As a galactic reporter Jane Crowley knew
she had hold of the biggest story of the year;
thousands of people were soon to die on this—
By C. H. Thames
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
June 1956
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Less than an hour after the last spaceship made touchdown on Mandmoora,Jane Crowley stood before a scowling, head shaking public InformationOfficer.
"My company sent me fifty light years from its nearest base in theDenebian system, Colonel," Jane said. "I'm sorry, but it's impossiblefor me to return to Deneb without my story."
"This office has issued press releases, my dear Miss Crowley, which—"
"Press releases!" The way Jane uttered those two words made theColonel wince. "I didn't come fifty light years for press releases.I came...." She watched the Colonel's face and let her voice trailoff. This approach was having absolutely no effect. But Jane Crowleywas a woman, young and quite pretty and it was likely, she thought,that where the straightforward, man-to-man approach might fail, theways of a woman might succeed. "But Colonel," she pouted, then let hercomposed face fall apart as if she were going to cry. "But Colonel, myjob depends on this story. My ... my whole career ... you see ..." shesniffled.
"There now, Miss Crowley," the Colonel said, looking veryuncomfortable. "There now, miss. Please."
"Then you'll let me go out there among the Mandmoora?"
"I'm sorry, miss. Out of the question. Definitely out. We've evacuatedall the Mandmoora who want to go. What remains is a hard core ofMandmooranian fanatics who refuse to leave their native planet underany circumstances. They've got an island just off shore here, you see.They're sun-worshippers. Ironical, isn't it? Sun-worshippers. Their sunabout to go nova on them, boiling all the oceans of this waterworld andkilling every speck of life on Mandmoora, and they're sun-worshippers.They just won't go. They want to stay. They say we can't make them goand they're right, we can't. Poor devils. They'll be boiled and broiledalive, all three thousands of 'em. But this headquarters can't sendmen out to their island after them. They'd resist and it would meanbloodshed, on both sides. We won't have it."
The Colonel's haggard face brightened, and he went on: "There's yourstory, Miss Crowley. Three thousand die-hard sun-worshippers, facingcertain death at the altar of the very deity they adore. File thatstory from Deneb, Miss Crowley."
"It's been filed a hundred times already," Jane said, shaking her head."You know it has."
The Colonel shrugged. "I refuse to authorize your going out toMandmoora Island. Be reasonable, miss, can't you? We have evacuated ahundred million Mandmoorans in history's greatest mass exodus. Threethousand fanatics don't want out. Three thousand fanatics will broilwith their world, then. That's all."
"But if they could be led to understand."
"I thought you wanted a story. A human interest story, wasn't it?"
"I was only thinking out loud."
"I've given you the only story you'll get here. Why should your videoservice expect more than the others?"
"No reason, I guess," Jane knew now that the answer was definitely no.She was hardly listening to the Colonel as he went on. There had to beanother way, somewhere, somehow. It was the story of the century—andthere wasn't another newsman on Mandmoora with a chance to scoop her.Which also meant that if Jane didn't get the story, the rest of thecivilized galaxy wouldn't, either, except for watered-down p