the stuff. Kick

number one; we get in the soup on Mars. Head for home, and all Earth turns out a great welcome for us— twenty-one

gun salutes. Only they forgot to take out the sixteen-inch shells. They still don't want us. It was easier here.

Fholkuun's a member of the rebel party, and the mind-reading stunt I learned from the Martians helped me make friends

with him,"

"Penton," suddenly whispered the thin, squeaky voice of the friendly jailer outside, "the Shaloor have investigated

your spaceship again. They are afraid."

"They are wise," replied Penton grimly. "If they disturb the atomic balances I have established in the engines, they'll

blow this whole satellite clear out of Jupiter's system. They haven't a glimmering of an idea what forces I use."

"They don't believe you. They say you are a liar." The jailer, a Lanoor, sounded doubtful himself.

"They wanted me to take them in it out into space," went on Penton. "If they know more about my machine than I do,

why don't they build one like it, and go out in then-Own machine? You don't even have the words atomic power and

electricity in your language." P'holkuun shook his head slowly.

"You do not understand. Ten years ago, the first Shaloor was made. He was a Lanoor, but he invented an operation,

and tried it on a friend, then the friend did it to him. The brain is divided into two halves, only one of which ever works

in thinking. If, however, a man is injured so the half he is using is destroyed, then the other half works. The Shaloor

found out how to make both halves work at once. The brain is made up of thousands and thousands of individual

cells, each one helping to think. When the Shaloor doubled the number of thinking cells that work, he be-

came, not twice as brilliant, but over ten thousand times as keen-minded. With two factors, A and B, you can make

only two combinations: AB and BA. With twice as many factors, you can make far more than twice as many

combinations.

"In ten short years the Shaloor overthrew our rulers, developed a new civilization. They invented the shleath, and a

thousand new vegetables and new animal foods. They will be able to learn your secret shortly. Some day our rebellion

may succeed."

"The Shaloor are not omniscient. You are needlessly afraid of them." Penton snapped.

The Lanoor's big, broad face split in a slow grin.

"You are in jail, Urd-mahn, thanks to the Shaloor."

"They trapped us by treachery—"

"The Shaloor are always treacherous. It is intelligent they say."

"They will find it most unintelligent when my people come ten months from now with ships that can wipe out this city

in a moment's time. We will so disturb the Shaloor that your waiting rebellion can succeed." Their jailer did not know

that they had been exiled from Earth.

"Their gas—their gas always stops us. And the shleath. No man can face that—" The guard's ruddy face went pale at

the thought, and Penton cursed silently that his very fear made his mind unreadable, even to the ancient method the

Martians had learned and recorded ten thousand years ago in the ancient museums he had recently plundered. He

could only catch vague, formless jellies wavering in a cloudiness of fear as the mental image.

"We have an older knowledge," Penton said shortly. "But do as you will. We will be out in a day's time, if the Shaloor

have not first released the frightful energies of our ship in their blunderings."

"I—I will talk with my comrades tonight," P'holkuun said, and moved down the corridor uneasily. Penton turned away

from the little window in the frosted glass of the door. Though his Earth-bred strength was five times that of a

Ganymedian, it was still far less than was needed to break

down the thick, tough glass. Penton looked at it disgustedly.

"Damn," he complained mournfully.

"I take it he said, 'No.' " Blake looked morosely at the door. "Nice birds they have here. You greet 'em friendly, they

wave and grin, and beckon from airplanes while you come down out of space. You step out—and plunko—they trap

you with glass bombs of sleep-gas. Ah, well—I can't sleep, I can't smoke, and I can't move. I—"

"Oh, shut up. Here, I'll make you sleep. Hypnotism."

"Can you? Say—that's right, you learned a lot of dope from those Martian records. Go ahead." Blake lay back

thankfully. Ten seconds later he realized his error. He was helplessly hypnotized, and already he recognized the flood

of strange thoughts pouring into his mind, other-worldly ideas. Penton was giving him knowledge of the Lanoorian

language by the technique the Martians had developed ten thousand years ago: hypnotic teaching.

Blake was about to acquire a complete understanding of Lanoor, in about five minutes. Also, all the headaches that he

would normally have had learning a language would be equally concentrated into one great-granddaddy of all

headaches. He struggled to free his will-The sun was shining in through the whole rear wall of the cell, which meant

that it was day again, and he had slept for hours.

"No," said Penton's voice. But it was Lanoor he was speaking, and Blake moved his head gingerly and groaned

audibly. Yes, the headache was there.

"No, I'll have to make the medicine myself. Tell them Blake is dying, that the air does not suit him. Hear him moan? Tell

the Shaloor that I must have that stuf."

Blake saw a shadow, distorted by the uneven glass of the prison wall, move off. Penton turned toward him.

"Excellent, Rod, excellent. Nothing could have been better timed. I didn't know you were awake; and your help was

really welcome."

"Help? Help, you cosmic blightl My head."

"I know. But we needed the stuff. Now he'll get it for us. You know their language now—we'll get the stuff I want."

"I've got a headache. Go away and shut up. Oh-h-h."

He dozed, for when he opened his eyes again, his head pained less, and Penton was hard at work with some glass

flasks, pungently odorous liquids, and various powders.

"Will you groan?" asked Penton pleasantly. "The guard is watching and listening."

Blake obliged. "Oh-h-h—what in double blazes—ah-h-h-h —are you stewing? It smells like fury!"

"I'm too busy trying to figure out something. Keep groaning, by the way. This is medicine for you. You're suffering

because the atmosphere doesn't suit you. I can stand it, because I've had a dose of this atmospheric-cosmic-telluric

acclimatizer."

"Groan? Great God, if it's anything you cooked up, I'm going to recover right here and now. You're no medicine man!"

"I am now. The stuff is now prepared. Hm-m-m—" he passed it under his nose. A mixture of pleasant, fruity smells, and

peculiarly rank, acrid odors pervaded the room. From a bottle he measured out a number of gritty crystals, then from a

second bottle of green glass, a few more. He sniffed the results, tasted it.

"Try a bit." He grinned at last, and passed it over. "Guaranteed to make you lick tigers like lollypops."

Blake took it at arm's length, and sniffed. His eyes widened. He tasted it. His mouth widened in a grin.

"What stuff! Happy days will come again." A considerable portion of the potent brew went down. Blake relinquished

it only under protest. "All right, but explain the ingredients."

Penton helped himself to a bit, and nodded.

"Citric acid—crystallized acid of lemon. Sucrose—commonly sold under the name of sugar. Ethanol—otherwise ethyl

alcohol. Carbonic acid—in no way related to the one with an T in it—better liked as soda water. I thought the

combine might strike you where you needed it, and anyway, I needed the rest of the brew."

Penton looked at, but did not handle, a large flask in which a watery liquid was stirring slowly about a white powder.

Fully a gallon of the stuff was there already, and he cautiously added more from a large beaker, and more powder from

a glass bottle. "And that?" asked Blake.

"The universal solvent. Anyway, it should get us out of here, I believe. I—"

With a soft clank, the large glass block disintegrated, and its contents spewed out over the metal table, and down the

glass wall of the cell. The table had been in a corner, and the adjacent walls and floor were liberally flooded with the

deluge. An intense, suffocating odor sprang up at once. Blake pulled his feet off the floor hastily, and looked in

dismay at Penton.

"I thought it would," Penton sighed. "It does that." "What?"

"Be patient and we'll see. You are supposed to be recovering from a fatal illness. I've got to tell the guard it's according

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