At the Post

through thecity. He made violent speeches in Columbus Circle, where he lost hisaudience to revivalist orators; Union Square, where he was told heatedlyto bring his message to Wall Street; and Times Square, where the policemade him move along so he wouldn't block traffic. He obeyed, shoutinghis message as he walked, until he remembered how amusedly he used tolisten to those who cried that Doomsday was near. He wondered if theywere catatonics under imperfect control. It didn't matter; nobody paidserious attention to his or their warnings.

  The next step, logically, was a barrage of letters to the heads ofnations, to the U.N., to editors of newspapers. Only a few of hisletters were printed. The ones in Doc's tabloid did best, drawing suchcomments as:

  "Who does this jerk think he is, telling us everybody's going to getkilled off? Maybe they will, but not in Brooklyn!"

  "When I was a young girl, some fifty years ago, I had a similarexperience to Mr. Locke's. But my explanation is quite simple. Thepersons I saw proved to be my ancestors. Mr. Locke's new-found friendswill, I am sure, prove to be the same. The World Beyond knows all andtells all, and my Control, with whom I am in daily communication OverThere, assures me that mankind is in no danger whatever, except from theevil effects of tobacco and alcohol and the disrespect of youth fortheir elders."

  "The guy's nuts! He ought to go back to Russia. He's nothing but a nutor a Communist and in my book that's the same thing."

  "He isn't telling us anything new. We all know who the enemy is. Theonly way to protect ourselves is to build TWO GUNS FOR ONE!"

  "Is this Locke character selling us the idea that we all ought to gobatty to save the world?"

  Saddened and defeated, Clocker went through his accumulated mail. Therewere politely non-committal acknowledgments from embassies and the U.N.There was also a check for his article from the magazine he'd sent itto; the amount was astonishingly large.

  He used part of it to buy radio time, the balance for ads in ruralnewspapers and magazines. City people, he figured, were hardened bypublicity gags, and he might stir up the less suspicious andsophisticated hinterland. The replies he received, though, advised himto buy some farmland and let the metropolises be destroyed, which, hewas assured, would be a mighty good thing all around.

  The magazine came out the same day he tried to get into the U.N. toshout a speech from the balcony. He was quietly surrounded by auniformed guard and moved, rather than forced, outside.

  * * * * *

  He went dejectedly to his hotel. He stayed there for several days,dialing numbers he selected randomly from the telephone book, andgetting the brushoff from business offices, housewives and maids. Theywere all very busy or the boss wasn't in or they expected importantcalls.

  That was when he was warmly invited by letter to see the editor of themagazine that had bought his article.

  Elated for actually the first time since his discharge from thehospital, Clocker took a cab to a handsome building, showed hisinvitation to a pretty and courteous receptionist, and was escorted intoan elaborate office where a smiling man came around a widebleached-mahogany desk and shook hands with him.

  "Mr. Locke," said the editor, "I'm happy to tell you that we've had awonderful response to your story."

  "Article," Clocker corrected.

  The editor smiled. "Do you produce so much that you can't remember whatyou sold us? It was about--"

  "I know," Clocker cut in. "But it wasn't a story. It was an article. Itreally--"

  "Now, now. The first thing a writer must learn is not to take his ideastoo seriously. Very dangerous, especially in a piece of fiction likeyours."

  "But the whole thing is true!"

  "Certainly--while you were writing it." The editor shoved a pile of mailacross the desk toward him. "Here are some of the comments that havecome in. I think you'll enjoy seeing the reaction."

  Clocker went through them, hoping anxiously for no more than a singlenote that would show his message had come through to somebody. Hefinished and looked up blankly.

  "You see?" the editor asked proudly. "You're a find."

  "The new Mark Twain or Jonathan Swift. A comic."

  "A satirist," the editor amended. He leaned across the desk on hiscrossed forearms. "A mail response like this indicates a talent worthdeveloping. We would like to discuss a series of stories--"

  "Articles."

  "Whatever you choose to call them. We're prepared to--"

  "You ever been off your rocker?" Clocker asked abruptly.

  * * * * *

  The editor sat back, smiling with polite puzzlement. "Why, no."

  "You ought to try it some time." Clocker lifted himself out of the chairand went to the door. "That's what I want, what I was trying to sell inmy article. We all ought to go to hospitals and get ourself let in andhave these aliens take over and show us where we're going."

  "You think that would be an improvement?"

  "What wouldn't?" asked Clocker, opening the door.

  "But about the series--"

  "I've got your name and address. I'll let you know if anything turns up.Don't call me; I'll call you."

  Clocker closed the door behind him, went out of the handsome buildingand called a taxi. All through the long ride, he stared at the thinningout of the city, the huddled suburban communities, the stretches ofgrass and well-behaved woods that were permitted to survive.

  He climbed out at Glendale Center Hospital, paid the hackie, and went tothe admitting desk. The nurse gave him a smile.

  "We were wondering when you'd come visit your wife," she said. "Beenaway?"

  "Sort of," he answered, with as little emotion as he had felt while hewas being controlled. "I'll be seeing plenty of her from now on. I wantmy old room back."

  "But you're perfectly normal!"

  "That depends on how you look at it. Give me ten minutes alone and anybrain vet will be glad to give me a cushioned room."

  Hands in his pockets, Clocker went into the elevator, walked down thecorridor to his old room without pausing to visit Zelda. It was the liveZelda he wanted to see, not the tapping automaton.

  He went in and shut the door.

  * * * * *

  "Okay, you were right and I was wrong," Clocker told the board ofdirectors. "Turn me over to Barnes and I'll give him the rest of thedope on racing. Just let me see Zelda once in a while and you won't haveany trouble with me."

  "Then you are convinced that you have failed," said Mr. Calhoun.

  "I'm no dummy. I know when I'm licked. I also pay anything I owe."

  Mr. Calhoun leaned back. "And so do we, Mr. Locke. Naturally, you haveno way of detecting the effect you've had. We do. The result is that,because of your experiment, we are gladly revising our policy."

  "Huh?" Clocker looked around at the comfortable aliens in theircomfortable chairs. Solid and respectable, every one of them. "Is this arib?"

  "Visits to catatonics have increased considerably," explained Dr.Harding. "When the visitors are alone with our human associates, theytentatively follow the directions you gave in your article. Not all do,to be sure; only those who feel as strongly about being with their lovedones as you do about your wife."

  "We have accepted four voluntary applicants," said Mr. Calhoun.

  Clocker's mouth seemed to be filled with cracker crumbs that wouldn't godown and allow him to speak.

  "And now," Dr. Harding went on, "we are setting up an InformationSection to teach the applicants what you have learned and make the samearrangement we made with you. We are certain that we shall, before long,have to increase our staff as the number of voluntary applicantsincreases geometrically, after we release the first few to continue thework you have so admirably begun."

  "You mean I _made_ it?" Clocker croaked unbelievingly.

  "Perhaps this will prove it to you," said Mr. Calhoun.

  He motioned and the door opened and Zelda came in.

  "Hello, hon," she said. "I'm glad you're
back. I missed you."

  "Not like I missed you, baby! There wasn't anybody controlling _my_feelings."

  Mr. Calhoun put his hands on their shoulders. "Whenever you care to, Mr.Locke, you and your wife are free to leave."

  Clocker held Zelda's hands and her calmly fond gaze. "We owe these guysplenty, baby," he said to her. "We'll help make the record before wetake off. Ain't that what you want?"

  "Oh, it is, hon! And then I want you."

  "Then let's get started," he said. "The