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A History of the Cuban Revolution 1st Edition Aviva
Chomsky Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Aviva Chomsky
ISBN(s): 9781405187749, 1405187743
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 3.04 MB
Year: 2010
Language: english
A History of the
Cuban Revolution
Viewpoints/Puntos de Vista
Themes and Interpretations in
Latin American History
Series Editor: Jürgen Buchenau

The books in this series will introduce students to the most significant
themes and topics in Latin American history. They represent a novel
approach to designing supplementary texts for this growing market.
Intended as supplementary textbooks, the books will also discuss the
ways in which historians have interpreted these themes and topics,
thus demonstrating to students that our understanding of our past
is constantly changing, through the emergence of new sources, meth-
odologies, and historical theories. Unlike monographs, the books in
this series will be broad in scope and written in a style accessible to
undergraduates.

Published
A History of the Cuban Revolution
Aviva Chomsky
Bartolomé de las Casas and the Conquest of the Americas
Lawrence A. Clayton
Mexican Immigration to the United States
Timothy J. Henderson

In preparation
The Last Caudillo: Alvaro Obregón and the Mexican Revolution
Jürgen Buchenau
Creoles vs. Peninsulars in Colonial Spanish America
Mark Burkholder
Dictatorship in South America
Jerry Davila
Mexico Since 1940: The Unscripted Revolution
Stephen E. Lewis
The Haitian Revolution, 1791–1804
Jeremy Popkin
A History of the
Cuban Revolution

Aviva Chomsky

A John Wiley & Sons, Ltd., Publication

This edition first published 2011
© 2011 Aviva Chomsky
Blackwell Publishing was acquired by John Wiley & Sons in February 2007. Blackwell’s
publishing program has been merged with Wiley’s global Scientific, Technical, and
Medical business to form Wiley-Blackwell.
Registered Office
John Wiley & Sons Ltd, The Atrium, Southern Gate, Chichester, West Sussex, PO19
8SQ, United Kingdom
Editorial Offices
350 Main Street, Malden, MA 02148-5020, USA
9600 Garsington Road, Oxford, OX4 2DQ, UK
The Atrium, Southern Gate, Chichester, West Sussex, PO19 8SQ, UK
For details of our global editorial offices, for customer services, and for information
about how to apply for permission to reuse the copyright material in this book please
see our website at www.wiley.com/wiley-blackwell.
The right of Aviva Chomsky to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted
in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise, except as permitted by the UK Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Wiley also publishes its books in a variety of electronic formats. Some content that
appears in print may not be available in electronic books.
Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as
trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book are trade names,
service marks, trademarks or registered trademarks of their respective owners. The
publisher is not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. This
publication is designed to provide accurate and authoritative information in regard to
the subject matter covered. It is sold on the understanding that the publisher is not
engaged in rendering professional services. If professional advice or other expert
assistance is required, the services of a competent professional should be sought.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Chomsky, Aviva, 1957–
A history of the Cuban Revolution / Aviva Chomsky.
p. cm. – (Viewpoints/puntos de vista : themes and interpretations in Latin
American history)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-1-4051-8774-9 (hardcover : alk. paper) – ISBN 978-1-4051-8773-2
(pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Cuba–History–Revolution, 1959. 2. Cuba–History–Revolution,
1959–Influence. I. Title.
F1788.C465 2011
972.9106'4–dc22
2010019088
ISBN 9781405187732
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Set in 10.5/13 pt Minion by Toppan Best-set Premedia Limited
Printed in Singapore
01 2011
Contents

List of Illustrations viii

Series Editor’s Preface x
Acknowledgments xii

Introduction 1
Talking about Freedom 2
Scholars Weigh In 4
Why Revolution? 6
Comparing Capitalism and Socialism 9
Latin American Attitudes 14
1 Cuba through 1959 18
Colonial History 18
The Colony in the Republic 25
Revolution: A War, or a Process? 34
2 Experiments with Socialism 44
Analyzing the Situation: Economic Backwardness 45
The 1960s: Experimentation and the Great Debate 48
The 1970s: Institutionalization and the Soviet Model 55
Democracy: U.S. and Cuban Style 56
Cuba in the 1970s: How it Worked 57
1986: Rectification 61
How Democratic was Cuban Socialism? 62
vi Contents
3 Relations with the United States 65
The United States and Cuba 66
In their Own Words: U.S. Policymakers Respond
to Revolution 69
Covert War: Up to the Bay of Pigs 76
Covert War: After the Bay of Pigs 79
The Missile Crisis 82
After the Missile Crisis 85
The War Continues 86
4 Emigration and Internationalism 91
Miami 94
Cuba’s Global Reach: Beyond the Cold War 97
Cuba and Black Internationalism 98
Cuba in Africa and Latin America 100
Civilian Aid Missions 103
5 Art, Culture, and Revolution 106
Literature 110
Film 116
Music 120
Sport 122
Dance 125
Political Culture 126
Food 131
6 Cuba Diversa 134
Race 135
Gender 141
Sexuality 144
Religion 149
7 The “Special Period”: Socialism on One Island 153
1993–95: Rapid-Fire Reforms 154
Social Impact of the Market Reforms 157
Limits to Capitalism 159
Charting New Territory 162
Contradictions: Inequality and Jineterismo 164
 Contents vii
Opting to Leave: The 1994 Exodus 168
Debate and its Limits during the 1990s 171
8 Cuba into the Twenty-First Century 176
From Perfeccionamiento to Recentralization 177
Civil Society into the New Century 183
Disillusionment 186
Bush-Era Policies 188
Cuba, Venezuela, and the ALBA 189
Cuba after Fidel 190

Conclusion 193

Notes 196
Bibliography 214
Index 228
Illustrations

Maps

Map 1 Cuba with major cities xiii

Map 2 Cuba with respect to the Caribbean and
the Americas xiv

Figures

Figure I.1 Billboard quoting José Martí: “Either Free Forever,

or Forever Fighting to be Free” 3
Figure 1.1 Bust of Hatuey in the main plaza of Baracoa in
eastern Cuba. “Hatuey: The First Rebel of America.
Burned at the Stake in Yara, Baracoa.” Oriente
Workers Lodge 19
Figure 1.2 Print by Cuban artist Sandra Ramos, “Seremos
Como El Che” (We will be like Che) 35
Figure 2.1 Literacy Museum in Ciudad Libertad outside
of Havana, 2000 51
Figure 3.1 Billboard near Playa Girón. “Girón: First Defeat of
Yankee Imperialism in Latin America” 68
 Illustrations ix
Figure 5.1 ICAIC headquarters, Havana, 2008 116
Figure 7.1 A dollar store in Havana, 2008 154
Figure 7.2 A farmers market in Havana, 2000 156
Figure 7.3 A bodega in Havana, 2009 161
Series Editor’s Preface

E ach book in the “Viewpoints/Puntos de Vista” series introduces

students to a significant theme or topic in Latin American history.
In an age in which student and faculty interest in the Global South
increasingly challenges the old focus on the history of Europe and
North America, Latin American history has assumed an increasingly
prominent position in undergraduate curricula.
Some of these books discuss the ways in which historians have
interpreted these themes and topics, thus demonstrating that our
understanding of our past is constantly changing, through the emer-
gence of new sources, methodologies, and historical theories. Others
offer an introduction to a particular theme by means of a case study
or biography in a manner easily understood by the contemporary,
non-specialist reader. Yet others give an overview of a major theme
that might serve as the foundation of an upper-level course.
What is common to all of these books is their goal of historical
synthesis. They draw on the insights of generations of scholarship on
the most enduring and fascinating issues in Latin American history,
while also making use of primary sources as appropriate. Each book
is written by a specialist in Latin American history who is concerned
with undergraduate teaching, yet who has also made his or her mark
as a first-rate scholar.
The books in this series can be used in a variety of ways, recogniz-
ing the differences in teaching conditions at small liberal arts colleges,
large public universities, and research-oriented institutions with doc-
toral programs. Faculty have particular needs depending on whether
 Series Editor’s Preface xi
they teach large lectures with discussion sections, small lecture or
discussion-oriented classes, or large lectures with no discussion sec-
tions, and whether they teach on a semester or trimester system. The
format adopted for this series fits all of these different parameters.
This volume is one of the two inaugural books in the “Viewpoints/
Puntos de Vista series. In A History of the Cuban Revolution, Avi
Chomsky provides a compelling and fascinating synthesis of the
Cuban Revolution – the first socialist revolution in the Americas, and
significant in world history for its role in the Cold War. Drawing on
historical literature and primary sources from both Cuba and the
United States, the author takes the reader on a historical tour, from
the beginning of the Revolution in the Sierra Maestra mountains up
to the present day. Along the way she includes not only the preemi-
nent actors in the drama – Fulgencio Batista, Che Guevara, Fidel
Castro, Dwight Eisenhower, J.F.K., Robert Kennedy, and many others
– but she also covers the Bay of Pigs invasion, the Cuban Missile
Crisis, issues of immigration and emigration, political culture, and
the social and cultural legacies of the Revolution in race, gender, and
sexuality as well as in literature, film, music, dance, religion, sport,
and food.

Jürgen Buchenau
University of North Carolina, Charlotte
Acknowledgments

M any thanks to Peter Coveney and Jürgen Buchenau, who pro-

posed this project to me and who have helped it along at every
juncture. Several anonymous readers provided welcome suggestions
for both the proposal and the manuscript. Thanks also to copyeditor
Tessa Hanford, and to my sister-in-law Amy Apel for indexing the
book. Above all, I must thank Alfredo Prieto and his family. Alfredo
has been my guide to Cuba and socio in Cuba-related intellectual and
political endeavors over the past decade. Hundreds of hours of con-
versations in Havana, Maine, Massachusetts, and even Miami, have
helped me better understand the complexities of Cuba’s past and
present. Alfredo also served as editor extraordinaire for this manu-
script, catching errors, reminding me of what I’d missed, and pushing
me towards new discoveries. ¡Muchísimas gracias!
 a
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Gulf of
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HAVANA
Mariel
Matanzas
Pinar Santa
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Cienfuegos
ATLANTIC
OCEAN
Camaguey
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Isla de la
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´
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Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
fired twice, then dropped to the floor. The first man collapsed in the
path of the second, but the latter was only slightly wounded. He
raised his weapon toward Underwood even as he fell.

From his prone position, Underwood fired again. The blast missed
and reddened the metal of the far wall of the room for a moment.
Underwood did not dare move. He could find little shelter in the
small corner where the circled doorway did not fully meet the
rectangular corridor, but there was no other to be had.
Shots from within the control room were coming close now. He could
feel the heat they generated in the metal floor. While he tried to
edge closer into the corner, somebody else came into his view. It
was an impressive, militaristic figure, undoubtedly Commander
Rennies, for his harsh, arrogant voice was ordering one of the men
to call for assistance from the other end of the ship.
Then, suddenly, the Commander stiffened. Even Underwood could
glimpse the stare that glazed his eyes like polished glass. Jandro?
The others in the room saw it also, and heard the crash as the heavy
body fell to the floor.
The disaster to the Disciples disrupted their attack for an instant. It
was long enough for Underwood to get his gun up and fire straight
at his opponent. The man started and whirled with a look of surprise
on his face for an instant before he died.
And then another shot came from the opposite side of the room and
caught one of the remaining defenders unaware. Terry was there at
last!
Underwood breathed heavily in relief. He had been afraid Terry had
been caught. Apparently the archeologist had met opposition of his
own and had eventually succeeded in overcoming it.
Terry and Underwood rushed the control room simultaneously. Only
a single member of the Disciples was able to offer resistance. Beams
from the two guns crossed the room and caught him in a lethal
blaze.
Cautiously, Underwood advanced not quite inside the doorway.
"Terry, you there?" he called.
"Check. I ran into one of them in the corridor."
"Keep out of the way. I'm going to come in blasting in your direction
in case any more of these fanatics are hiding."
"Right. If I don't get your okay in five or so, I'll come in the same
way."
Underwood set the beam to a low but deadly intensity and fanned it
up and down, bringing the plane of motion ever nearer the wall that
could be hiding an attacker. Without exposing himself, he extended
his hand and brought the gun about until he knew the room was
cleared or that any one hiding there had been hit.
He entered then and called to Terry. The redhead entered grinning,
but a smear of blood covered his left arm from the shoulder down.
"Terry! You're hurt!"
"I didn't get him good enough with my first shot. I'll be all right.
What do we do now?"
"We can clear the ship by throwing some chloryl triptanate into the
air system. But even after that, we can't even go back to the moon
to return Jandro to his own people—that would bring the whole fleet
down on them."
"We'll figure something out," said Terry optimistically. "We didn't
expect to get this far. I wonder what happened to that guy Jandro.
Have you found out where he actually is yet?"
"No. He apparently killed Rennies, but I've heard nothing from him."
"I'll get the triptanate, and some mesarpin for antidote. If I'm not
back in half an hour, it'll be your baby."
"You guard here," said Underwood, "You'd better take it easy with
that arm of yours."
"You're more important around here than I am. I'll be back in five
minutes." Terry disappeared in the direction of surgery.
Underwood sat down wearily—and suddenly became aware of the
fixed dead stare of the eyes of Commander Rennies, who lay on the
floor.
His name had been vaguely familiar to Underwood and now he knew
why. Rennies had attained considerable renown in the interstellar
military field. He had been an able leader, highly trained, widely
read, intelligent, and a clever tactician—yet his mind had been as
vulnerable to Demarzule as the most illiterate of the Disciples.
Then Underwood became aware of a slow stirring upon the floor.
The last Disciple he had shot was not dead. The lips twisted in a
snarl of hate.
"Fools!" The Disciple spat out. Blood poured from between his lips.
"Do you suppose you can block the Great One? The human race
waited ten thousand years for this savior. Man shall become the
greatest in all the Universe with him as leader. Pay homage to the
Great One as all the Galaxies shall pay homage to us!"
Underwood said, "Why?"
"Because we are the greatest!"
He looked at the man curiously. It was as if the knowledge of
semantics did not exist, yet for twelve hundred years semanticists
had slowly been prying loose the ancient false extensions that
cluttered men's thinking and dwarfed their concepts.
Demarzule had wiped out all of that merely by his presence.
Underwood found himself wondering why he should be at all
concerned with the matter.

He knew, however, that as a member of the human race he had to

keep on hoping that the course of evolution would lead it to
something greater than constant strife and insecurity. He had been
blind when he had tried to escape. There was no escape; he saw
that very clearly now.
A sudden sound in the corridor alerted his senses. His gun moved
slightly to cover the entrances.
Then Terry burst into view with the containers of chemicals from the
surgical lab.

"Made it," he said. "Any trouble here?"

"No, just one revived for a little while to gab. He's dead now." The
man was quiet in a pool of his own blood. "How do things look out
there?"
"A lot of racket in the direction of the lock area. Must be fighting
going on down there. I didn't see anyone at all near this end."
While he spoke, Terry bent over and moistened a strip of his clothing
with one of the liquids. He held it to his nostrils for a moment and
passed it to Underwood. Then he opened the return air vent and
poured the contents of the other bottle into it. The highly volatile
liquid quickly vaporized and passed to the fans of the central
ventilating blowers, from which it passed into every chamber of the
ship. Within ten minutes it had anesthetized every person aboard
the ship except the two who had inhaled the antidote.
While they waited, Underwood stared thoughtfully at the dead
Rennies. "I wonder how Jandro kills," he said. "Can there be any
defense against such silent power? Have you thought of what that
implies with relation to Jandro's people and the society they live in?"
Terry nodded. "I haven't thought much of anything else since I first
saw him kill that guard in our stateroom. A civilization in which every
member holds a silent, secret weapon over the head of his neighbor.
It's incredible that it could exist."
"But it has existed and continues to exist, and I'll bet that Jandro is
the first of his kind to use this power for generations."
"It certainly implies a stability and individual recognition of
responsibility that has never existed among us. I doubt that it ever
will."
"Someday it might."
"We won't be around."
"There's something else, too," Underwood said. "This may be the
way out for us. It could be."
"What do you mean?"
"Suppose just one of us had the power Jandro has. That would be
the weapon against Demarzule that we need!"
Terry hesitated. "We're not likely to get that power—and if we did,
we could never get near enough to Demarzule to use it."
"No? Suppose we let the fleet capture us and take us back. It's my
guess that Demarzule wants us alive. His pleasure in our downfall
should come from personally witnessing our defeat. It would fit his
character. So we'll be brought back as prisoners. Then all that would
be necessary would be to dispose of him just as Jandro did with
Rennies."
"You're forgetting that Demarzule has the same organs and the
same powers. You don't know what kind of defense could be offered
against them—perhaps they are immune to such attacks themselves.
That would explain this mystery of Dragboran civilization. Maybe
Demarzule could detect it if any of us possessed the organs. Lastly,
there is absolutely no possibility of our getting them, anyway."

Underwood's face darkened. "That's the one thing I haven't figured

out yet, but there's got to be a way. It looks as if this is the only
hope left us to destroy the alien. We'd have to defeat the whole fleet
to continue searching for the Dragboran weapon, and there's no
chance of that."
"I hope you're right. Well, the anesthetic has had time to act. Let's
revive our men and set to work on it."
They made sure of their weapons, and left the control room. Within
the whole ship there was no sound except their footsteps in the
corridor. One by one, they opened the stateroom doors as they went
down toward the locks. They held the cloths moistened with the
restoring vapors to the nostrils of each of their own men.
The first were Dreyer and Phyfe. Mason and his crew were found in
the next room toward the stern. Quick explanations were made and
those revived went to the task of restoring still others.
In Illia's stateroom, they found her lying composed upon her bunk.
For a moment, as he looked down upon her serene features,
Underwood forgot the intense urgency of his tasks. He tried to recall
just why he had been willing to sacrifice the life that Illia and he had
hoped to share—sacrifice, because she had believed in man, while
Underwood had wanted only escape from the pressure of an erratic
and chaotic society. Surely that life together would not have been
postponed if he could have seen the choices earlier as he saw them
now. Was it too late to hope now for reprieve from the destruction
that hovered over them? He dared not answer.
Gently, he restored her to consciousness.
"I had the nicest dream," she said. "I knew you were in control as
soon as the first whiff of triptanate came through."
"We're not in control yet. The main fleet will arrive within a few
hours and have us cornered. Most of us are revived with the
exception of a large group down by the locks. Will you go up and
help Armstrong, the engineer? He's in B05 and badly hurt. We
haven't been able to do a thing for him yet."
Illia nodded. "I'll take care of him. Any others?"
"Terry here." He motioned at Terry's bloodcaked arm. "You'd have to
tie him down to work on him, though. Maybe he can go until we get
organized."
They separated in the corridor and Underwood hurried on toward
the stern locks. As he came up he could see a large group of the
men gathered around. Apprehension drove him to a run along the
narrow passageway. The group turned as they heard his footsteps
and made a path for him.
A scene of death lay before him. Bodies of scientists and Disciples
lay side by side on the floor. There were Roberts, the surgeon, and
Parker and Muth, two of the chemists. Three others were not
recognizable. Six of his own men had died and five of the Disciples
before the gas had brought an instant and bloodless end to the
battle.
He turned away. He wished there might have been some other way
than sacrificing those men, but if the scientists had not held the
lock, the Disciples might have remained in permanent control of the
ship.

He beckoned to Terry, who was checking the roster with Mason.

"Have you accounted for everyone yet?"
"Peters, Atchison, and Markham appear to be the three we couldn't
identify," said Terry. "And, of course, Jandro. No one has heard or
seen anything of him since he killed Rennies."
"Jandro!" Underwood was suddenly and fearfully aware of Jandro's
absence. "We've got to find him. There's no use of any of us leaving
unless we do."
"I couldn't be sure, but I think I saw him from the lock viewplates a
minute ago," Captain Dawson said. "There's no way of telling except
by that oversize spacesuit, but he may be lying on the ground out
there."
"If he's been killed—" Underwood raced toward the nearest viewing
station.
He switched it on and scanned the area about the ship. Disciples
were milling about, hesitant about using their Atom Stream weapons
to force entrance without orders from their Commander.
Dawson pointed. "Toward the stern—there!"
It was unmistakably Jandro, though a blast had blackened the upper
right portion of the spacesuit and a gap showed in it.
"If the self-sealers worked, he may not have been out there too
long," Underwood said urgently. "Dawson, drive the mob back with
the big Atom Stream, then throw a force shell over to Jandro so we
can go out and get him."

Dawson hurried away, calling for his mates and engineers on his way
to the control room. Underwood remained watching the exterior
from the plate. Abruptly the Disciples turned and fled in panic. The
blue radiance of the Atom Stream played about the ship, clearing a
space beyond Jandro. Then the view of all the ancient city and the
fleeing Disciples was cut off as the impenetrable force shell went
out. Mason and two of the crew were already in suits and in the
lock. They opened it the instant the force shell stabilized.
Jandro had been lying in the sunlight. That might have saved him.
Underwood thought, for the suit absorbed the radiant heat.
The three men reached the Dragboran and lifted him carefully. They
did not know whether he was dead or alive as they gently rolled him
onto a stretcher and carried him to the ship.
Underwood located Akers, the surgeon next in skill to Illia, who
ordered the surgery prepared. Underwood left his post and sought
Illia. Jandro would need all her skill if he still lived. But he wondered
if the engineer, Armstrong, did too.
Underwood found her still in the room where Armstrong lay. She was
rising from her knees as he entered.
"There was nothing to be done for him," said Illia. "I stayed until he
died. Do you need me anywhere else?"
"Yes. Jandro was shot outside. Akers is making ready, but I want you
to take over. Jandro is the key to our whole success here. If he's
alive, he's got to be kept alive."
Illia looked at him questioningly.
"I'll do my best," she cried.
Akers was quite willing for Illia to take over when he saw Jandro.
The wound was ghastly to see, slashing across the full width of the
chest.
While Jandro was in surgery, Underwood called a general meeting.
They gathered rapidly in the conference room, but their worn and
strained faces were little short of tragic.
"We've lost our chance for any Dragboran super-weapon we might
have found in the ruins here," said Underwood without preamble.
"We're defenseless—except for the shell—and outnumbered. We
can't run because the fleet can run faster, and we can't stay bottled
up here forever. I can think of only one thing possible that we can
do."
The others did not need to be reminded of the hopelessness of their
situation, but their eyes lighted with interest at the last sentence.
Then he outlined briefly his idea of obtaining the organs and powers
that Jandro possessed and allowing themselves to be captured and
taken to Demarzule.
"It sounds good for a last-ditch stand," said Mason. "But you haven't
explained how we are going to get back to the moon so that we can
obtain these things from the Dragbora."
"That is the one missing element of the plan," said Underwood.
Then he added fiercely, "And it's got to be solved! That's why I
called you here. I haven't the answer, but together we've got to find
it. It's our last chance to stop Demarzule."
Mason jumped to his feet. "There ought to be several hours yet
before the fleet arrives. We might have time to rig up a field
generator and set up a dummy here to make the Disciples believe
we're hiding under it, while we actually take off for the moon."
"That's it!" Underwood exclaimed. "Only we'll have to move around
the planet to avoid detection by the local garrison. But that will do
it!"
The interphone sounded. Illia said, "We're finished, Del. Jandro is
alive, but he'll be dead within an hour. If you want to see him, you'd
better come now."
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Underwood started for the door without hesitation. "We'll try your
plan, Mason. Take over. Dreyer, Phyfe—please come along with me."
They hurried to the room next to surgery where Jandro lay in bed,
motionless and unseeing. Only Illia and Akers were with him.
At the sight of that unmoving figure, Underwood experienced a
depth of sorrow and pity that wiped out all other thoughts for a
moment. He felt that he alone of all the Earthmen could understand
the deep rebellion, the dreams and the hopes that had been the
driving force in Jandro's life. And this was a mean end for such
bright dreams—death at the hands of crazed fanatics on a Heaven
World that had proved to be anything but that.
Underwood thought of the green, shining moon of the refugee
Dragbora where men lived in peace with one another. The moon that
Jandro would never see again.
Jandro's eyes fluttered open slowly and gradual recognition came
into them. Dreyer said softly, "We're sorry. If there were anything
within our power to get you back to your own world and your own
people, we would do it. I hope you know that."
"Of course," said Jandro slowly. "I would like my seaa-abasa to be
with those of my ancestors for the day when life will return. But I
think perhaps it never will. It is like our dream of the gods, only a
delusion. As for death, that is certain for every man. How or when it
comes is not important. It is strange for me to observe the grief of
animals for a man. Strange—"
"Doesn't he suppose there was a time when the Dragbora never had
the mother-flesh and the secret of the abasa?" Asked Underwood,
and Dreyer translated for him.
"Naturally," Jandro replied. "We were merely animals then, as you
are now. When you came in your ships of metal, all of us thought
surely the gods had come to return us to Heaven World again. You
did us a great favor in showing us how wrong we were in our
legends and our dreams. But until we arrived on this planet, I still
thought you were superior beings because I could not detect your
epthalia. None of us have the ability to hide it from each other."
"But you knew it when we were attacked?" said Dreyer.
"I could not understand why you did not act to forestall your
enemies who were so apparent to me. Then I realized that it was
because you did not possess the abasa at all. I was frightened
because I did not know what to do. I had never dreamed in all my
life that I would meet with creatures who might be gods because
they possessed the metals, and yet were lower than men because
they did not have the abasa. I did not understand."

"We do not understand many things about each other," said

Underwood, "but perhaps you understand us well enough now to
know that we need your help against these enemies of ours—and of
yours.
"Many hundreds of thousands of years ago, there was a race, called
the Sirenians, and they were deadly enemies of your race, the
Dragbora. Like you, they possessed the abasa, but instead of living
peacefully they set out to conquer all the worlds and the Galaxies. In
the end they were defeated by your people who had some
mysterious weapon that penetrated every defense of the Sirenians.
We came to your ancient world to find a clue to that weapon
because one of the Sirenians succeeded in surviving and is now at
large upon our own world. He has seized control over our people
and is setting out to sweep the Galaxies with conquest and blood. In
time he will find even your little world. The civilizations of many
Galaxies will suffer centuries of retrogression.
"We didn't find the weapon we came for, and now our chance is
gone, for the fleet of Demarzule, the Sirenian, is almost upon us.
There is just one hope left to us.
"We believe that his men will capture us alive and take us to him if
we permit it. If we could be taken into his presence bearing the
power of destruction that lies in the abasa, we might be able to
destroy him.
"Can you—will you—make it possible for us to gain that power by
grafting the abasa in some of us upon your world?"
Dreyer translated as rapidly as possible the swift spoken words of
Underwood while Jandro lay with closed eyes, as if sleeping a
dreamless sleep. It was a long time after Dreyer finished that Jandro
slowly opened his eyes again.

His voice was so low that Dreyer had to lean forward to catch his
words.
"It is a strange story you tell," he said, "but I am impressed that
what you say is true. As to your request—no. It would be utterly
impossible for you to be given fresh abasa as are the young of our
race. Not that I wouldn't make it possible for some of you—a very
few—to receive them, if I could, but the abasa can be installed in
only the very young.
"The use of the abasa is similar to that of the organs of walking or
speaking. The organs must develop from their rudimentary forms
through long years of usage, and skill with them comes much more
slowly than any of the other common skills. Though they are
installed in us in infancy, most of us are well matured before we gain
great skill. For this reason alone it would be impossible for you to
have the organs."
Across the bed, Underwood's eyes met Illia's and held for an endless
moment. In her he sought strength to endure the crushing
disappointment. Illia's eyes gave him blind assurance that there
would yet be a way.
"Your race will, in time, develop and learn the use of the abasa,"
Jandro went on, "but not for many hundreds of generations. From
what I have seen of your people, I wonder what your world would
be like if every one possessed the power to kill at will, silently, and
without detection. I do not know the answer to that, but I ask you
to answer it for yourselves. The mere fact that you have not yet
developed the abasa is proof that you are not ready for it.
"The Dragbora live in peace not because they have such terrible
power; they can live with such power because they have first
learned how men must live with one another. You cannot understand
why the power of death is inherent in the abasa. It is merely one of
the inevitable functions that accompany the other greater and more
useful powers, most of which you shall, of course, never know. I
wonder if you would want the abasa, even if it were possible for you
to possess it," Jandro finished.

"For our race? No!" Underwood shuddered at the thought of every

man of Earth possessing instant, undetectable powers of death over
his neighbor. "You are right in that, Jandro. Whatever the other
powers of the abasa may be, we could not live with it. But
Demarzule is a totally extraneous factor not considered in our own
evolution. We have no defense against him. If the power of death in
the abasa could be used to destroy him, it would give our race its
one chance of staving off this threat.
"Yet you say it is impossible. It means for us no hope against the
barbarism that will destroy our civilization and brutalize our people,
not to mention what it means to the other civilizations of the Galaxy
—including your own."
There was scarcely the sound of their breathing within the room as
the Earthmen avoided each others' eyes now, staring down at the
closed ones of Jandro.
"Your people hardly deserve the scourge of Demarzule and the
Sirenian demand for supremacy," said Jandro slowly. "And what you
say of the rest of the Universe is true. In a way, the Dragbora are
responsible. Demarzule is a product of the Sirenian-Dragboran
culture. My ancestors should have made more sure of the total
extinction of the Sirenian branch. Perhaps there is one way in which
we could yet help."
"You can help?" Underwood asked eagerly and incredulously.
"I have little longer to live. It would be worthwhile if, in that hour left
to me, I could complete the task of extinction—or at least enable
you to do so. If one of you is willing to take the risk, I will do what I
can."
"No risk is too great! But what can be done?"
"As far as I know, it has never been attempted, but perhaps my own
abasa could be transferred to you."
Dreyer translated the offer, his glance going from Illia to Underwood.
Something of hope seemed to come again into his eyes.
Underwood caught his breath sharply. "A set of fully developed
abasa transferred to my own body! There would be one of us to
meet Demarzule on his own level. Illia—"
Her face was suddenly white. "It's impossible, Del! I couldn't
perform such an operation without any previous study with their
anatomy. I can't do it!"
"It's got to be done, Illia. I'll take a chance on your skill."
"That's an utterly ridiculous statement. I have no skill in a case like
this. Tell him, Dr. Dreyer. He can't expect that much of me."
"I don't know, Illia," said the semanticist. "It seems to me that you
are confusing your analysis by your own personal emotions. You
cannot be evaluating properly under such conditions."
She bit her lips to hold back a further outburst. Then, at last she
said, "Don't ask the impossible of me, Del. I saw the way they split
the nerves in the operation we watched. It couldn't be done without
long practise. Most of all, I couldn't do it to you."
As if sensing the meaning of their argument, Jandro spoke suddenly.
"You will have great difficulty in making a successful installation
because you are unfamiliar with the anatomy of the abasa, true, but
I can help. I can guide and direct your hands up to the very point of
cutting the nerves to the tri-abasa. You shall succeed if you allow me
to guide you."

Underwood kept his eyes upon Illia. Her face was as pale as her
shining hair.
"I'll try, Del," she said.
News of the projected experiment sped swiftly through the ship, and
its significance was greeted with awed incomprehension as if
Underwood has suddenly stepped from their midst into a misty
realm beyond their reach. And their awe was magnified by the
knowledge that it could very well mean death.
Within minutes of the decision, assistants were rolling the tables
bearing the white sheeted forms of Underwood and Jandro into the
surgery.
A strange peace, a sort of ecstasy, seemed to have come over
Jandro. Underwood had seen and heard of resignation in the face of
death, but never such serenity as possessed Jandro. It had a
calming effect upon Underwood and he shed the thoughts of his
own possible death or maiming as a result of the strange operation.
He thought only of the mission that would be his once he owned the
powers of the Dragbora.
Whatever turmoil possessed Illia had vanished as she faced
Underwood. The sterile white of her surgeon's garb masked her
personality and her feelings, and left only a nameless agent
possessed of science and skill.
Underwood grinned up at her as the anesthetic was injected. "When
I wake up I'll let you know how it feels to be a Dragboran."

At the adjacent operating table, Akers was preparing Jandro for the
preliminary work of exposing the abasic organs.
Then, to each of them came the unspoken command to abandon
their minds by Jandro. It was an incredible, unearthly experience,
but they released their senses and gradually the guiding impulses
from the Dragboran brain surged into their own.
For just the barest fraction of an instant, Illia's hand trembled as she
touched the electronic scalpel to the flesh at the base of
Underwood's shaven skull. The skin severed, and her nerves were
threads of steel.
With increasing speed, Akers and Illia made the incisions in the
bodies before them. Their hands moved surely, as if Jandro were
seeing with their eyes and using their hands.
The deep incision was made in Underwood's skull. The pulsing brain
lay exposed. Illia concentrated for an instant as waves of instruction
flowed from Jandro. Then, swiftly, the scalpel cut a bloodless path
through a section of unused tissue.
She moved to the adjacent table and peered into the wound that
Akers had made in Jandro's head. She paused as his words came to
her.
"This is the final step. I can go no further with you. Attend to my
instructions now and you shall succeed."
Flashing, incomprehensible things flooded into her mind,
imperishable photographs of the remainder of this operation and the
one to follow, in which the two abdominal organs would be
transferred. Illia knew that every picture would return in its own
time to guide her hands in unfamiliar paths.
"Proceed!" Jandro suddenly commanded. "I retire to the seaa-abasa.
Farewell!"
The flowing pictures ceased and Illia felt suddenly alone, like a child
lost amid a blinding storm. There was nothing to depend on now but
her own skill and the telepathic instructions.
She faltered for an instant and breathed a name, "Del—Del!"
Akers was watching her sharply as she stood staring at the strange,
unearthly organ lying in the brain pan of the dead Dragboran.
But it was not strange. She knew its constitution and anatomy and
the complex nerve hook-up that connected it with the brain. They
were as clear as if she had studied them for many years.
A surge of gladness and confidence filled her. She was alone in this
yes, but that did not matter any more. She alone possessed the
ability to perform the operation, and a world awaited the results.
Her scalpel entered the incision and touched the flesh with a
pinpoint of destruction that sheared away the tissue from the
delicate white nerve channels serving the abasic organ.
For a full hour, and then another, Akers watched in un-believing
fascination as Illia freed the twelve separate nerve filaments serving
it, then cut the artery and filled the vessels with the chemical
solution that would feed the cells until Underwood's blood could be
sent pouring through it.
At last all that remained was the severing of the connecting tissues
that held the organ in place. Illia cut them and plunged her hands
into the sterilizing, protecting compound that had been prepared at
Jandro's instructions. She salved the organ and lifted it out, then
thrust it quickly into the corresponding cavity in Underwood's brain
pan.
This phase of the operation was less than half over. Blood vessels
had to be prepared to serve the new organ in Underwood's body,
and the twelve nerves had to be connected into the Great
Sympathetic where no such nerves had ever been connected before.

Another two hours passed before the final sutures closed the wound
in Underwood's head.
When at last she laid the needle down, Illia's hand suddenly
trembled and she quivered throughout her body.
"Can't we postpone the others for a time?" asked Akers. "You surely
can't go on with two more like that."
"I'm afraid the tissues will degenerate too much if we delay. If I
were only as fast as those Dragboran surgeons. What men they
must be! Get me a shot of neostrene and better have one yourself.
We'll go on."
Akers was willing, but he didn't believe that Illia could stand more
hours of exacting surgery. After a moment's rest, however, and a
shot of the stimulant drug, she stepped back to the operating tables
to perform the adbominal operation. Once again, Akers made the
preliminary incisions.
In the control room the group leaders waited for news in nerve-
racking inactivity. Terry Bernard paced about, his flaming disheveled
hair like a signal flare swinging through the room. Phyfe stood at
one of the observation panels watching the inexorable approach of
Demarzule's fleet. Dawson sat at his Captain's position fingering the
inactive switches on the panel before him. Most placid of all, Dreyer
simply sat in the navigation chair and smoked cigars so unrelentingly
that it taxed the ventilating system of the ship.
Terry glanced at the clock anxiously and stopped his pacing. "It's
been over thirteen hours since Underwood went in there. Don't you
think we ought to ask Illia—"
"There are only two alternatives," said Dreyer. "Success or failure.
Our questioning will not assure success. We had best keep out of the
way."
Mason kept anxious watch of the progress of the fleet. No one knew
what would happen when the battleships arrived and surrounded the
Lavoisier, but they had not long to wait. The ships were hardly more
than minutes away from the planet.
As if guided by a single mind, the ships turned slowly in the black
sky as their navigators and lookouts spotted and set a course for the
luminous bubble that marked the force shell hiding the Lavoisier.
To the crewmen watching from within, it was a fearful sight to
witness the sudden plunging flight of those twenty mighty ships.
Simultaneously, a score of fearful Atom Streams were turned upon
the bubble, apparently not in the futile hope of burning through the
protection, but to destroy the minute sensory probes and prevent
the ship from navigating away from the planet.
In spatial combat, where the ship was free to wheel and turn and
defend itself, it would not have been so easy to destroy the probes.
But with the ship motionless upon the surface of the planet, the
streams of incomprehensible fire washed over every square
millimeter of the surface of the shell, probing, destroying and setting
off the multitude of relays within the Lavoisier, closing the hairlike
openings in the shell as the probes were burned away.
Mason moved away as one after another of the segments on his
plates went dead until there was no vision whatever of the outside
world.
He turned to the others and motioned toward the dead plates. "This
is it."
The spell that fell upon them was broken minutes later by Illia's
abrupt voice on the interphone.
"The operation is finished."
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Consciousness came to Underwood as if he were responding to the
persistent voice of some unseen speaker. It called him out of the
depths of eternal existence into the realm of conflict and reality.
Curiously, it sounded like Jandro.
He opened his eyes. Illia was there, her face white and strained. But
as he looked at her, her blue eyes glistened and she bent down.
"Del! Oh, Del—!"
Terry, Phyfe, Mason and Akers were standing near the bed, watching
with anxious faces.
Pain was beginning to show itself in burning streamers, but he
managed a quick smile to those about him. "Looks like we made it
all right," he said. "I wonder what I can do with these gadgets now.
Think they'll work, Illia?"
She raised up, brisk and businesslike once more. "You aren't going
to find out for a while. I intend to knock you out for a good, cold
twenty-four hours. Give me your arm."
She reached for a hypo needle on the table beside the bed.
It was like stumbling around in the dark at first, trying to run from
an unseen pursuer. But all at once, Underwood knew he didn't need
to run at all. The hypo was blocking the sensory equipment in other
parts of his body, but it couldn't affect the abasic organs if he didn't
want it to. He stopped running and watched the ordinary faculties of
his body give way while he stood aside in complete immunity. It was
as if he could step outside and look at himself.
And, suddenly, that was what he was doing!
He could see the room, the watching scientists, and Illia carefully
checking his heartbeat and respiration. He could see himself lying
still with eyes closed. Curiously, he could not identify the point of
view. He thought for a moment that he was up near the ceiling
somewhere, looking down, but that wasn't right, either, because he
could see the ceiling just as well as the floor or the four walls. The
scene was like a picture taken with a lens having a solid angle of
perception of three hundred and sixty degrees.
He wondered if he could go beyond the limits of the room, tried it
and found it quite easy to do. There was some clumsiness due to
inexperience and conditioning that stopped him at the walls, where
he had a moment's claustrophobic fright of being trapped between
the metal panels, but it was over in an instant and he was through.
He went toward the control room and found it occupied only by
Dreyer, who remained placidly smoking a cigar in the navigator's
chair.
Underwood wanted to communicate with the semanticist, only he
wasn't sure how to go about it. It was like trying to talk with a
mouth full of dry crackers.
But Dreyer stared around with a sudden start. He removed the cigar
from his mouth and looked agape for an unseen speaker.
"Dreyer, can you hear me?"
"Underwood! You succeeded!"
"After a fashion. So far it's like walking around in deep mud, but I'm
getting used to it gradually."
"This is wonderful—wonderful!" Dreyer breathed. "I hadn't dared
hope that I would ever hear your voice again. Where are you?"
"That's a tough question. Theoretically, I'm unconscious back in sick
bay with a shot of neo-morph that will keep me out for twenty-four
hours. Illia and the others are back there watching me. The abasic
senses aren't at all affected by the drug. I seem to be able to
wander anywhere I wish about the ship. The funny part is that I
can't pin down a point of view. I don't seem to be anywhere.
Nevertheless, my senses perceive distant sounds and objects—
including my own corpus."
"Can you detect my thoughts when I don't speak? Jandro didn't
seem able to do that."
Underwood laughed. "I don't know whether I can or not. I try, but
all I get is a fuzzy static. I'm sure that these organs have dozens of
functions that we haven't even dreamed of yet. I hope that I can
learn to use them all."
"What do you plan now? Do you need a period of exercise and
study?"
"Some, but not nearly as much as I would have needed if it hadn't
been Jandro's mature organs that were grafted into me. There is
something that we never thought of before, though."
"What is that?"
"We can still search for the Dragboran weapon we came here for. I
can go outside the ship with these new senses. I don't know
whether I can cover the whole planet or not, but if not, we can
move to keep in range of my powers. It will be slow because I am
the only one who can do it, but it may be faster in the end because I
can get around more quickly."
"I wonder if it will be possible in the presence of the fleet—or didn't
you know that they had arrived?" Dreyer pointed toward the blank
viewplates.

"I didn't know. What are they doing there?"

Underwood realized immediately the absurdity of the question.
Dreyer could know no more about it than he, since all
communication with the outside was destroyed.
With all the strength he could gather, he hurled his new powers
beyond the scope of the ship, out into the contrasting heat and cold
of the barren planet. It was as if he had hurled himself high into
space, for he was viewing the broad expanse of the Dragboran world
and the busy fleet of Demarzule.
Underwood's senses revolted at what he saw. Completely
surrounding the ship was utter, flaming destruction. The great city of
the Dragbora had been turned into molten ruin by the twenty ships,
which spiraled slowly, their powerful beams of the Atom Stream
turned upon the buildings below. Even as Underwood watched, they
completed their work upon that city and traveled toward another
great city less than a hundred miles away.
What purpose was behind the wanton ruin, Underwood could not
comprehend. Perhaps now that the scientists had been cornered, the
Terrestrians hoped to destroy the super-weapon that could unseat
Demarzule.
Within hours, the major cities of the planet would be shapeless
mounds of frozen lava.
He debated trying to enter those vessels and overpowering members
of their crews. At once his reason told him no, for he was still a
toddler in the use of the new faculties he possessed. But there was a
greater reason, too. If he should expose himself by such attacks, the
ships would send word to Earth, and Demarzule would easily identify
the methods used against his men and be prepared. Underwood
knew how this destruction of archeological treasures would affect
Phyfe and Terry, but more important was the loss of any chance to
search for the weapon.

He turned his senses toward the bubble of the shell that hid the
Lavoisier. Its shining surface was the only thing in all that broad city
that did not reek of destruction.
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