The wish gave up. It ceased to be. And in the timeless eternity where all magic exists, it ceased ever to have been.
IX
“All right then, tell me this: If God can do anything—” Jake Willis cleared his throat and paused, preparatory to delivering the real clincher.
The old man with the scraggly beard snorted and took another shot of applejack. “Why doesn’t He end the war? I’m getting tired of that, Jake. I wish you’d go back to the weight He can’t lift. Father’s explained this one before, and I’m willing to admit he makes a good case.”
“I don’t see it,” said Jake stubbornly.
Father Byrne sighed. “Because man must have free will. If men were mere pawns that were pushed around by God, their acts would have no merit in them. They would be unworthy to be the children of God. Your own children you love even when most they rebel. You do not love your chessmen. Man must work out his own salvation; salvation on a silver platter is meaningless.”
John MacVeagh stirred restlessly. This idea seemed so familiar. Not from hearing Father Byrne expound it before, but as though he had worked it out for himself, sometime, in a very intimate application.
“But if there is a God—” Jake went on undisturbed.
MacVeagh caught Ingve Johansen’s eye and grinned. He was glad Johansen had joined the crackerbarrel club. Glad, too, that Johansen’s marriage with Laura Hitchcock was working so well.
The man with the tired face was playing with the black Scottie and trying to think of nothing at all. When he heard footsteps, he looked up sharply. The tiredness was automatically wiped from his face by a grin, which faded as he saw a stranger. “How did you get in here?” he demanded.
The stranger was an old man with a beaked nose. In the dim light it was hard to tell whether or not he wore a beard. He said, “I’ve been working for you.”
The man with the Scottie looked at the defense worker’s identification card which said
WHALING, SMITH
He resumed the grin. “Glad to see you. Fine work they’ve been turning out at your plant. You’re a delegate to me?”
“Sort of. But just for me. You see, I’m quitting.”
“You can’t. Your job’s frozen.”
“I know. But that don’t count. Not for me. But it’s this way: Since the Army took over the plant, looks like you’re my employer. Right?”
The man seemed puzzled as he fitted a cigarette into a long holder. “I guess so. Smoke?”
“No, thanks. Then if you’re my employer, you’ve been a good one. You’ve got a wish coming to you.”
The man with the holder peered at the other. It was hard to make him out. And he’d come in so silently, presumably through the guards.
The grin was crooked as he said, “I don’t think you’re even here. And since you aren’t, there’s no harm in playing the game. A wish—” He looked at the globe on the table and at the dispatches beside it. “Yes,” he said finally, “I have a wish—”
John MacVeagh paused beside the Gypsy’s booth at the Victory Garden Fair. “Want to have your fortune told, Molly?”
Molly shuddered. “Maybe I’m silly. But ever since I was a child I’ve been scared of anything like magic. There’s always a catch.”
The Scottie had been trying to gather courage to bark at the stranger. Now he succeeded. “Be quiet, Fala,” his owner ordered. “Yes, Whaling, I wish—”
MARY CELESTIAL
[with Miriam Allen deFord]
Xilmuch was discovered—once. It was discovered in 3942 by Patrick OstronskyVierra, a Two Star Scout of the Galactic Presidium.
It is easy to find—it is in fact Planet IV of Altair. If it were not a little off the beaten track it would have been discovered long before. It is almost precisely the size of our Earth, has similar atmosphere, rotation, gravity, and climatic conditions. It is two-thirds land surface, and in every way is admirably adapted to human habitation. It has been the home of beings indistinguishable from humans, and was once the seat of a high civilization very like our own of the 40th century, except in minor details. There are no noxious animal forms (the only beasts are herbivorous and inoffensive), and there are no human inhabitants who would resist colonization.
And yet, no matter how overcrowded the colonized planets may become, Xilmuch (that was its name in the dominant native language) will never be discovered again. It will never be colonized.
Not after the report Patrick Ostronsky-Vierra brought back in 3942.
He landed in what seemed to be its largest city, after a preliminary survey of the entire planet in his little one-man scout ship. There was a beautiful airport, equipped for planes of every description. It was not in good repair. Squirrel-like animals infested the hangars full of grounded atmosphere-ships. Grass was growing between cracks in the wide runways. A storm had leveled what had been a huge neo-neon beacon.
Patrick spent two days exploring the city on foot. There were multitudes of parked surface cars and of helicopter-like planes, some of which had crashed and were piles of junk. All had been propelled by some fuel unknown to him, all the tanks were empty, and he could not find any stores of fuel that he could recognize. A good many of the main streets had moving sidewalks under plastic roofs, and some were still operating by remote control. It was the sort of civilization which in his experience implied the services of robots, but no robots of any kind were visible.
He explored systematically, starting at one end of the city and circling closer and closer to the center, which appeared to be a huge civic or control area, with
