He became aware of his surroundings by stages. First, that he was sitting on a blanket under the trees, with other blankets wrapped tightly about him. Then, he felt the warm radiation of the heat-lamps upon him and the illumination of Atomo bulbs. People were crowding close and he noticed that it was no longer raining.

He stared about him hazily and then, 'Irene!'

She was beside him, as wrapped up as he, and smiling feebly, 'I'm all right, Henry. The Phibs dragged me back, too.'

Madeline was bending over him and he swallowed the hot coffee placed to his lips. 'The Phibs have told us of what you two have helped them do. We're all proud of you, son - you and Irene.'

Max's smile transfigured his face into the picture of paternal pride, 'The psychology you used was perfect. Venus is too vast and has too many friendly areas to expect Earthmen to return to places that have shown themselves to be infested with Cen-tosaurs - not for a good long while. And when they do come back, we shall have our stat-field.'

Arthur Scanlon hurried up out of the gloom. He thwacked Henry on the shoulder and then wrong Irene's hand. 'Your guardian and I," he told her, 'are fixing up a celebration for day after tomorrow, so get good and rested. It's going to be the greatest thing you ever saw.'

Henry spoke up, 'Celebration, huh? Well, I'll tell you what you can do. After it's over, you can announce an engagement.'

'An engagement?' Madeline sat up and looked interested. 'What do you mean?'

'An engagement - to be married,' came the impatient answer. 'I'm old enough, I suppose. Today proves it!'

Irene's eyes bent in furious concentration upon the grass, 'With whom, Henry?'

'Huh? With you, of course. Gosh, who else could it be?'

'But you haven't asked me.' The words were uttered slowly and with great firmness.

For a moment Henry flushed, and then his jaws grew grim, 'Well, I'm not going to. I'm telling you! And what are you going to do about it?'

He leaned close to her and Max Scanlon chuckled and motioned the others away. On tip-toes, they left.

A dim shape hobbled into view and the two Tweenies separated in confusion. They had forgotten the others.

But it wasn't another Tweenie. 'Why - why, it's a Phib!' cried Irene.

He limped his ungainly way across the wet grass, with the inexpert aid of his muscular arms. Approaching, he flopped wearily on his stomach and extended his forearms.

His purpose was plain. Irene and Henry grasped a hand apiece. There was silence a moment or two and the Phib's great eyes glinted solemnly in the light of the Atomo lamps. Then there was a sudden squeal of embarrassment from Irene and a shy laugh from Henry. Contact was broken.

'Did you get the same thing I did?' asked Henry.

Irene was red, 'Yes, a long row of little baby Phibs, maybe fifteen -'

'Or twenty,' said Henry.

'- with long white hair!'

 The story, not surprisingly, reflects my personal situation at the time. I had gone to a boys' high school and to a boys' college. Now that I was in graduate school, however, the surroundings were, for the first time, coeducational.

 In the fall of 1939, I discovered that a beautiful blond girl had the desk next to mine in the laboratory of my course in synthetic organic chemistry. Naturally I was attracted.

 I persuaded her to go out with me on simple dates, the very first being on my twentieth birthday, when I took her to Radio City Music Hall. For five months, I mooned after her with feckless romanticism.

 At the end of the school year, though, she had earned her master of arts degree and, having decided not to go on for her doctorate, left school and took a job in Wilmington, Delaware, leaving me behind, woebegone and stricken.

 I got over it, of course, but while she was still at school I wrote 'Half-Breeds on Venus.' Of all the stories I had yet written, it was the most heavily boy-and-girl. The heroine's name was Irene, which was the name of my pretty blond lab neighbor.

 Merely having a few dates on the hand-holding level did not, however, perform the magic required to make me capable of handling passion in literature, and I continued to use girls sparingly in later stories - and a good thing, too, I think. •

 The success of 'Half-Breeds on Venus' made the notion of writing sequels generally seem a good idea. A sequel to a successful story must, after all, be a reasonably sure sale. So even while I was working on 'Half-Breeds on Venus,' I suggested to Campbell that I write a sequel to 'Homo Sol.'

 Campbell's enthusiasm was moderate, but he was willing to look at such a sequel if I were to write it. I did write it as soon as 'Half-Breeds on Venus' was done and called it 'The Imaginary.' Although it used one of the chief characters of 'Homo Sol,' the human-nonhuman confrontation was absent, which probably didn't help it as far as Campbell was concerned. I submitted it to him on June 11, and received it back - a rejection, sequel or no sequel - on June 19.

 Pohl rejected it, too. Tremaine read it with more sympathy and was thinking of taking it for Comet, I heard, but that magazine ceased publication and the story was back on the market. Actually, I retired it, but two years later I sold it to Pohl's magazine after all - but at a time when Pohl was no longer editor.

 But though I had my troubles and didn't click every time, or even right away, I did manage to make $272 during my first year as a graduate student, and that was an enormous help.

The Imaginary [3]

The telecaster flashed its fitful signal, while Tan Porus sat by complacently. His sharp, green eyes glittered their triumph, and his tiny body was vibrant with excitement. Nothing could have better indicated the greatness of the occasion than his extraordinary position - Tan Porus had his feet on the desk!

The 'caster glowed into life and a broad Arcturian countenance frowned fretfully out at the Rigellian psychologist

'Do you have to drag me here straight from bed, Porus? It's the middle of the night!'

'It's broad daylight in this part of the world, Final. But I've got something to tell you that'll make you forget all about sleep.'

Gar Final, editor of the J.G.P. - Journal of Galactic Psychology - allowed a look of alertness to cross his face. Whatever Tan Porus's faults - and Arcturus knew they were many -he had never issued a false alarm. If he said something great was in the air, it was not merely great - it was colossal!

It was quite evident that Porus was enjoying himself. 'Final,' he said, 'the next article I send to your rag is going to be the greatest thing you've ever printed.'

Final was impressed. 'Do you really mean what you say?' he asked idiotically.

'What kind of a stupid question is that? Of course I do. Listen -' There followed a dramatic silence, while the tenseness on Final's face reached painful proportions. Then came Porus's husky whisper - 'I've solved the problem of the squid!'

Of course the reaction was exactly what Porus had expected. There was a blow-up at the other end, and for thirty interesting seconds the Rigellian was surprised to learn that the staid and respectable Final had a blistering vocabulary.

Porus's squid was a by-word throughout the galaxy. For two years now, he had been fussing over an obscure Draconian animal that persisted in going to sleep when it wasn't supposed to. He had set up equations and torn them down with a regularity that had become a standing joke with every psychologist in the Federation - and none had explained the unusual reaction. Now Final had been dragged from bed to be told that the solution had been reached - and that was all.