[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Thrilling Wonder Stories August 1953.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The hopeful spires of the Friendship Tower, you will recall, rosesteadily, tier upon tier, throughout the year A.D. 4000 plus,despite the fact that it was beginning, more and more, to resemble aneoclassical stock exchange than it did a tower, and that the higher itclimbed, the lower sank the estate of diplomatic relations among itsbackers, the nations of the Alliance of Inner Planets.
The Venusians wanted it on Venus because, as they shrewdly noted, Venusis wide open; the vacationer's planet. Low taxes. Moderate buildingcosts, and a diverting variety of entertainment for the visitingdelegates when they should meet. Why the derva-girls alone—
Mars wanted it on Mars, because, they said, the world is centrallylocated, easily accessible, and the dry climate was sure to preservethe masonry of the Friendship Tower forever, an immortal monument toman's amicability.
The Jovian colonials wanted it on Ganymede, because that would be mostconvenient (for Jupiter), and the Ganymedians agreed, if Jupiter wouldmeet their share of the cost.
The kindest thing that can be said of the Saturnians, is that they wereexceedingly saturnine. They hadn't a chance, and they knew it. Everyoneexpected trouble with Saturn.
Earth got it on Earth, with an overwhelming majority of one vote andeighty-three million dollars.
The Friendship Tower spitted the occasionally-blue sky over CapitolCity in less than eleven months from the time its corner-stone waslaid, and waited in awesome emptiness for the first friendly meeting ofworlds within it.
If there was anyone who was completely satisfied with the Tower, itmust have been Christopher M. Berthold, who first sketched it with giltpen on a drawing board, and later drew it in bold lines of steel andplastic on the green horizon of his mother Earth. But Chris Bertholdwas a dour young man who had never in his life admitted that anythingsatisfied him.
By no coincidence, the man who built the tower was one of the threemost famous architects in the solar system, at the age of onlythirty one, but he held the obsession, apparently, that this famewas fleeting, that his public was a fickle group and might abandonhim at any moment, that he ought to keep his insurance up, and hisunemployment benefits in good standing, just in case. In short, thehell with life, the gloomy old thing.
All this did not keep Camilla Reed from loving him. It merely kepther at her distance. As a reporter for the Gazette, she hadknown him publicly for five years. As the freckle-faced little girlnext door (remember?), she had been acquainted with his virtues and hisidiosyncrasies since childhood, and worshipped them.
The only thing was, Camilla was still freckle-faced, and she hadnot grown up into a ravishingly beautiful young woman, the wayfreckle-faced little girls do in stories. Chris Berthold did notgrovel at her feet—in fact, he scarcely seemed to know that she wasalive—and nobody, so far, was living happily ever after. It was mostdiscouraging.
Girl reporters are supposed to be fascinatingly flippant. Camillaoften stammered through interviews. They are supposed to be vivacious,with lovely red hair; she was quiet, diminutive, and her hair wasan indeterminate shade of brown. Reporters are supposed to beill-mannered, inconsiderate of the privacy of others, cocky, devilish.Camilla was none of these.
That was th