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3. What equation relates pi to the circumference of a circle?
A) C = 2πr (where r is the radius of the circle)
B) C = πr (where r is the radius of the circle)
C) C = 2πd (where d is the diameter of the circle)
D) C = 2πa (where a is the area of the circle)
Ans: A
Ahead: 2.4
Subject: Ch 2
Complexity: Easy

Copyright © 2021 by Jones & Bartlett Learning, LLC, an Ascend Learning Company
Reference: Case Study 1

>>> import math

>>> numSides = 8
>>> innerAngleB = 360.0 / numSides
>>> halfAngleA = innerAngleB / 2
>>> oneHalfSideS = math.sin(math.radians(halfAngleA))
>>> sideS = oneHalfSideS * 2
>>> polygonCircumference = numSides * sideS
>>> pi = polygonCircumference / 2
>>> pi
3.0614674589207183

4. Refer to the session in the accompanying case study. Which line uses the math module?
A) innerAngleB = 360.0 / numSides
B) oneHalfSideS = math.sin(math.radians(halfAngleA))
C) pi = polygonCircumference / 2
D) sideS = oneHalfsideS * 2
Ans: B
Ahead: 2.4.1
Subject: Ch 2
Complexity: Easy

5. Refer to the session in the accompanying case study. How many sides does the polygon in this
approximation have?
A) 2
B) 8
C) 64
D) pi Ans:
B Ahead:
2.4.1
Subject: Ch 2
Complexity: Easy

6. The statement is used to terminate a function.

A) return
B) exit
C) end

Copyright © 2021 by Jones & Bartlett Learning, LLC, an Ascend Learning Company
D) quit
Ans: A
Ahead: 2.4.2
Subject: Ch 2
Complexity: Easy

7. How many times will the following print statement be executed?

>>> for sides in range(8, 100, 8):
print(sides, archimedes(sides))
A) 1
B) 8
C) 12
D) 16
Ans: C
Ahead: 2.4.2
Subject: Ch 2
Complexity: Moderate

Reference: Case Study 2

>>> acc = 0
>>> for x in range(1, 6):
acc = acc + x
>>> acc
15

8. Refer to the session in the accompanying case study. Which of the following is the
initialization statement?
A) acc
B) for x in range(1, 6):
C) acc = acc + x
D) acc = 0
Ans: D
Ahead: 2.5
Subject: Ch 2
Complexity: Moderate

9. Refer to the session in the accompanying case study. What type of variable is acc?

Copyright © 2021 by Jones & Bartlett Learning, LLC, an Ascend Learning Company
A) Accumulator variable
B) Range variable
C) Initialization variable
D) Timer variable
Ans: A
Ahead: 2.5
Subject: Ch 2
Complexity: Easy

10. What is the name of the formula that calculates pi using the following equation?
/4 = 1/1 – 1/3 + 1/5 – 1/7 + 1/9 …
A) Archimedes approach
B) Leibniz formula
C) Wallis formula
D) Monte Carlo simulation
Ans: B
Ahead: 2.5,2
Subject: Ch 2
Complexity: Easy

11. When calculating pi using the Wallis formula, the accumulator variable:
A) must be initialized to zero.
B) is increased by two each iteration.
C) must be initialized to one.
D) is multiplied by two each iteration.
Ans: C
Ahead: 2.5.3
Subject: Ch 2
Complexity: Moderate

12. The uses probability and random behavior to calculate pi.

A) Archimedes approach
B) Leibniz formula
C) Wallis formula
D) Monte Carlo simulation
Ans: D
Ahead: 2.6
Subject: Ch 2
Complexity: Easy

Copyright © 2021 by Jones & Bartlett Learning, LLC, an Ascend Learning Company
13. To create a random number in Python, use the function.
A) math.random()
B) random.random()
C) montecarlo.random()
D) help.random()
Ans: B
Ahead: 2.6
Subject: Ch 2
Complexity: Moderate

14. The relational operator that means “not equal” is represented with which operator in Python?
A) ==
B) !=
C) <=
D) >=
Ans: B
Ahead: 2.6.1
Subject: Ch 2
Complexity: Easy

Reference: Case Study 3

1. if <condition>:
2. if <condition>:
3. <statements>
4. else:
5. <statements>
6. else:
7. if <condition>:
8. <statements>
9. else:
10. <statements>

15. Refer to the code in the accompanying case study. Under what circumstances are the
statements on line 10 executed?
A) The condition in line 1 is false, and the condition in line 7 is false.
B) The condition in line 1 is false, and the condition in line 7 is true.
C) The condition in line 1 is true, and the condition in line 7 is false.

Copyright © 2021 by Jones & Bartlett Learning, LLC, an Ascend Learning Company
D) The condition in line 1 is true, and the condition in line 7 is true.
Ans: A
Ahead: 2.6.3
Subject: Ch 2
Complexity: Moderate

True or False

1. The parameters passed to the print function are, by default, separated by a space when printed.
Ans: True
Ahead: 2.4.2
Subject: Ch 2
Complexity: Easy

2. The code in the accompanying case study 2 (see below) is used to calculate a running product.

>>> acc = 0
>>> for x in range(1, 6):
acc = acc + x
>>> acc
15

Ans: False. The code uses a running sum. It is using an accumulator.

Ahead: 2.2.5
Subject: Ch 2
Complexity: Easy

3. When using the Wallis function, the larger the value of the parameter passed into the function,
the less accurate the result. Therefore, wallis(100) will be more accurate than
wallis(10000).
Ans: False. The larger the value, the more accurate the result.
Ahead: 2.5.3
Subject: Ch 2
Complexity: Easy

4. Another name for an if statement is a selection statement.

Copyright © 2021 by Jones & Bartlett Learning, LLC, an Ascend Learning Company
Ans: True
Ahead: 2.6.3
Subject: Ch 2
Complexity: Easy

5. To create a drawing window, use the Screen constructor contained in the turtle module.
Ans: True
Ahead: 2.6.5
Subject: Ch 2
Complexity: Easy

Matching

1. Match each term with its definition.

1. True or False
Ans: Boolean values
2. Contains a question and other groups of statements that may or may not be executed,
depending on the result of the question.
Ans: Selection statement
3. and, or, and not
Ans: Logical operators
4. Compares two data values.
Ans: Relational expressions
Ahead: 2.6.1, 2.6.2
Subject: Ch 2
Complexity: Moderate

Short Answer

1. Refer to the session in the accompanying Case Study 1. Explain, in general terms, how to
modify this series of statements in such a way that you would be able to change the number of
sides and try the calculation again without needing to retype all of the statements.
Ans: One way to accomplish this is to use abstraction. Abstraction allows us to think about a
collection of steps as a logical group. In Python, we can define a function that not only serves as
a name for a sequence of actions but also returns a value when it is called. We have already seen
this type of behavior with the sqrt function. When we call sqrt(16), it returns 4.

Copyright © 2021 by Jones & Bartlett Learning, LLC, an Ascend Learning Company
Ahead: 2.4.2
Subject: Ch 2
Complexity: Moderate

2. Refer to the session in the accompanying Case Study 2. Explain what pattern this code
implements and why it is useful.
Ans: The code implements a common problem-solving pattern known as the accumulator pattern.
This common pattern comes up often. Your ability to recognize the pattern and then implement it
will be especially useful as you encounter new problems that need to be solved. As an example,
consider the simple problem of computing the sum of the first five integer numbers. Of course,
this is quite easy because we can just evaluate the expression 1+2+3+4+5. But what if we wanted
to sum the first ten integers? Or perhaps the first hundred? In this case, we would find that the
size of the expression would become quite long. To remedy this, we can develop a more general
solution that uses iteration.
Ahead: 2.5.1
Subject: Ch 2
Complexity: Moderate

3. What are some patterns to keep in mind when implementing the Leibniz formula with Python?
Ans:
• All the numerators are 4.
• The denominators are all odd numbers.
• The sequence alternates between addition and subtraction.
Ahead: 2.5.2
Subject: Ch 2
Complexity: Easy

4. Explain how a Monte Carlo simulation can be used to calculate the value of pi.
Ans: Pretend that we are looking at a dartboard in the shape of a square that is 2 units wide and 2
units high. A circle has been inscribed within the square so that the radius of the circle is 1 unit.
Now assume that we cut out the upper right-hand quadrant of the square. The result will be a
square that is 1 unit high and 1 unit wide with a quarter-circle transcribed inside. This piece is
what we will use to “play” our simulation. The area of the original square was 4 units. The area
of the original circle was πr2 = π units since the circle had a radius of 1 unit. After we cut the
upper-right quarter, the area of the quarter-circle is π/4 and the area of the entire quarter square is
1.

The simulation will work by randomly “throwing darts” at the dartboard. We will assume that
every dart will hit the board but that the location of that strike will be random. It is easy to see
that each dart will hit the square, but some will also land inside the quarter-circle. The number of

Copyright © 2021 by Jones & Bartlett Learning, LLC, an Ascend Learning Company
darts that hit inside or outside the quarter-circle will be proportional to the areas of each. More
specifically, the fraction of darts that land inside the quarter-circle will be equal to π/4.
Ahead: 2.6
Subject: Ch 2
Complexity: Moderate

5. Explain the difference between the “=” in line 1 and the “==” in line 2 in the code sample
below:
1. >>> apple = 25
2. >>> apple == 25
3. True
Ans: On line 1, the variable apple is assigned the value 25 and is then used in an equality
comparison in line 2. It is important to distinguish between the use of the assignment operator, =,
and the equality operator, ==.
Ahead: 2.6.1
Subject: Ch 2
Complexity: Moderate

6. Explain the term short-circuit evaluation of Boolean expressions. Use an example to illustrate
what this means.
Ans: This means that Python evaluates only as much of the expression, from left to right, as it
needs to in order to determine if the expression is True or False. For example, consider the
Boolean expression 3 < 7 or 10 < 20. Because 3 < 7 is True, we know at that time
that the full expression is True. Python does not need to evaluate the expression 10 < 20
since it would not matter whether 10 < 20 is True or False. Similarly, for the Boolean
expression 10 > 20 and 3 < 7, Python would need to evaluate only the 10 > 20 part of
the expression. Because 10 > 20 is False, the full expression will be False regardless of
whether 3 < 7 is True or False.
Ahead: 2.6.2
Subject: Ch 2
Complexity: Difficult

7. Why are decisions referred to as “selection” in computer science?

Ans: In computer science, decisions are often referred to as “selection” because we wish to select
between possible outcomes based on the result of the question we have asked. For example,
when we go outside in the morning, we might ask the question “Is it raining?” If it is raining, we
will grab an umbrella. Otherwise, we will pack our sunglasses. We are selecting which item to
take with us based on the condition of the weather.
Ahead: 2.6.3
Subject: Ch 2

Copyright © 2021 by Jones & Bartlett Learning, LLC, an Ascend Learning Company
Complexity: Easy

8. Refer to the code in the accompanying Case study 3. Why is this section of code referred to as
“nested selection”?
Ans: The result of this structure is to decide between four groups of statements. If the outer
condition is True, then the first nested ifelse is performed. If the nested condition is also
True, then the first group of statements is performed. However, if the nested condition is
False, the second group of statements is executed. Likewise, if the outer condition is False,
the second nested ifelse will be performed. In this way, we are able to decide between four
groups of statements by using the results of two conditions.
Ahead: 2.6.3
Subject: Ch 2
Complexity: Moderate

9. Explain how to modify the coordinate system of the drawing window when using the turtle
module.
Ans: To modify the coordinate system of the drawing window, we can use a Screen method
called setworldcoordinates. This method will take four pieces of information: (1) the x -
coordinate of the lower-left corner, (2) the y-coordinate of the lower-left corner, (3) the x -
coordinate of the upper-right corner, and (4) the y-coordinate of the upper-right corner. These
two points will denote the coordinates of the lower-left and upper-right corners of the window
used by the drawing turtle: wn.setworldcoordinates(-2, -2, 2, 2).
Ahead: 2.6.5
Subject: Ch 2
Complexity: Moderate

Copyright © 2021 by Jones & Bartlett Learning, LLC, an Ascend Learning Company
Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Doorway to
Kal-Jmar
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
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United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Doorway to Kal-Jmar

Author: Damon Knight

Illustrator: Murphy Anderson

Release date: October 6, 2020 [eBook #63392]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DOORWAY TO

KAL-JMAR ***
Doorway to Kal-Jmar
 By Stuart Fleming

Two men had died before Syme Rector's guns

to give him the key to the ancient city of
Kal-Jmar—a city of untold wealth, and of
robots that made desires instant commands.

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from

Planet Stories Winter 1944.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The tall man loitered a moment before a garish window display, his
eyes impassive in his space-burned face, as the Lillis patrolman
passed. Then he turned, burying his long chin in the folds of his
sand cape, and took up the pursuit of the dark figure ahead once
more.
Above, the city's multicolored lights were reflected from the
translucent Dome—a distant, subtly distorted Lillis, through which
the stars shone dimly.
Getting through that dome had been his first urgent problem, but
now he had another, and a more pressing one. It had been simple
enough to pass himself off as an itinerant prospector and gain
entrance to the city, after his ship had crashed in the Mare
Cimmerium. But the rest would not be so simple. He had to acquire
a spaceman's identity card, and he had to do it fast. It was only a
matter of time until the Triplanet Patrol gave up the misleading trail
he had made into the hill country, and concluded that he must have
reached Lillis. After that, his only safety lay in shipping out on a
freighter as soon as possible. He had to get off Mars, because his
trail was warm, and the Patrol thorough.
They knew, of course, that he was an outlaw—the very fact of the
crashed, illegally-armed ship would have told them that. But they
didn't know that he was Syme Rector, the most-wanted and most-
feared raider in the System. In that was his only advantage.
He walked a little faster, as his quarry turned up a side street and
then boarded a moving ramp to an upper level. He watched until the
short, wide-shouldered figure in spaceman's harness disappeared
over the top of the ramp, and then followed.
The man was waiting for him at the mouth of the ascending tunnel.
Syme looked at him casually, without a flicker of expression, and
started to walk on, but the other stepped into his path. He was quite
young, Syme saw, with a fighter's shoulders under the white leather,
and a hard, determined thrust to his firm jaw.
"All right," the boy said quietly. "What is it?"
"I don't understand," Syme said.
"The game, the angle. You've been following me. Do you want
trouble?"
"Why, no," Syme told him bewilderedly. "I haven't been following
you. I—"
The boy knuckled his chin reflectively. "You could be lying," he said
finally. "But maybe I've made a mistake." Then—"Okay, citizen, you
can clear—but don't let me catch you on my tail again."
Syme murmured something and turned away, feeling the spaceman's
eyes on the small of his back until he turned the corner. At the next
street he took a ramp up, crossed over and came down on the other
side a block away. He waited until he saw the boy's broad figure
pass the intersection, and then followed again more cautiously.
It was risky, but there was no other way. The signatures, the data,
even the photograph on the card could be forged once Syme got his
hands on it, but the identity card itself—that oblong of dark
diamondite, glowing with the tiny fires of radioactivity—that could
not be imitated, and the only way to get it was to kill.
Up ahead was the Founders' Tower, the tallest building in Lillis. The
boy strode into the entrance lobby, bought a ticket for the
observation platform, and took the elevator. As soon as his car was
out of sight in the transparent tube, Syme followed. He put a half-
credit slug into the machine, took the punctured slip of plastic that
came out. The ticket went into a scanning slot in the wall of the car,
and the elevator whisked him up.
The tower was high, more than a hundred meters above the highest
level of the city, and the curved dome that kept air in Lillis was close
overhead. Syme looked up, after his first appraising glance about the
platform, and saw the bright-blue pinpoint of Earth. The sight stirred
a touch of nostalgia in him, as it always did, but he put it aside.
The boy was hunched over the circular balustrade a little distance
away. Except for him, the platform was empty. Syme loosened his
slim, deadly energy pistol in its holster and padded catlike toward
the silent figure.
It was over in a minute. The boy whirled as he came up, warned by
some slight sound, or by the breath of Syme's passage in the still air.
He opened his mouth to shout, and brought up his arm in a swift,
instinctive gesture. But the blow never landed. Syme's pistol spat its
silent white pencil of flame, and the boy crumpled to the floor with a
minute, charred hole in the white leather over his chest.
Syme stooped over him swiftly, found a thick wallet and thrust it into
his pocket without a second glance. Then he raised the body in his
arms and thrust it over the parapet.
It fell, and in the same instant Syme felt a violent tug at his wrist.
Before he could move to stop himself, he was over the edge. Too
late, he realized what had happened—one of the hooks on the dead
spaceman's harness had caught the heavy wristband of his
chronometer. He was falling, linked to the body of his victim!
Hardly knowing what he did, he lashed out wildly with his other arm,
felt his fingertips catch and bite into the edge of the balustrade. His
body hit the wall of the tower with a thump, and, a second later, the
corpse below him hit the wall. Then they both hung there, swaying a
little and Syme's fingers slipped a little with each motion.
Gritting his teeth, he brought the magnificent muscles of his arm
into play, raising the forearm against the dead weight of the
dangling body. Fraction by slow fraction of an inch, it came up. Syme
could feel the sweat pouring from his brow, running saltily into his
eyes. His arms felt as if they were being torn from their sockets.
Then the hook slipped free, and the tearing, unbearable weight
vanished.
The reaction swung Syme against the building again, and he almost
lost his slippery hold on the balustrade. After a moment he heard
the spaceman's body strike with a squashy thud, somewhere below.
He swung up his other arm, got a better grip on the balustrade. He
tried cautiously to get a leg up, but the motion loosened his hold on
the smooth surface again. He relaxed, thinking furiously. He could
hold on for another minute at most; then it was the final blast-off.
He heard running footsteps, and then a pale face peered over the
ledge at him. He realized suddenly that the whole incident could
have taken only a few seconds. He croaked, "Get me up."
Wordlessly, the man clasped thin fingers around his wrist. The other
pulled, with much puffing and panting, and with his help Syme
managed to get a leg over the edge and hoist his trembling body to
safety.
"Are you all right?"

Syme looked at the man, nursing the tortured muscles of his arms.
His rescuer was tall and thin, of indeterminate age. He had light,
sandy hair, a sharp nose, and—oddly conflicting—pale, serious eyes
and a humorous wide mouth. He was still panting.
"I'm not hurt," Syme said. He grinned, his white teeth flashing in his
dark, lean face. "Thanks for giving me a hand."
"You scared hell out of me," said the man. "I heard a thud. I thought
—you'd gone over." He looked at Syme questioningly.
"That was my bag," the outlaw said quickly. "It slipped out of my
hand, and I overbalanced myself when I grabbed for it."
The man sighed. "I need a drink. You need a drink. Come on." He
picked up a small black suitcase from the floor and started for the
elevator, then stopped. "Oh—your bag. Shouldn't we do something
about that?"
"Never mind," said Syme, taking his arm. "The shock must have
busted it wide open. My laundry is probably all over Lillis by now."
They got off at the amusement level, three tiers down, and found a
cafe around the corner. Syme wasn't worried about the man he had
just killed. He had heard no second thud, so the body must have
stayed on the first outcropping of the tower it struck. It probably
wouldn't be found until morning.
And he had the wallet. When he paid for the first round of culcha, he
took it out and stole a glance at the identification card inside. There
it was—his ticket to freedom. He began feeling expansive, and even
friendly toward the slender, mouse-like man across the table. It was
the culcha, of course. He knew it, and didn't care. In the morning
he'd find a freighter berth—in as big a spaceport as Lillis, there were
always jobs open. Meanwhile, he might as well enjoy himself, and it
was safer to be seen with a companion than to be alone.
He listened lazily to what the other was saying, leaning his tall,
graceful body back into the softly-cushioned seat.
"Lissen," said Harold Tate. He leaned forward on one elbow, slipped,
caught himself, and looked at the elbow reproachfully. "Lissen," he
said again, "I trust you, Jones. You're obvi-obviously an adventurer,
but you have an honest face. I can't see it very well at the moment,
but I hic!—pardon—seem to recall it as an honest face. I'm going to
tell you something, because I need your help!—help." He paused. "I
need a guide. D'you know this part of Mars well?"
"Sure," said Syme absently. Out in the center of the floor, an AG
plate had been turned on. Five Venusian girls were diving and
twisting in its influence, propelling themselves by the motion of their
delicately-webbed feet and trailing long gauzy streamers of
synthesilk after them. Syme watched them through narrowed lids,
feeling the glow of culcha inside him.
"I wanta go to Kal-Jmar," said Tate.
Syme snapped to attention, every nerve tingling. An indefinable
sense, a hunch that had served him well before, told him that
something big was coming—something that promised adventure and
loot for Syme Rector. "Why?" he asked softly. "Why to Kal-Jmar?"
Harold Tate told him, and later, when Syme had taken him to his
rooms, he showed him what was in his little black suitcase. Syme
had been right; it was big.

Kal-Jmar was the riddle of the Solar System. It was the only
remaining city of the ancient Martian race—the race that, legends
said, had risen to greater heights than any other Solar culture. The
machines, the artifacts, the records of the Martians were all there,
perfectly preserved inside the city's bubble-like dome, after God
knew how many thousands of years. But they couldn't be reached.
For Kal-Jmar's dome was not the thing of steelite that protected
Lillis: it was a tenuous, globular field of force that defied analysis as
it defied explosives and diamond drills. The field extended both
above and below the ground, and tunneling was of no avail. No one
knew what had happened to the Martians, whether they were the
ancestors of the present decadent Martian race, or a different
species. No one knew anything about them or about Kal-Jmar.
In the early days, when the conquest of Mars was just beginning,
Earth scientists had been wild to get into the city. They had
observed it from every angle, taken photographs of its architecture
and the robots that still patrolled its fantastically winding streets,
and then they had tried everything they knew to pierce the wall.
Later, however, when every unsuccessful attempt had precipitated a
bloody uprising of the present-day Martians—resulting in a rapid
dwindling of the number of Martians—the Mars Protectorate had
stepped in and forbidden any further experiments; forbidden, in fact,
any Earthman to go near the place.
Thus matter had stood for over a hundred years, until Harold Tate.
Tate, a physicist, had stumbled on a field that seemed to be identical
in properties to the Kal-Jmar dome; and what is more, he had found
a force that would break it down.
And so he had made his first trip to Mars, and within twenty-four
hours, by the blindest of chances, blurted out his secret to Syme
Rector, the scourge of the spaceways, the man with a thousand
credits on his sleek, tigerish head.
Syme's smile was not tigerish now; it was carefully, studiedly mild.
For Tate was no longer drunk, and it was important that it should
not occur to him that he had been indiscreet.
"This is native territory we're coming to, Harold," he said. "Better
strap on your gun."
"Why. Are they really dangerous?"
"They're unpredictable," Syme told him. "They're built differently,
and they think differently. They breathe like us, down in their
caverns where there's air, but they also eat sand, and get their
oxygen that way."
"Yes, I've heard about that," Tate said. "Iron oxide—very interesting
metabolism." He got his energy pistol out of the compartment and
strapped it on absently.
Syme turned the little sand car up a gentle rise towards the tortuous
hill country in the distance. "Not only that," he continued. "They eat
the damndest stuff. Lichens and fungi and tumble-grass off the
deserts—all full of deadly poisons, from arsenic up the line to xopite.
They seem intelligent enough—in their own way—but they never
come near our cities and they either can't or won't learn Terrestrial.
When the first colonists came here, they had to learn their crazy
language. Every word of it can mean any one of a dozen different
things, depending on the inflection you give it. I can speak it some,
but not much. Nobody can. We don't think the same."
"So you think they might attack us?" Tate asked again, nervously.
"They might do anything," Syme said curtly. "Don't worry about it."
The hills were much closer than they had seemed, because of Mars'
deceptively low horizon. In half an hour they were in the midst of a
wilderness of fantastically eroded dunes and channels, laboring on
sliding treads up the sides of steep hills only to slither down again
on the other side.

Syme stopped the car abruptly as a deep, winding channel appeared

across their path. "Gully," he announced. "Shall we cross it, or follow
it?"
Tate peered through the steelite nose of the car. "Follow, I guess,"
he offered. "It seems to go more or less where we're going, and if
we cross it we'll only come to a couple dozen more."
Syme nodded and moved the sand car up to the edge of the gully.
Then he pressed a stud on the control board; a metal arm extruded
from the tail of the car and a heavy spike slowly unscrewed from it,
driving deep into the sand. A light on the board flashed, indicating
that the spike was in and would bear the car's weight, and Syme
started the car over the edge.
As the little car nosed down into the gully, the metal arm left behind
revealed itself to be attached to a length of thick, very strong wire
cable, with a control cord inside. They inched down the almost
vertical incline, unreeling the cable behind them, and starting minor
landslides as they descended.
Finally they touched bottom. Syme pressed another stud, and above,
the metal spike that had supported them screwed itself out of the
ground again and the cable reeled in.
Tate had been watching with interest. "Very ingenious," he said. "But
how do we get up again?"
"Most of these gullies peter out gradually," said Syme, "but if we
want or have to climb out where it's deep, we have a little harpoon
gun that shoots the anchor up on top."
"Good. I shouldn't like to stay down here for the rest of my natural
life. Depressing view." He looked up at the narrow strip of almost-
black sky visible from the floor of the gully, and shook his head.
Neither Syme nor Tate ever had a chance to test the efficiency of
their harpoon gun. They had traveled no more than five hundred
meters, and the gully was as deep as ever, when Tate, looking up,
saw a deeper blackness blot out part of the black sky directly
overhead. He shouted, "Look out!" and grabbed for the nearest
steering lever.
The car wheeled around in a half circle and ran into the wall of the
gully. Syme was saying, "What—?" when there was a thunderous
crash that shook the sturdy walls of the car, as a huge boulder
smashed into the ground immediately to their left.
When the smoky red dust had cleared away, they saw that the left
tread of the sand car was crushed beyond all recognition.
Syme was cursing slowly and steadily with a deep, seething anger.
Tate said, "I guess we walk from here on." Then he looked up again
and caught a glimpse of the horde of beasts that were rushing up
the gully toward them.
"My God!" he said. "What are those?"
Syme looked. "Those," he said bitterly, "are Martians."
The natives, like all Martian fauna, were multi-legged. Also like all
Martian fauna, they moved so fast that you couldn't see how many
legs they did have. Actually, however, the natives had six legs apiece
—or, more properly, four legs and two arms. Their lungs were not as
large as they appeared, being collapsed at the moment. What
caused the bulge that made their torsos look like sausages was a
huge air bladder, with a valve arrangement from the stomach and
feeding directly into the bloodstream.
Their faces were vaguely canine, but the foreheads were high, and
the lips were not split. They did resemble dogs, in that their thick
black fur was splotched with irregulate patches of white. These
patches of white were subject to muscular control and could be
spread out fanwise; or, conversely, the black could be expanded to
cover the white, which helped to take care of the extremes of
Martian temperature. Right now they were mostly black.
The natives slowed down and spread out to surround the wrecked
sand car, and it could be seen that most of them were armed with
spears, although some had the slim Benson energy guns—strictly
forbidden to Martians.
Syme stopped cursing and watched tensely. Tate said nothing, but
he swallowed audibly.
One Martian, who looked exactly like all the rest, stepped forward
and motioned unmistakably for the two to come out. He waited a
moment and then gestured with his energy gun. That gun, Syme
knew from experience, could burn through a small thickness of
steelite if held on the same spot long enough.
"Come on," Syme said grimly. He rose and reached for a pressure
suit, and Tate followed him.
"What do you think they'll—" he began, and then stopped himself. "I
know. They're unpredictable."
"Yeah," said Syme, and opened the door. The air in the car
whooshed into the near-vacuum outside, and he and Tate stepped
out.
The Martian leader looked at them enigmatically, then turned and
started off. The other natives closed in on them, and they all
bounded along under the weak gravity.
They bounded along for what Syme figured as a good kilometer and
a half, and they then reached a branch in the gully and turned down
it, going lower all the time. Under the light of their helmet lamps,
they could see the walls of the gully—a tunnel, now—getting darker
and more solid. Finally, when Syme estimated they were about nine
kilometers down, there was even a suggestion of moisture.
The tunnel debouched at last into a large cavern. There was a
phosphorescent gleam from fungus along the walls, but Syme
couldn't decide how far away the far wall was. He noticed something
else, though.
"There's air here," he said to Tate. "I can see dust motes in it." He
switched his helmet microphone from radio over to the audio
membrane on the outside of the helmet. "Kalis methra," he began
haltingly, "seltin guna getal."
"Yes, there is air here," said the Martian leader, startlingly. "Not
enough for your use, however, so do not open your helmets."
Syme swore amazedly.
"I thought you said they didn't speak Terrestrial," Tate said. Syme
ignored him.
"We had our reasons for not doing so," the Martian said.
"But how—?"
"We are telepaths, of course. On a planet which is nearly airless on
its surface, we have to be. A tendency of the Terrestrial mind is to
ignore the obvious. We have not had a spoken language of our own
for several thousand years."
He darted a glance at Syme's darkly scowling face. His own hairy
face was expressionless, but Syme sensed that he was amused.
"Yes, you're right," he said. "The language you and your fellows
struggled to learn is a fraud, a hodge-podge concocted to deceive
you."
Tate looked interested. "But why this—this gigantic masquerade?"
"You had nothing to give us," the Martian said simply.
Tate frowned, then flushed. "You mean you avoided revealing
yourselves because you—had nothing to gain from mental
intercourse with us?"
"Yes."
Tate thought again. "But—"
"No," the Martian interrupted him, "revealing the extent of our
civilization would have spared us nothing at your people's hands.
Yours is an imperialist culture, and you would have had Mars,
whether you thought you were taking it from equals or not."
"Never mind that," Syme broke in impatiently. "What do you want
with us?"
The Martian looked at him appraisingly. "You already suspect.
Unfortunately, you must die."

It was a weird situation, Syme thought. His mind was racing, but as
yet he could see no way out. He began to wonder, if he did, could he
keep the Martians from knowing about it? Then he realized that the
Martian must have received that thought, too, and he was enraged.
He stood, holding himself in check with an effort.
"Will you tell us why?" Tate asked.
"You were brought here for that purpose. It is part of our conception
of justice. I will tell you and your—friend—anything you wish to
know."
Syme noticed that the other Martians had retired to the farther side
of the cavern. Some were munching the glowing fungus. That left
only the leader, who was standing alertly on all fours a short
distance away from them, holding the Benson gun trained on them.
Syme tried not to think about the gun, especially about making a
grab for it. It was like trying not to think of the word
"hippopotamus."
Tate squatted down comfortably on the floor of the cavern,
apparently unconcerned, but his hands were trembling slightly. "First
why—" he began.
"There are many secrets in Kal-Jmar," the Martian said, "among
them a very simple catalyzing agent which could within fifty years
transform Mars to a planet with Terrestrially-thick atmosphere."
"I think I see," Tate said thoughtfully. "That's been the ultimate aim
all along, but so far the problem has us licked. If we solved it, then
we'd have all of Mars, not just the cities. Your people would die out.
You couldn't have that, of course."
He sighed deeply. He spread his gloved hands before him and looked
at them with a queer intentness. "Well—how about the Martians—
the Kal-Jmar Martians, I mean? I'd dearly love to know the answer
to that one."
"Neither of the alternatives in your mind is correct. They were not a
separate species, although they were unlike us. But they were not
our ancestors, either. They were the contemporaries of our
ancestors."
"Several thousand years ago Mars' loss of atmosphere began to
make itself felt. There were two ways out. Some chose to seal
themselves into cities like Kal-Jmar; our ancestors chose to adapt
their bodies to the new conditions. Thus the race split. Their answer
to the problem was an evasion; they remained static. Our answer
was the true one, for we progressed. We progressed beyond the
need of science; they remained its slaves. They died of a plague—
and other causes.
"You see," he finished gently, "our deception has caused a natural
confusion in your minds. They were the degenerates, not we."
"And yet," Tate mused, "you are being destroyed by contact with an
—inferior—culture."
"We hope to win yet," the Martian said.
Tate stood up, his face very white. "Tell me one thing," he begged.
"Will our two races ever live together in amity?"
The Martian lowered his head. "That is for unborn generations." He
looked at Tate again and aimed the energy gun. "You are a brave
man," he said. "I am sorry."
Syme saw all his hopes of treasure and glory go glimmering down
the sights of the Martian's Benson gun, and suddenly the pent-up
rage in him exploded. Too swiftly for his intention to be telegraphed,
before he knew himself what he meant to do, he hurled himself
bodily into the Martian.

It was like tangling with a draft horse. The Martian was astonishingly
strong. Syme scrambled desperately for the gun, got it, but couldn't
tear it out of the Martian's fingers. And all the time he could almost
feel the Martian's telepathic call for help surging out. He heard the
swift pad of his followers coming across the cavern.
He put everything he had into one mighty, murderous effort. Every
muscle fiber in his superbly trained body crackled and surged with
power. He roared his fury. And the gun twisted out of the Martian's
iron grip!
He clubbed the prostrate leader with it instantly, then reversed the
weapon and snapped a shot at the nearest Martian. The creature
dropped his lance and fell without a sound.
The next instant a ray blinked at him, and he rolled out of the way
barely in time. The searing ray cut a swath over the leader's body
and swerved to cut down on him. Still rolling, he fired at the holder
of the weapon. The gun dropped and winked out on the floor.
Syme jumped to his feet and faced his enemies, snarling like the
trapped tiger he was. Another ray slashed at him, and he bent lithely
to let it whistle over his head. Another, lower this time. He flipped his
body into the air and landed upright, his gun still blazing. His right
leg burned fiercely from a ray-graze, but he ignored it. And all the
while he was mowing down the massed natives in great swaths,
seeking out the ones armed with Bensons in swift, terrible slashes,
dodging spears and other missiles in midair, and roaring at the top of
his powerful lungs.
At last there were none with guns left to oppose him. He scythed
down the rest in two terrible, lightning sweeps of his ray, then
dropped the weapon from blistered fingers.
He was gasping for breath, and realized that he was losing air from
the seared-open right leg of his suit. He reached for the emergency
kit at his side, drawing in great, gasping breaths, and fumbled out a
tube of sealing liquid. He spread the stuff on liberally, smearing it
impartially over flesh and fabric. It felt like liquid hell on the burned,
bleeding leg, but he kept on until the quick-drying fluid formed an
airtight patch.
Only then did he turn, to see Tate flattened against the wall behind
him, his hands empty at his sides. "I'm sorry," Tate said miserably. "I
could have grabbed a spear or something, but—I just couldn't, not
even to save my own life. I—I halfway hoped they'd kill both of us."
Syme glared at him and spat, too enraged to think of diplomacy. He
turned and strode out of the cavern, carrying his right leg stiffly, but
with his feral, tigerish head held high.
He led the way, wordlessly, back to the wrecked sand car. Tate
followed him with a hangdog, beaten air, as though he had just
found something that shattered all his previous concepts of the
verities in life, and didn't know what to do about it.
Still silently, Syme refilled his oxygen tank, watched Tate do the
same, and then picked up two spare tanks and the precious black
suitcase and handed one of the tanks to Tate. Then he stumped
around to the back of the car and inspected the damage. The cable
reel, which might have drawn them out of the gully, was hopelessly
smashed. That was that.

They started off down the canyon, Syme urging the slighter man to
a fast clip, even though his leg was already stiffening. When they
finally reached a climbable spot, Syme was limping badly and Tate
was obviously exhausted.
They clambered wearily out onto the level sands again just as the
small, blazing sun was setting. "Luck," grunted Syme. "Our only
chance of getting near the city is at night." He peered around,
shading his eyes from the sun's glare with a gauntleted hand. "See
that?"
Following his pointing finger, Tate saw a faint, ephemeral arc
showing above a line of low hills in the distance. "Kal-Jmar," said
Syme.
Tate brightened a little. His body was too filled with fatigue for his
mind to do any work on the problem that was baffling him, and so it
receded into the back of his mind.
"Kal-Jmar," whispered Syme again.
There was no twilight. The sun dropped abruptly behind the low
horizon, and darkness fell, sudden and absolute. Syme picked up the
extra oxygen tank and the suitcase, checked his direction by a wrist
compass, and started toward the hills. Tate rose wearily to his feet
and followed again.
Two hours later, Kal-Jmar stood before them. They had wormed their
way past the sentry posts, doing most of the last two hundred
meters on all fours. With skill and luck, and with Syme's fierce,
burning determination, they had managed to escape detection—and
there they were. Journey's end.
Tate stared up at the shining, starlight towers in speechless
admiration. If the people who had built this city had been decadent,
still their architecture was magnificent. The city was a rhapsody
made solid. There was a sense of decay about it, he thought, but it
was the decay of supreme beauty, caught at the very verge of
dissolution and preserved for all eternity.
"Well?" demanded Syme.
Tate started, shaken out of his dream. He looked down at the black
suitcase, a little wonderingly, and then pulled it to him and opened
it.
Inside, carefully wrapped in shock-absorbing tissue, was a fragile
contrivance of many tubes and wires, and a tiny parabolic mirror. It
had a brand new Elecorp 210 volt battery, and it needed every volt
of that tremendous power. Tate made the connections, his hands
trembling slightly, and set it up on a telescoping tripod. Syme
watched him closely, his big body tensed with expectation.
The field was before them, shimmering faintly in the starlight. It
looked unsubstantial as the stuff of dreams, but both men knew that
no power man possessed, unless it was the thing Tate held, could
penetrate that screen.
Tate set the mechanism up close to the field, aimed it very delicately,
and closed a minute switch. After a long second, he opened it again.
Nothing happened.
The screen was still there, as unsubstantial and as solid as ever.
There was no change.

Tate looked worriedly at his wiring, a deep wrinkle appearing

between his pale, serious eyes. Syme stood stock-still but quivering
with repressed energy, scowling like a thundercloud.
"It must be capable of working," Tate told himself querulously. "The
Martians knew—they wouldn't have tried to stop us if—Wait a
minute." He paced back and forth, biting his lip. Syme watched him
with catlike eyes, clenching and unclenching his great fists.
Tate paused. "I think I have it," he said slowly. "I haven't enough
power to hetrodyne the whole screen, although that's theoretically
possible. But there must be weaker portions of the field—doors—set
to open on the impact of a beam like this one. But I've only got
power enough for two more tries. Jones, where would you put an
entrance, if you'd built Kal-Jmar?"
Syme's eyes widened, and he stared around slowly. "A thousand
years ago?" he muttered. "Two thousand? These hills were raised in
five hundred. We can't go by topography.
"In front of one of the main arteries, then. But there are dozens, no
one larger than the other. Did they have dozens of doors?"
"Maybe," said Tate. He pointed to the right, where the fairy towers
of Kal-Jmar swept aside to leave a broad avenue. "It's the nearest—
as good as any other."
They walked over to it in silence, and in silence Tate set up his
equipment once more. He shifted it from side to side, squinting, until
he had it lined up exactly on the center of the avenue. Then he took
a long breath, and closed the switch again.
The switch came up. Syme stared with fierce eagerness, eyes
ablaze. For a moment there was nothing, and then—
Tate clutched the big man's arm. "Look!" he breathed.
Where the ray from Tate's machine had impinged, a faintly-glowing
spot of violet radiance! As they watched it widened, dilating into a
perfect circle of violet, enclosing nothingness. The door was
opening.
"It worked," Tate said softly. "It worked!"
Syme shook off his grip impatiently, put his hand to the gun in the
holster of his suit. Tate was still watching, fascinated. "Look," he said
again. "The color is changing slightly, falling down the spectrum. I
think that's a warning signal. When it reaches red, the door will
close." He moved toward the widening door, like a sleepwalker.
"Wait," Syme said hoarsely. "You forgot the machine."
Tate turned, said, "Oh yes," and walked back. Then he saw the gun
in Syme's hand. His jaw dropped slightly, but he didn't say anything.
He just stood there, looking dumbly from the gun to Syme's dark
face.
Syme shot him carefully in the chest.
He dropped like a rag doll, but Syme's aim had been bad. He wasn't
dead yet. He rolled his eyes up, like a child. His lips moved. In spite
of himself, Syme bent forward to listen.
"You'll be—sorry," Tate said, and died.
Air was sighing out through the widening hole in the screen. Syme
straightened and smiled tolerantly. For a moment, he had been
unreasonably afraid of what Tate was about to say. Some detail he
had forgotten, perhaps, something that would trap him now that
Tate, the man who knew the answers, was dead. But—he'd be sorry!
For what? Another dead fool?
He gathered up the delicate mechanism in one arm, and, filling his
deep lungs, stepped forward through the opening.

The towers of dead Kal-Jmar loomed over him in the dusk as he

strode like a conqueror down the long-deserted avenue. The city
was full of the whisperings of Kal-Jmar's ancient wraiths, but they
touched only a corner of his mind. He was filled to overflowing with
the bright, glowing joy of conquest. The city was his!
His boots trod an avenue where no foot had fallen these untold
eons, yet there was no dust. The city was bright and furbished
waiting for him. He was intoxicated. The city was his!
There was a gentle ramp leading upward, and Syme followed it,
breathing in the manufactured air of his pressure suit like wine. All
around him, the city blazed with treasures beyond price.
It was his!
The ramp led to a portal set in the side of a shining needle of a
building. Syme strode up to the threshold, and the door dilated for
him. He stepped inside; the door closed and a soft light glowed on.
There was air here: good, breathable air. A tiny zephyr of it was
blowing from some hidden source against his body. Greatly daring,
he unfastened the helmet of his suit and flung it back. He breathed
in a lungful of it. God, but it was good after that canned stuff! It was
a little heady; it made his head swim—but it was good air, excellent
air!
He looked around him, measuring, assessing for the first time. This
room alone was worth a fortune. There was platinum; in ornaments,
set into the walls, in furniture. That would be enough to buy the
little things—a new ship, or perhaps even immunity back on Earth.
But that was as nothing to the rest of it, the things three worlds
would clamor for—the artifacts, the record books, the machines!
He strode about the room, building plan on grandiose plan. He could
take back only a little with him at first; but he could return again and
again, with Tate's mechanism and new batteries. But he'd explore
the city thoroughly before he left. Somewhere there must be
weapons. An invincible weapon, perhaps, that a man could carry in
his hand. Perhaps even a perfect body screen. With that he wouldn't
have to steal away from Mars on a freighter, hiding his loot and his
greatness in a dingy engine room. He could walk into a Triplanet
ship and order its captain to take him wherever he chose to go!

He stood then in the middle of the room, arms akimbo, his head
swimming with glory—and remembered suddenly that he was
hungry. He felt in the container of his helmet, extracted a couple of
food tablets, and popped them into his mouth.
They would take care of his needs, but they didn't satisfy his hunger.
No food tablets for him after this! Steaks, wines, souffles.... His
mouth began to water at the very thought.
And then the robot rolled on soundless wheels into the room. Syme
whirled and saw it only when it was almost upon him. The thing was
remarkably lifelike, and for a moment he was startled.
But it was not alive. It was only a Martian feeding-machine, kept in
repair all these millennia by other robots. It was not intelligent, and
so it did not know that its masters would never return. It did not
know, either, that Syme was not a Martian, or that he wanted a
steak, and not the distilled liquor of the xopa fungus, which still
grew in the subterranean gardens of Kal-Jmar. It was capable only of
receiving the mental impulse of hunger, and of responding to that
impulse.
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