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THE POLITICS OF MOTHERHOOD
 P I T T L AT I N A M E R I C A N S E R I E S

John Charles Chasteen and Catherine M. Conaghan, Editors

The Politics of Motherhood

M AT E R N I T Y A N D

WOMEN’S RIGHTS IN

T W E N T I E T H - C E N T U RY C H I L E

Jadwiga E. Pieper Mooney

UNIVERSITY OF PITTSBURGH PRESS

Published by the University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, Pa., 
Copyright © , University of Pittsburgh Press
All rights reserved
Manufactured in the United States of America
Printed on acid-free paper
         

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Mooney, Jadwiga E. Pieper.
The politics of motherhood : maternity and women’s rights in twentieth-century Chile /
Jadwiga E. Pieper Mooney.
p. cm. — (Pitt Latin American series)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN-: ---- (pbk. : alk. paper)
ISBN-: --- (pbk. : alk. paper)
. Motherhood—Political aspects—Chile. .Women’s rights—Chile. I.Title.
HQ.M 
.—dc


 To Fanny and Lorena,

with greatest appreciation for your friendship and support

 CONTENTS

Preface ix
Acknowledgments xi

Introduction 
Chapter . Public Health, Managed Motherhood, and
Patriarchy in a Modernizing Nation 
Chapter . Local Agency, Changed Global Paradigms,
and the Burden of Motherhood 
Chapter . Planning Motherhood under Christian Democracy 
Chapter . Gendered Citizenship Rights on the Peaceful Road
to Socialism 
Chapter . From Mothers’ Rights toWomen’s Rights in
a Nation under Siege 
Chapter . International Encounters andWomen’s
Empowerment under Dictatorship and Redemocratization 
Postscript 

Notes 
Bibliography 
Index 

|| vii | |
 PREFACE

T  for this book was inspired by experiences on location during
my first stay in Santiago in , during almost two years in Chile between
 and , and on about nine trips to Santiago between  and .
Enrolled in a summer course on “shantytown health care” on my first trip,
I was taught by a terrific group of physicians and health-care activists of the
Colectivo de Atención Primaria de Salud in Bellavista. I also learned from
doctors, policymakers, and female patients who shared their experiences with
me and spoke of the problems they encountered in their daily lives. Moved by
some of these realities and angered by the lack of power many women have to
make autonomous, healthy, and even potentially life-saving decisions about
reproduction and motherhood, I decided to examine what I referred to as
the “political dimensions of motherhood.” I intimated the analytical questions
at the heart of this book in response to my ongoing encounters with differ-
ent groups of Chilean women, with physicians and health officials, and with
policymakers—all of whom have contributed to the shaping of the politics of
motherhood in Chile.
In addition to traditional historical research methods, formal and informal
interviews have been central to my work.The most frequent, regular meet-
ings took place with Dr. BenjamínVielVicuña over the course of more than a
year. He shared countless stories of his personal and professional life as a
physician and tireless crusader for family-planning programs in Chile. Inter-
views with other doctors allowed me to see that there is hardly a viewpoint
of one single “medical class,” but that, rather, physicians brought varied inter-
pretations of women’s health and rights that contributed to the meanings and
politics of motherhood. Dr. Jaime Zipper, for example, focused on medical
research and experiments. Drs.Tegualda Monreal, Soledad Díaz, Marisa Mata-
mala, Mariano Requena, and many others prioritized women’s rights to (re-
productive) health and offered multiple views on the most pressing problems
in different moments of Chilean history.And in my meetings with Dr.Arturo
JirónVargas, I learned that for many doctors an important mission of medicine
—that of saving lives and providing equal services to people of all different
backgrounds—is still alive.

|| ix | |
 Interviews also taught me that feminists’ views reflect a wide spectrum
of interpretations of the obstacles to gender equity in Chile. Teresa Valdés,
Alicia Frohmann, Amparo Claro, and many others shared their insights on
Chilean and international feminisms. Legal scholar and activist Lidia Casas
Becerra was readily available and willing to discuss my questions on the nature
of women’s rights (and violations) in Chile.And many other women and men
have generously allowed me to learn from their experiences. I am grateful for
their willingness to share their views.

Preface
|| x | |
 AC K N OW L E D G M E N T S

I C, my friends Fanny Berlagoscky Mora and Lorena de los Ángeles

Núñez Carrasco have supported me when I needed them most, and they have
continued to share insights on questions of life, large and small. Special thanks
to my dear sister, Bernhild B. Pieper, for making time to travel to Santiago to
help me through troubles I could not have foreseen. Throughout my on-site
research my great friend, the distinguished historian María Angélica Illanes,
has offered support, invaluable professional advice, and stimulating, creative
exchanges at her tertulias and other social gatherings. Historian Cristián Pérez
has helped me gain a better understanding of the Chilean left even as he, at
times, disagrees with my analytical conclusions. I am also grateful for the
helpful information by Lidia Casas, Alejandra Faúndez, Josefina Hurtado,
Francisca Pérez Prado, Teresa Valdés, and many other feminists, academics,
and activists who were willing to share insights and concerns.
I would like to give special acknowledgments to the advisers and col-
leagues who have taught me the skills of professional research, have shared in-
sightful critiques, and have encouraged me to write and rewrite my analysis
of Chilean history and women’s rights. I am grateful for the kind and con-
vincing advice of Samuel L. Baily, and for the guidance MarkWasserman, John
Gillis, June Nash, Rayna Rapp, and Peter Winn provided in the early stages
of my work. Nancy Carnevale, Noah Elkin, Mary Poole, Stacy Sewell, and
Jeremy Varon have been great readers and peer critics. Karin A. Rosemblatt
generously guided me in my first research experiences on location. I also
thank other historians who research and write about Chilean history, especially
Elizabeth Q. Hutchison for her constructive critical assessment of my analyti-
cal approaches, and Margaret Power and Corinne Pernet for the comments,
confirmations, and critical views they provided to help me move along.
In the stages of writing the manuscript and completing the seemingly im-
possible task of presenting the complexities of a gendered history of twentieth-
century Chile, Stephen Neufeld and Michael Rembis provided insightful,
clever, creative, constructive comments that helped me stay on track and made
me continue thinking and writing. Donna Guy provided perceptive profes-
sional encouragement to keep me going. Joseph Benham has allowed me to

|| xi | |
use his photographs and kindly allocated time to share some experiences he
acquired as a journalist in South America. And Cathy Lyders generously vol-
unteered her professional skills, edited chapters, and provided first-reader
responses that proved invaluable.
Many generous colleagues in the Department of History at the Univer-
sity of Arizona have helped as well: thanks especially to Katherine Morrissey
for helping me define the project early on; to Kevin Gosner for reading chap-
ter drafts; and to Karen Anderson, Bill Beezley, Bert Barickman, Susan Crane,
Martha Few,Alison Futrell, H. Michael Gelfand, and Steve Johnstone for help-
ing me along in different stages on the way. I deeply appreciated the comments
and constructive critiques by Christopher Schmidt-Nowara and George Reid
Andrews, who also supported my selection of the University of Pittsburgh
Press. Susan Besse’s generous reading of close-to-final drafts helped me pres-
ent a more coherent argument—and her observant critiques were, as usual,
right to the point. Thanks also to James Douglas Lockhart for helping me
proofread the manuscript before submission. Last, but not least, I truly thank
all the anonymous reviewers for the constructive tone of their critiques and
for their efforts in helping to make this a better book.The University of Pitts-
burgh Press’s acquisitions editor, Joshua Shanholtzer, and freelance editor Amy
Smith Bell provided reliable and timely support. All flaws that might persist
in the book remain my own.
In the process of research and writing, I also benefited from significant
institutional support.While still active as a group, the Colectivo de Atención
Primaria de Salud in Santiago’s Bellavista neighborhood allowed me to par-
ticipate and learn in meetings and conferences.They gave me not only office
space, but also a friendly place to work.The academics and staff of the Facul-
tad Latinoamericana de Ciencias Sociales (FLACSO) in Santiago provided an
intellectual “home away from home,” library and computer access, and con-
tacts to fellow researchers that were priceless. A grant from the Social and
Behavioral Sciences Research Institute (SBSRI) at the University of Arizona
awarded me with much needed time to write. I am also thankful for a Rocke-
feller Grant and the option to consult the rich archival collections at the
Rockefeller Archive Center in Tarrytown, NewYork. Finally, I thank the col-
leagues and staff at the Center for the Education of Women (CEW) at the
University of Michigan for a research professorship that allowed me to con-
clude my work with the book. I was able to learn from the scholars and ac-
tivists at CEW, who are wholeheartedly dedicated to improving the lives of

Acknowledgments
| | xii | |
others and to work for gender equity and women’s rights. I will do my best
to support this mission in my work.
The gratitude I would like to express for the company and partnership of
Thomas G. Mooney, great husband and loyal supporter, cannot be expressed
adequately in a few words and goes beyond the space provided here. He knows
that he means the world to me.

Acknowledgments
| | xiii | |
THE POLITICS OF MOTHERHOOD
 INTRODUCTION

I , Chilean writer Martina Barros Borgoño made it her personal task
to translate into Spanish the acclaimed On the Subjection of Women, a work by
Englishman, moral philosopher, and political theorist John Stuart Mill.₁ In a
provocative prologue that gave her a name as a respected voice among Santi-
ago’s intellectuals, Barros Borgoño introduced what she considered Mill’s most
important contributions to a critique of gender roles at the time, and added
her own conclusions regarding the role of women in society.² She argued that
Mill rightfully exposed some of the fundamental contradictions of societies
where men used references to women’s “natural qualities” to justify women’s
limited access to social and political rights.³ Mill had rightly identified a con-
tradiction at the heart of patriarchy: men believed that they had a legal obli-
gation to force women to engage in their supposed “natural vocations”: mar-
riage and motherhood.⁴
Barros Borgoño viewed these contradictions not as an invitation to ignore
all “natural differences” among the sexes, but instead as a call to question the
seemingly unavoidable consequences of what men termed “women’s nature.”
Why would men in Chile consider it their obligation to force women to choose
between marriage and the convent? In her critique, she defended a woman’s
right to make motherhood a choice and she requested women’s access to “so-
cial rights,” to an education, and to a career. Barros Borgoño provoked her
readers by asking questions that had not yet been asked in Chilean society:
“[W]ho would accept the tremendous responsibility of forcing you to become
a wife or a nun if you had not been born with the ability to be a wife or a nun?
In the name of what obligation [could anyone] . . . command such useless sac-
rifice for society or for God?”₅

||  ||
 She demanded a new take on the “natural rights” of men and women, in
the spirit of Mill’s liberal feminism. Both genders should have the right to
select their paths based on individual “natural” abilities to avoid “useless sacri-
fice for society or for God.” ₆ Barros Borgoño dared to question women’s “nat-
ural,” supposedly predetermined path and argued that women’s reproduc-
tive capacities should not define their roles in society. Her concerns did not
meet a widespread response during the s.They did, however, provide an
ideological foundation for her compatriots in the twentieth century, who
passionately debated women’s “natural” roles and “natural” vocations. Mothers
and motherhood became the central concerns of different groups of women
and men in Chile, including feminists, reformers, policymakers, doctors, and
legislators.

Motherhood and Women’s Rights

Barros Borgoño’s call to question the seemingly unavoidable consequences of

“women’s nature” is part of the historical trajectory of women’s rights in Chile
that can be seen through the lens of the changing social constructions and po-
litical uses of the concept of motherhood. Motherhood, as the most impor-
tant signifier of womanhood in Latin America, has been at the heart of the
gender system and critical for defining women’s responsibilities throughout
the nation. As such, different meanings assigned to motherhood have stood
for different qualities associated with the supposed “essence” of femininity.
The image of the sanctity of motherhood continues to shape Latin American
realities. “Sacar la madre” (to bring out the mother) and question her virtue is
still one of the worst possible insults.⁷ But motherhood has also stood for
women’s submissiveness and dependency, justifying the lack of women’s in-
dividual rights.
Stories of “mothers and machos,” of dependent women and controlling
men, have often dominated interpretations of historical change in Latin Amer-
ica. But the gendered access to citizenship rights was much more complex
than the hierarchies reflected in these simple dichotomous definitions.⁸ My
lens of motherhood builds on the historian Marysa Navarro’s critique of the
marianismo model by showing that marianismo remains insufficient to explain
even the persistent reliance on motherhood as a political tool.⁹ Referring to an
ideal of womanhood modeled after theVirgin Mary oversimplifies the realities

Introduction
||  | |
of women’s lives and wrongly suggests that women have been passive recipi-
ents of roles assigned to them by men.Women, just like men, mobilized the
category of motherhood, and thereby challenged the stereotype of passive,
dependent mothers. In Chile, different groups of women reconfigured the un-
derstandings of motherhood throughout the twentieth century and made clear
that gender relations exceed the binary concept of identities labeled marian-
ismo and machismo.
Neither gender politics, nor gender roles, were shaped by men alone—
and motherhood has not been a role simply imposed on women by men. In
the Latin American Southern Cone, even outspoken feminists embraced moth-
erhood as a vital part of their early political mobilization and celebrated their
feminism as a natural extension of their maternal role.The historian Asunción
Lavrin has shown the centrality of motherhood to feminism in the Latin Ameri-
can Southern Cone and asserted that “[f]eminism oriented toward mother-
hood was more than a strategy to win favorable legislation, it was an essential
component of their cultural heritage: a tune that feminists not only knew how
to play but wished to play.” ₁₀ Scholars have also demonstrated how Chilean
women have used references to motherhood to increase their political weight.
The historian ErickaVerba, for example, has illustrated how elite and middle-
class women in Santiago addressed what they saw as alarming by-products of
urbanization, industrialization, and modernization. Concerned about lower-
class behaviors, these women made it their mission to “uplift” poor women.₁₁
Other groups of Chilean women have mobilized the category of motherhood
in quests for more radical change and for political rights.They used mother-
hood not only as a “tune they knew,” but as an effective tool that could ex-
tend the reach of their political campaigns. Feminists of the Movimiento
Pro-Emancipación de la Mujer Chilena (Movement for the Emancipation of
Chilean Women, MEMCh), for example, drew on the discourses of the par-
ties on the political left—communists and socialists—that framed their quests
for workers’ rights as mothers’ and families’ rights.₁₂
The Politics of Motherhood shows that the social construction of women’s
roles, as mothers and as individuals, lies at the heart of gender systems and
patriarchal structures and argues that the lens of motherhood offers revealing
new insights into specific histories of women’s rights. Gender is fundamental
to the construction of political power and to hierarchies between men and
women, and analyzing the changing social constructions of motherhood al-
lows us to follow and draw conclusions about the changing state of women’s

Introduction
||  | |
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Ordeal in
Space
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
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Ordeal in Space

Author: Ralph Sloan

Release date: November 24, 2020 [eBook #63869]

Language: English

Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed

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

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ORDEAL IN

SPACE ***
ORDEAL IN SPACE
 By RALPH SLOAN

This was Lieutenant Mike Logan's chance—alone

in space with the man he ached to kill. A man,
bound and helpless, who taunted him, dared him,
goaded him—knowing Mike had to bring him in alive!

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from

Planet Stories Fall 1949.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
A needle gun pointed through the cell bars at the hulking form of
Edward Snyder, his blue-furred Moon mimic squirming on his lap.
Behind it were the cold hands, cropped black hair, and bloodless face
of Lt. Mike Logan. It had taken him three hours to slide past the
guards of the transient prison. He would leave with the same
efficient caution. But first he had to kill!
Snyder looked up and saw him. The flabby face twisted cynically.
"Something personal, Lieutenant, or does the gun make it official?"
"Ask your questions in hell," Logan grated. His angular length was
bent; gray eyes bloodshot and he fought to keep them open. After
two months of tramping over Pluto's ice cliffs, he had returned to
Jupiter to find the odor of death and no rest.
A savage desire for revenge had driven him on until now he stood
staring almost unseeingly at the killer. The needle gun would be
silent and untraceable. "You killed Johnny. This is for him."
Snyder shrugged beefy shoulders. "I've killed many and life is cheap.
I can't remember them all."
"He was the last one," Logan choked. "He was my brother—"
Something caught his arm in a vice from behind. A stab of pain shot
from his wrist to his neck.
"Sorry, Lieutenant, but I got to keep 'im alive," the voice of the
prison guard broke in his ear. He felt the gun drop from his fingers
and tried to break free. Through the bars he could dimly see
Snyder's mocking smile. Then something struck him on the head and
he slid a long ways down.

An hour later he stood at attention before the command desk of the

Patrol's Jupiter division. His knees were weak, chills of exhaustion
tracing his back muscles. He was washed up and he knew it.
"I used to think I could count on you," Commander Bates stormed.
"Well, I was wrong. You're nothing but a damned gutless jellyfish. If
it weren't for your record I'd have you cashiered here and now."
Logan flinched and tightened his lips.
"There's no room in the Patrol for a man who cracks," Bates raged
on. "I'm sorry about Johnny. He had an easy way of getting under
the skin and belonging to all of us. Even the natives liked him. You're
different, Logan. You live for yourself."
Sand had crawled up under Logan's eyelids. He listened, too tired to
be angered by the truth.
The Commander's eyes shifted to a sheaf of papers. "General
Winkham sent me your requests for Transportation and Exploration
licenses. I'm supposed to endorse them." He swept the papers away
and glared. "Snyder dies on an Earth rope in three days and no self-
appointed god has the right to make it a minute sooner."
"If you want my resignation—" Those papers had been his future.
His and Johnny's ... tattered remnants of a star dream.
"Damned your resignation," Bates roared. "You're going to be taught
a lesson. You want Snyder—well, I'm giving him to you."
The room rocked. "You're what—?"
"You heard me." The older man snapped a piece of paper across his
desk. "You're taking him to Earth for execution."
"I'll kill—" Mike Logan forgot about sleep.
"Go ahead," Bates challenged him. "He'll die anyway. If it happens
while he's your charge, you'll be hanged in his place or psychoed out
at the next exam. Johnny deserves a better tombstone. But maybe
you haven't the decency to think of him."
Logan was trapped. His future lay on the desk, a crumpled mass of
applications under the other's hairy fist. It took an A-1 discharge and
a Patrol recommendation to get the needed licenses and he owed it
to Johnny to keep trying.
"So this is a last chance," he breathed acidly. A believer in satanic
justice, Bates always found a 'last chance' for the man who cracked.
They were spawned in hell but never refused because there was no
place in society for a Patrol 'wash out'.
The wizened superior looked strange. "It takes guts on the outer
planets, Logan. I was born on Neptune. At ten I watched drunken
natives work a Mhulo Taag sacrifice on my mother after killing my
father and tying me up." He paled. "The priest used a sharp razor. I
never forgot it or his face. Twelve years later I brought him in over
six thousand miles of ice when I'd have given my soul to kill him."

In the glare of the rocket field's giant arc lamps, Logan looked at his
watch. In twenty minutes he was due to blast off. He watched the
fueling of the small Patrol spacer and smoked a cigarette. His lips
felt numb and the smoke drifted with a will of its own, sometimes
drawn to the lungs with a breath, sometimes burning his nostrils. He
wasn't aware.
Odd how he had pursued an even course for twenty-eight years,
driving toward a goal he and his brother had planned since
childhood, then suddenly losing his props. The Patrol had been a
prerequisite of the government licenses they needed. For his part,
Logan had been able to face hell, crawl through the stink and the
mud and the cold of the outer planets. Yet the five years of service
had been a task apart from him, a bridge to an end. Even his black
Patrol uniform had seemed alien and temporary. But the blood on
Johnny's chest and the ugly dirk protruding from the flesh had struck
home.
"Tell Mike to make it a good space line. I'll be around to see it," were
Johnny's last words when they found him. Two days later the Patrol
had smoked Snyder out of a cheap rooming house—trapped, still
with the damned cynical smile.
There was movement at the field exit and four figures detached
themselves from the darkness. Edward Snyder towered above the
others, carrying his opal-eyed pet in his fettered hands; a sad-faced
monkey-sized creature that imitated gestures and obeyed mental
commands. Logan glanced swiftly at his watch—ten minutes! and
moved to intercept the body.
"I'll take over," he said crisply.
Snyder's eyes widened, tiny chip blue flakes lost in flabby flesh. "Is
this the pilot?" he demanded. "He'll kill me." But he kept his queer
smile.
The guards were Jovians, local police, short, rotund, lobster-faced
individuals. One of them stepped forward. "Lieutenant Logan?"
Mike Logan nodded and showed his papers. The Jovian satisfied
himself and returned them. His eyes waved on the end of stalks—
supple, transparent muscles; never still.
"We are in charge until the moment of take-off, Lieutenant," he said
stiffly. "If you will step aside we will chain the prisoner within the
ship." He spoke with characteristic hollowness, a racial organic flaw.
"I think I can handle that," Mike said testily. Snyder laughed and he
looked up a foot at the mocking face.
"They know you're going to kill me. You can wait till space, can't
you, Logan?" He had found out his name.
Hate welled up in Logan's eyes and curdled his soul. But he had to
stand with raw nerves and take it. The entourage, pushing past him,
entered the Patrol ship. Blood ran down his fingers where the nails
had bitten into the palms.
The Jovian guards chained Snyder to the bunk behind the control
bucket. When they re-appeared their spokesman approached Logan.
"The prisoner is secure," he reported.
"Then your duty is done."
"Not until you leave," the guard corrected. He hesitated. "We have
heard what occasioned at the prison. I knew your brother and
mourn his passing. His killer has a strange mind, but he is to die—."
"He'll die," Logan promised dangerously.
"But you will cheat us. He has killed my people too. Have we no
share in vengeance? Let him be hanged. Think—"
"Save it for your children," Logan broke in savagely. He turned
angrily and climbed into the Patrol ship, his mind blazing with a
dozen tangent thoughts. The port clapped shut like the jaws of
death behind him. He sank into the control bucket, not looking at his
prisoner, only the panel chronometer. The hands met straight up. He
touched off the gravity-clearing charge and the breath was sucked
from his lungs.

The stars were pinpoints of light poking holes in the consciousness.

He looked at them and wondered if Johnny were watching him. He
didn't believe in ghosts, but—
It had been a great dream, he and the kid had had. There was little
interplanetary transportation; none beyond Jupiter except by the
Patrol. It had been the outer planets they had wanted to link. First
the Patrol hitch to qualify, then the charting of bases and
trajectories. With those they could have gone to the Earth
government for financing. Mike wanted to say, "Don't worry, kid. I'll
pick up the pieces." But he couldn't.
From behind him he heard the low squealing of the Moon mimic and
Edward Snyder's laugh.
"Getting up the courage, Lieutenant?" he mocked. Logan could see
him in the panel mirror, head cocked to one side, fat lips parted in
an invitation to be smashed. "That gun," Snyder nodded to the
holstered blaster. "It could do a neat job if you like intestines and
blood."
The Patrolman's hand moved to the blaster's cold butt. His brain told
him it could never be proved as murder. He could report an
attempted escape and plant the evidence. He half withdrew the gun;
shivered and let it slide back. Sweat stood out on his face. There
were things that wouldn't let him kill. The kid and his star dream and
the unsigned license requests. The little Jovian with his idiotic sense
of justice. And there was Bates and his native priest. He could see
the picture, snow and glaciers—two men in a motor sled, as alone as
a ship in space. And here was Snyder and he couldn't kill him.
Maybe they would let him fit the noose about the killer's neck.
Maybe he could beg them to let him spring the trap. He could be
close then and watch the body dangle. But he would be cheated. It
was second best so that Johnny and Bates, gray-haired satanic
Bates, could be first. The decision left him weak.
Snyder watched the re-holstering of the gun and his eyes narrowed.
"What's wrong? Haven't ya got the guts?"
"You'll get yours."
"I think you're yellow."
The tiredness dissolved as Logan whirled about and showed his
teeth. "Don't push me, rat. There's a damn thin line between the
worth of killing you myself and letting you hang."

The fat man nodded and so did the mimic. They both seemed
pleased. "I'm glad it's a thin line. Do you want to know why?"
"Not interested." Logan kept his eyes on the murderer while he
fished Synthetic Sleep capsules from the panel locker. He needed
something to dispel the sluggishness of his brain.
"You should be," Snyder taunted. "I love death. In life there's
nothing, but there's glory in death." His tiny eyes blazed. "You're not
free, Logan. No one is until they've balanced a knife over a being's
heart and heard the breath rattle. You listen to the beat of the
blood, knowing you can stop it in a second, or make it go slower and
slower until it drains away."
Logan sat frozen; incredulous.
"You wonder why I say this," Snyder laughed. "It's because I'm
going to choose my death." He looked strange. "I don't want to
hang. If I can't escape and be free again, I'll make you kill me." He
stared for a minute, then threw back his head and laughed. The
mimic laughed, high loonish squeals.
"Hah, the blaster would be good. It has drama." Then the killer and
his mimic curled up on the bunk in identical positions and went to
sleep.
A feeling of nausea crept over Logan. The sound of the insane
babbling struck a sickening note. Snyder was a maniac. No one had
told him. At the height of the giant's bloody career he had been in
the Plutonian hinterland. But Bates had known. He cursed the gray-
haired brother of the devil.
The panel chronometer showed forty-six hours before he would
reach Earth. Forty-six hours cooped up with a madman and a
squealing mimic, his mind already foggy and with no prospect of
rest. Since returning to Jupiter he had gone a long ways in the
wrong direction. His logic was shaky and it was hard to tell what was
right and wrong. A chill ran over him. Maybe he would be as mad as
Snyder before he reached Earth.
Trouble first struck on the fourth hour sunward. Its nature was
mechanical and deadly. The instrument panel belched smoke. The
roar of the jet engines became erratic and jerky.
The patrolman's eyes swung from the mirror. His hands jumped, the
left cutting the current with a blow to the ignition while the right
unlocked and swung open the meter studded section. He heard
Snyder stir behind him; the whimpering of the mimic. The confident
drum of the engines died. Smoke poured upward and was sucked
into the dying blades of the ventilator fans. Automatically activated,
the blue emergency lights faded on.
The short was deep in the electrical maze. He knew the wiring by
heart, could close his eyes and see pages of diagrams he had had to
memorize in Patrol school. His fingers burned as he found the bare
wire, flecks of molten insulation clinging to the tips. A long jumper-
wire was dug from the panel locker.
"We're drifting," Snyder yelled. "Use the auxiliaries, fool."
"Shut up," Logan snapped. The ship pitched and swung end over
end, caught in the ether-tides of the asteroid belt. With the current
cut they had no detectors, repulsers—even the air could not be
replenished. Still he hesitated to expend the auxiliary jets. Their
charge was limited. In space, auxiliaries weren't an answer to fate,
only a brief postponement.
The defective wire ripped out, he cut his fingers fumbling with the
connecting posts. The spacer leveled and flowed stern first.
Something, probably a meteor the size of a thumbnail, struck the
hull. It shivered and began revolving again.
"For God's sake, this is no way to die," Snyder screamed. The mimic
screeched and leaped up and down.
Sweat ran into Mike Logan's eyes. One copper nipple slipped into its
socket. Space develops a sixth sense and he felt the urgent nearness
of the asteroid maze. One hand reached for the auxiliary switch as
the other fought to mate nipple and post. Abruptly the nipple mated
and his fist veered to strike the ignition button. An explosive stab of
power drove them forward.
"You can stop crying, rat. We're safe." Logan looked in the mirror.
His hands shook and he reached for a cigarette despite regulations.
Snyder played with the bunk blankets; the mimic described little
motions with its eight-fingered paws. He turned wearily back to the
controls, re-setting the course. The chronometer showed forty-three
more hours.
Mental and physical endurance is limited and Logan's had been
drained before returning to Jupiter. The sapping in the transient
prison had found him in need of a bed, cool sheets, and a week of
sleep. He hadn't completely cracked, only been sick with strain and
shock. This last chance was too much. He had reached the
emotional saturation point.

Something soft slid over his nose, caught and jerked him backward.
The bucket's headrest hit his spine and he struck the deck rolling
and cursing himself.
Snyder's laugh boomed as he dropped the improvised blanket-rope
and caught Logan's throat in his huge hands. The Patrolman's eyes
bulged as he was dragged to the edge of the bunk.
"I can feel the blood in your neck," Snyder gloated. "You're not
clever, Logan. You're not strong. Your brother could fight."
The giant was master all the way. Mike could feel his face swell,
lights dancing, as the sausage fingers tightened. Somewhere a foot
found purchase. He lashed out with the other. The toe cut the edge
of a small eye, momentarily relaxing the hold and he squirmed free.
Chains crunched as Snyder lunged after him and was jerked back.
He pulled himself to his feet, blaster in hand.
 He lashed out with his foot, somehow fought free.

"Shoot," Snyder commanded him. "I tried to escape."

Instinct tightened Logan's finger on the trigger. Then he leaned
against the hull and swore to the end of his strength while the giant
laughed with crying eyes. The mimic imitated him with cracking little
screeches.
At eighteen hours sunward he fed his prisoner. A stern locker opened
into a compact kitchen and produced Earth meat and beans. He
handed a plate and a dull spoon to Snyder, took one himself and sat
on a stool. He wasn't hungry.
"You don't understand me, do you?" Snyder said wistfully.
"Shut up."
"Why don't you make me?" he demanded. "Why don't you kill me?"
He brightened. "Do you know how I killed your brother?"
The blood drained from Lt. Logan's face.
"It was at the Jovian Feast of the Moons," Snyder related. "I had an
argument with a Martian girl and he tried to interfere. I killed them
both. She was a little cheat and he was a threat. I had to break both
his arms before I could use the knife. He had a strong heart. He
bled...."
Somehow the Patrol officer found the control bucket. He swallowed
a full handful of Synthetic Sleep capsules. The mirror blurred and he
tried to watch Snyder and think of Bates and the native and the
motorsled in the snow. He told himself he had guts, but he was too
tired and sick to hear his own thoughts. He wanted to kill.
Mars loomed up a swollen orange and swept astern. At thirty-six
hours he attached a leash to the Moon mimic's fur hidden collar. It
stopped the inane jumping.
The hands of the chronometer spun and there began a series of
blank spaces which neither realization nor Synthetic Sleep could
stop. He saw Johnny and the spaceline, Bates, the lobster-faced
Jovians. The roaring jets became a lullaby.
At forty-one hours he pulled out the blaster and moved to confront
Snyder. The fat man looked up with the same cynical smile.
"Give it to me," Logan ordered.
"What?"
"The file. I've been watching you."
The giant shrugged, brought the file in view and continued to saw at
his chains. "This is Oscar's donation," he said. "I hid it in his collar. If
you want it, take it with that." He nodded to the blaster.
Logan hesitated, licked his lips, then brought the gun down hard
along a fleshy temple. The smile faded and the fat man folded. He
took the file, searched the surroundings, the blankets in the corner,
found nothing and returned to the controls. The odds were mounting
against him. Maybe next time....

When Edward Snyder regained consciousness an hour later, Logan's

eyes hadn't left the mirror. The giant didn't smile anymore. Shortly
he became occupied with his pet, making grabbing motions at the
air.
The chronometer moved faster. There was Earth to look at—green,
peaceful Earth. He had done it! A few more hours and the nightmare
would be over! Lord, how he wanted sleep! He computed his
primary orbit and tuned in the Lunar Patrol station.
"Logan calling...."
"Go ahead, Lieutenant." The cherub face of the Moon's radaronics
operator appeared on the scanning screen.
"Requesting landing instructions from Earth via Moon." His set was
too small to receive through Earth's atmosphere. The Moon acted as
a relay station.
"Make ground contact at—"
"Do it—do it." The mental command aimed at the Moon mimic hit
Logan's brain like a hot iron. Its hairy little arm shot past him,
grabbed the ignition jumper wire as it had watched Snyder grab air,
and jerked it loose. As the engines died and the blue emergency
lights faded on, Snyder laughed and the mimic screeched, jumping
about, waving its prize and dragging the frayed leash the killer had
broken.
Logan hit the auxiliary switch. They were within the Moon's
gravitational pull and he had no choice. He was exhausted and felt
like crying. Lord, was there no end to it? Would the lunatic never
stop? Hadn't he paid enough for his own relapse?
The startled face of the radaronics operator flashed on the screen
again. "Prepare for crash," Logan shouted at him, then cut the
power to conserve fuel.
Through the steering port he could see the soiled craters of the
Moon leaping up at him and the Patrol spacer began to whine and
vibrate as it hit the three pound air pressure. He sweat over the
auxiliary controls, nursing the fuel in short bursts, breaking the rate
of fall, juggling the angle. They were west of the Mountains of
Caucasus and directly above a narrow strip of plains. Within a
thousand feet he hit the jet activator and held it. A single explosive
roar sounded; died. There was nothing more he could do. He closed
his eyes and began to pray.
The Patrol spacer hit and dug a furrow across the plain for three
miles, eight inches of the finest steel fighting lava rock and meteor
metal. The base of the Alps range was within leaping distance when
the battered hull shivered to a halt. The deck was twisted and
friction smoke filled the air.
Logan got up. His legs didn't want to hold him, but he got up
anyhow. There was blood on his face and more oozing from his
thigh. He heard the high whine of escaping air, moved to a stern
locker and pulled out two pressure suits. His arms and legs were like
lead. He wanted to lie down on the floor, say to-hell-with-everything
—maybe die.
Edward Snyder was quiet but alive and conscious. A trickle of blood
ran from his nose and dripped from the second chin. The monkey-
like mimic moaned up and down the scale.
"Put this on," Logan whispered. He tossed one of the suits on the
bunk. Enough air had escaped to hamper breathing and affect his
voice.
"I'm chained," Snyder snarled. "For God's sake, why don't you kill
me?"
For a moment Logan stared at him, then swayed and caught himself
on the bulkhead. He had reached the end and he knew it. He lifted
the blaster toward his captive.
Snyder's expression was ethereal. He threw back his shoulders and
braced himself. Then the massive face turned blank as the leg chains
were carried away. The second blast freed one arm. Logan dropped
the piece of file on the bunk. The fat man stared dumbly, then
snatched it up and sawed at the remaining chain with savage joy.
Lt. Mike Logan crawled numbly into his pressure suit, slipped out an
escape hatch and dropped to the Moon's cold crust. He couldn't let
Snyder die; he couldn't stay with the insane killer free. There was no
end to it.
He struck off toward the towering crags of the Alps. His lead
wouldn't be much. Snyder with his twisted brain would be after him
in a few minutes, but he didn't care how it ended anymore. The
giant couldn't escape from the Moon. They'd get him again. But he,
Logan, wasn't going to kill.
The horizon was foggy. He could see Bates and the motorsled.
They'd know he'd had the guts....

It was a nightmare, falling, getting up, falling again. He had made it

to the first row of foothills when Edward Snyder caught him. The
giant had found a knife in the galley and he brandished it over his
head, narrowing the distance between them with long leaps. Logan's
normal thirty foot Moon strides had fallen to ten. There was nothing
left in him. He felt the impact of weight against his back, an arm
tighten about his neck and they fell to the rocks. Only a trick of the
gravity saved him from the first dipping of the knife.
How long they fought there was no reckoning. Logan could see the
giant laughing within his plastic helmet and he thought of Johnny
and found the strength to fight. He held his blaster club fashion and
struck feebly. He knew it couldn't last long. Nothing as uneven, as
unfair as this ever did.
The two pressure-suited bodies bounced over the rocky surface,
Snyder's mad thrashing tossing them yards into the air. When they lit
the last time something snapped and Logan's arm twisted queerly.
Above them, on a projection of rock, he saw the mimic waving the
knife it had acquired to imitate its insane master. Logan summoned
all his strength in a desperate gamble on the creature's one virtue.
"Do it! Do it! Damn it, do it!"
Snyder grinned and raised his knife for aim.
The blue-furred Moon native hesitated, uncertain, then teetered and
dropped downward. It landed on Snyder's shoulder, the knife
describing an awkward arc. The giant's pressure suit exploded as a
six inch gash was opened behind the neck. The mad leer
disappeared and the fat man gasped at the scant air. He flailed
about, rolling over and over, pulling Logan with him, then lay still;
his eyes pushed upward, fighting to breathe.
A shower of lights hit Logan's brain. A chant pounded
accompaniment. "Can't kill 'im. Can't kill 'im. Can't—" The plastic
helmet of the mad Cyclops had shattered on the rocks and he found
himself hammering feebly at the loose features, tears of exhaustion
streaming down his face. The mimic continued to slash with the
knife and the Patrolman's suit dissolved, the left shoulder laid open.
It grew very dark....

There was a bed and sheets and the smell of tobacco smoke when
he came to. The room was in semi-darkness, but he could make out
two figures.
"Cigarette?" one of them asked and held a match. The other
occupant opened the shades and light filtered in. Immediately he
recognized the first. The long thin face and the bright eyes belonged
to General Winkham, commanding general of the Patrol.
"Sir—" He tried to sit up, but the arm cast held him.
"No need for formality, Logan." The general smiled. "The radaronics
operator tracked your ship down. You were near dead when the
searching party spotted that mimic." He chuckled. "They had the
devil's own time disarming the little beast."
"What—what about Snyder?"
The general sobered. "You've been asleep for two days. Snyder was
hanged yesterday."
The other officer drew himself up stiffly. He wore a captain's bars
and was obviously the post commandant. "I think I should point out
that the prisoner was assaulted, General. Charges will have to be
made."
Winkham frowned. "Is that right, Lieutenant?"
"I don't know." He swallowed hard and then told it from the
beginning—Johnny, Bates—everything. "I remember thinking at the
last that I couldn't kill him. Maybe I hit him; I don't know."
"The situation is obvious," the captain summarized coldly. "The
prisoner was already subdued and therefore the beating was
unnecessary and in violation of the Conduct Code. You'll sit on the
court martial, of course, General?" The inner planets were hurtfully
strict on regulations.
"Get out of here," Winkham snapped. When the other had fled he
turned to Logan. "I'm sorry about this, Lieutenant, but the captain is
within his rights. I don't hold with these teaparty technicalities, but
you can see my position. Why didn't you kill the blasted maniac? It
would have been self-defense."
Logan experienced a wave of bitterness. The hell had been for
nothing. Something he didn't even remember clearly had caused him
to fail Bates, fail Johnny. "Bates told me he had brought in the native
that tortured his mother to death," he said weakly. "I tried to show
as much guts. I guess I haven't got it."
"Bates, eh?" Winkham mused and looked out the window. "I was his
commanding officer then. The native was alive all right, but we
always wondered how his ears got sliced off and stuffed in his
mouth. We questioned him but couldn't make out his language."
"Neptunian priests all speak English," Logan contradicted.
"I know, but none of us did," the General returned with a wry grin.
"And I don't think anyone on this post will either. Even if I have to
break a captain to a hangar-monkey." He got up and paced the
room. "Bates says you want to start a space line. Says you're a good
man with ideas—"
There was a growing spot of warmth in Logan's abdomen as he
smoked and listened to the famous "Winks". It was pride at
belonging with men as great as Bates and Johnny and Winkham. He
could say it to Johnny, now, softly. "Don't worry, kid. I'll pick up the
pieces...."
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