Murat Ukray

Paul Orban

Arnold Castle

The senator took an elevator directly to the helicopter landing on the roof of the building. It was several minutes before he had located the little runabout he had bought for his wife the previous Christmas. Jack Woodvale, their caretaker, gardener, and chauffeur, was just retrieving his suitcase from the baggage lift as the senator arrived. Waiting until Woodvale had secured the suitcase in the luggage compartment and climbed into the pilot's seat, Duran squeezed himself into the cabin. A minute or two later the little craft was rising from the port, directed automatically into the appropriate channel and guided off toward the city. "How've things been going, Jack?" the senator asked. He felt good. Wayne's friendship and assurances had provided a needed boost. "Everything okay?" "I'd say so, sir," Woodvale told him. "Had a little trouble with the solar screen. The store sent a man out to fix it. It's all right now." The new power unit had been another of Molly's ideas, Duran recalled. The old crystal sulfide screen had been perfectly reliable. But Molly had thought it looked ugly up there on the roof. Molly's main faults, he decided, derived from her concern with the neighbors' opinions. "Oh, there was something else came up while I was on my way out to get you," Woodvale continued abruptly. "The state's Attorney General called-said it was important you contact him immediately." Duran sensed anger surging up as he remembered the times when, as District Attorney, Sig Loeffler had openly snubbed him. That, of course, had been back in the days when Duran had been a junior partner in one of the city's smaller law firms. He had not forgiven Loeffler, nor had Loeffler given him any reason to do so. Only the Governor's back-slapping mediation had allowed them to reach a politically stable relationship. The relationship did not involve Duran's compliance with the man's whims, however. "Get him on the phone, Jack," Duran said at last. "But just make one call. If he's not at his office, forget it."

A Mixture of Genius

James Mckimmey

He stood watching while George Atkinson spun around, dark eyes flashing, hair tousled. There was a two days' growth of beard darkening Atkinson's face. "Why, George," Loveral said, swiftly examining the litter of metal and wood which was spread over a table behind Atkinson. There was a home-made hammer in Atkinson's hand. "What have we here, George?" "Something for you," Atkinson said, tightening his fingers about the handle of the hammer. Loveral grinned his famous Loveral grin. "That's fine. What could it be?" "None of your damned business." "George," Loveral said, his smile still white but his eyes narrow and quick. The woman was behind them. Her voice screeched. "George, I told you. Why didn't you listen, George? You should have listened to me. You-" Loveral held up a hand, still watching Atkinson. "Now tell me, George, what is it you're making for me?" Atkinson raised the hammer slightly. Loveral stood very still. "That's a nice hammer, George." Atkinson's eyes were black beneath his thick brows. "You made that, didn't you?" Loveral asked. "Yes, I made that," Atkinson said. "I made that and I made something else. Another minute and I'll have that finished, too." "George," said Loveral, stepping quietly forward, "I don't like to say this, of course. You've been one of our very best members. But nobody works here, George. We can't allow that. You know the rules." "I know the rules, all right." "Well, then," Loveral said, extending his hand toward the hammer, "we'll just destroy this and whatever else you might have been making. We'll just forget it ever happened. We'll get along real fine that way, George. We'll just be such good friends." "We'll just go to hell," said Atkinson, snatching his hammer away. Loveral's smile disappeared. "I'll tell you, George. I have to mean business with this. You know the reasons. If we allow anybody to work here, then there's going to be trouble. That isn't our plan. We're here to grow within ourselves and expand culturally. Not to commercialize a beautiful world like Dream Planet."

Paul Orban

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