Now there is a great hom sounding, and metal bodiesrush across the fields.

Now. Now is the time for me to turn off all my functions and cease.

But I will wait. Just a moment longer. I must hearthem say it Metal arms drag me from the pyre. I am laid aside.Fire extinguishers play white rivers upon the Car.

Dimly, in the distance, through my smashed receptors,I hear the speaker rumble:"Von Tripps has smashed! The Car is dead!**

A great sound of lamenting rises from the rows ofunmoving spectators. The giant fireproof van arrives onthe field, just as the attendants gain control of the flames.

Four tenders leap out and raise the Car from theground. A fifth collects every smouldering fragment.

And I see it all!

"Oh, let this not be blasphemy, pleasel" I pray. "Oneinstant more'"

Tenderly, the Car is set within the van. The great doorsclose.

The van moves, slowly, bearing off the dead warrior,out through the gates, up the great avenue and past theeager crowds.

To the great smelter. The Melting Pot!

To the place where it will be melted down, then sentout, a piece used to grace the making of each new person.

A cry of unanimous rejoicing arises on the avenue.

It is enough, that I have seen all thisi Happily, I turn myself off.

Horseman! was my second published story. As with theprevious one (and within a few weeks of that sale), itwas purchased by a lady I met only once—Cele Goldsmith, a charming person, whose taste I considered impeccable. She bought stories from a great number ofnow well-known writers at the beginnings of theircareers—Ursula K. Le Guin, Piers Anthony, ThomasDisch ... Amazing Stories and Fantastic Adventurescame into an autumn bloom in those final Ziff-Davis days.

This story was suggested to me while driving south onRoute 71 in Ohio, by a pre-storm cloud formation whichresembled a group of horsemen.

^ When he was thunder in the hills the villagers laydreaming harvest behind shutters. When he was an avaj| lanche of steel the cattle began to low, mournfully,II deeply, and children cried out in their sleep.He was an earthquake of hooves, his armor a darktabletop of silver coins stolen from the night sky, whenthe villagers awakened with fragments of strange dreamsin their heads. They rushed to the windows and flung theirshutters wide.

And he entered the narrow streets, and no man sawthe eyes behind his visor.

When he stopped so did time. There was no movementanywhere.

—Neither was there sleep, nor yet full wakefulnessfrom the last strange dreams of stars, of blood. ...

Doors creaked on leather hinges. Oil lamps shivered,pulsated, then settled to a steady glowing.

The mayor wore his nightshirt and a baggy, tossledcap. He held the lamp dangerously near his snowy whiskers, rotating a knuckle in his right eye.

The stranger did not dismount. He faced the doorway,holding a foreign instrument in one hand.

"Who are you, that comes at this hour?"

"I come at any hour—I want directions, I seek mycompanions."

The mayor eyed the beast he rode, whiter than hisbeard, whiter than snow, than a feather ...

"What manner of animal is that?"

"He is a horse, he is the wind, he is the steady pounding of surf that wears away rocks. Where are my companions?"

"What is that tool you carry?"

"It is a sword. It eats flesh and drinks blood. It freessouls and cleaves bodies. Where are my companions?"

"That metal suit you wear, that mask . .. ?"

"Armor and concealment, steel and anonymity—protection! Where are my companions?"

"Who are they that you seek, and where are youfrom?"

"I have ridden an inconceivable distance, past nebulaethat are waterspouts in rivers of stars. I seek the others,like myself, who come this way. We have an appointment."

"I have never seen another like yourself, but there aremany villages in the world. Another lies over those hills,"he gestured in the direction of a distant range, "but it istwo days travel."

"Thank you, man, I will be there shortly."

The horse reared and made a sound terrible to hear. Awave of heat, greater than the lamp's, enveloped themayor, and a burst of wind raced by, bowing the goldenblades of grass which had not already been trampled.

In the distance, thunder pealed on the slopes of thehills.

The horseman was gone, but his last words hung uponthe wind:

"Look to the skies tonight!"

The next village was already lighted, like a cluster ofawakened fireflies, when the hooves and steel grew silent before the door of its largest dwelling.

Heads appeared behind windows, and curious eyesappraised the giant astride his white beast.

This mayor, thin as the gatepost he leaned upon, blewhis nose and held his lantern high.

"Who are you?"

"I have already already wasted too much time withquestions! Have others such as myself passed this way?"

"Yes. They said they would wait atop the highest hill,overlooking that plain." He pointed down a gentle slopewhich ran through miles of fields? stopping abruptly at thebase of a black massif. It rose like a handless arm, turnedto stone, gesturing anywhere.

"There were two," he said. "One bore strange tools,as you do. The other," he shuddered, "said, 'Look to theskies, and sharpen your scythes. There will be signs, wonders, a call—and tonight the sky will fall.' "

The horseman had already become an after-image, haloed in the sparks thrown from struck cobblestones.

He drew rein atop the highest hill overlooking theplain, and turned to the rider of the black horse.

"Where is he?" he asked.

"He has not yet arrived."

He regarded the skies and a star fell.

"He will be late."

"Never."

The falling star did not burn out. It grew to the sizeof a dinner plate, a house, and bung in the air, exhalingsouls of suns. It dropped toward the plain.

A lightning-run of green crossed the moonless heavens,and the rider of the pale green horse, whose hooves makeno sound, drew up beside them.

"You are on time."

"Always," he laughed, and it was the sound of a scythemowing wheat.

The ship from Earth settled upon the plain, and thewondering villagers watched.

Who or what did it bear? Why should they sharpentheir scythes?

The four horsemen waited upon the billtop.

There came a point when I was turning out lots of shortstories, so many that Cele suggested running two perissue to use up my backlog, with a pen name on thesecond tale. She suggested Harrison Denmark as thenom de typewriter. I agreed and this, my first effort atsomething slightly humorous, appeared under that byline. It never occurred to me that Harry Harrison, livingat the time in Snekkerson, Denmark and author of TheStainless Steel Rat might somehow be assumed to be theauthor. It occurred to Harry, however, and he published a letter disclaiming authorship. • I was not certainhe was convinced when I later told him that it hadnever occurred to me. But it had never occurred to me.

They're really afraid of this place.

During the day they'll clank around the headstones,if they're ordered to, but even Central can't make themsearch at night, despite the ultras and the infras—andthey'll never enter a mausoleum.

Which makes things nice for me.

They're superstitious; it's a part of the circuitry. Theywere designed to serve man, and during his brief time onearth, awe and devotion, as well as dread, were automatic things. Even the last man, dead Kennington, commanded every robot in existence while he lived. Hisperson was a thing of veneration, and all his orders wereobeyed.