By the time Campbell was rejecting, and Pohl accepting 'Heredity,' I was writing 'History.' The same thing happened. I submitted it to Campbell on September 13. It was rejected, and, eventually, Pohl took it.

History [5]

Ullen's lank arm pushed the stylus carefully and painstakingly across the paper; his near-sighfed eyes blinked through thick lenses. The signal light flashed twice before he answered.

He turned a page, and called out, 'Is dat you, Johnnie? Come in, please.'

He smiled gently, his thin, Martian face alight with pleasure.

'Sit down, Johnnie - but first lower de window-shade. De glare of your great Eard sun is annoying. Ah, dat's good, and now sid down and be very, very quiet for just a little while, because I am busy.'

John Brewster shifted a pile of ill-stacked papers and seated himself. He blew the dust from the edges of an open book in the next chair and looked reproachfully on the Martian historian.

'Are you still poking around these musty old things? Don't you get tired?'

'Please, Johnnie,' Ullen did not look up, 'you will lose de page. Dat book dere is William Stewart's "Hitlerian Era" and it is very hard to read. So many words h§ uses which he doesn't explain.'

His expression as it focussed upon Johnnie was one of frowning petulance, 'Never do dey explain deir terms. It is so unscientific. On Mars, before we even start, we say, "Dis is a list of all definitions of terms to be used." How oderwise can people talk sensibly? Hmp! You crazy Eardmen.'

'Oh, nuts, Ullen - forget it. Why don't you look at me. Don't you even notice anything?'

The Martian sighed, removed his glasses, cleaned them thoughtfully and carefully replaced them. He stared impersonally at Johnnie, 'Well, I dink it is new clothes you are wearing. It is not so?'

'New clothes! Is that all you can say, Ullen? This is a uniform. I'm a member of the Home Defense.' He rose to his feet, a picture of boyish exuberance.

'What is dis "Home Defense"?' asked Ullen languidly.

Johnnie gulped and sat down helplessly, 'You know, I really think you haven't heard that Earth and Venus have been at war for the last week. I'll bet money you haven't.'

'I've been busy.' He frowned and pursed his thin, bloodless lips, 'On Mars, dere is no war - at least, dere isn't any more. Once, we used to fight, but dat was long ago. Once we were scientists, too, and dat was long ago. Now, dere are only a few of us - and we do not fight. Dere is no happiness dat way.' He seemed to shake himself, and spoke more briskly, 'Tell me, Johnnie, do you know where it is I can find what it means, dis "national honor?" It holds me back. I can't go furder unless I can understand it.'

Johnnie rose to his full height and glittered in the spotless green of the Terrestrial Service. He laughed with fond indulgence. 'You're hopeless, Ullen, - you old coot. Aren't you going to wish me luck? I'm hitting space tomorrow.'

'Oh, is dere danger?'

There was a squawk of laughter, 'Danger? What do you think?'

'Well, den, to seek danger - it is foolish. Why do you do it?'

'You wouldn't understand, Ullen. Just wish me luck and say you hope I come through whole.'

'Cer-tain-ly! I don't want anyone to die.' He slipped his hand into the strong fist held out to him. 'Take care of yourself, Johnnie - and wait, before you go, bring me Stewart's book. Everything is so heavy here on Eard. Heavy, heavy, -and de words have no definitions.'

He sighed, and was back at his books as Johnnie slipped quietly out of the room.

'Dese barbarous people,' he muttered sleepily to himself. 'War! Dey dink dat by killing-' His voice died away and merged into a slurred mumble as his eyes followed creeping finger across the page.

' "From the very moment of the union of the Anglo-Saxon world into a single governmental entity and even as far back as the spring of 1941, it was evident that the doom of-"'

'Dese crazy Eardmen!'

Ullen leaned heavily upon his crutches on the steps of the University library and one thin hand shielded his watering eyes from the terrible Earthly sun.

The sky was blue, cloudless, - undisturbed. Yet somewhere up above, beyond the planet's airy blanket, steel-sided ships were veering and sparking in vicious combat. And down upon the city were falling the tiny 'Drops of Death,' the highly-publicized radioactive bombs that noiselessly and inexorably ate out a fifteen foot crater wherever they fell.

The city's population was herding into the shelters and burying themselves inside the deep-set leaden cells. Upstaring, silent, anxious, they streamed past Ullen. Uniformed guards invested some sort of order into the gigantic flight, steering the stragglers and speeding the laggards.

The air was filled with barked orders.

'Hit the shelter, Pop. Better get going. You can't stand there, you know.'

Ullen turned to the guard who addressed him and slowly brought his wandering thoughts to bear upon the situation.

'I am sorry, Eardman - but I cannot move very fast on your huge world.' He tapped one crutch upon the marble flags beneath. 'Dings are so heavy. If I were to crowd in wid de rest, I would be crushed.'

He smiled gently down from his lank height, and the guard rubbed a stubby chin, 'All right, pop, I can fix that. It is tough on you Marsies at that. - Here, hold those crutches up out of the way.'

With a heave, he cradled the Martian, 'Hold your legs close to my body, because we're going to travel fast.'

His bulky figure pressed through the line of Earthmen. Ullen shut his eyes as the rapid motion under supernormal gravity stirred his stomach into rebellion. He opened them once again in the dim recesses of the low-ceilinged shelter.

The guard set him down carefully and adjusted the crutches beneath Ullen's armpits, 'O.K. Pop. Take care of yourself.'

Ullen took in his surroundings and hobbled to one of the low benches at the near end of the shelter. From behind him came the sombre clang of the thick, leaden door.

The Martian historian fished a worn tablet from his pocket and scribbled slow notes. He disregarded the excited babble that arose about him and the scraps of heated talk that filled the air thickly.

And then he scratched at his furrowed forehead with the stub end of his pencil, meeting the staring eyes of the man sitting next to him. He smiled abstractedly and returned to his notes.

'You're a Martian, aren't you?' His neighbor spoke in quick, squeaky tones. 'I don't like foreigners much, but I've got nothing special against Marsies. These Veenies, now, they -'

Ullen's soft tones interrupted him. 'Hate is all wrong, I dink. Dis war is a great annoyance - a great one. It interferes wid my work and you Eardmen ought to stop it. Is it not so?'

'You can bet your hide we're going to stop it,' came the emphatic reply. 'We're going to bash their planet inside out -and the dirty Veenies with it.'

'You mean attack deir cities like dis?' The Martian blinked owlishly in thought, 'You dink dat would be best?'

'Damn it, yes. It -'

'But look.' Ullen placed a skeleton finger in one palm and continued in gentle argument. 'Would it not be easier to get de ships demselves by de fall-apart weapon? - Don't you dink so? Or is it dat de Venus people, dey have de screens?'

'What weapon, did you say?'

Ullen ruminated carefully, 'I suppose dat isn't de name you call it by - but I don't know about weapons, anyway. We call it on Mars de "skellingbeg" and dat means in English "fall-apart weapon." Now you know?'

There was no direct answer unless a vague under-breath mutter could be called one. The Earthman pushed away from his companion and stared at the opposite wall in a fidget.