TRANSFER POINT BY ANTHONY BOUCHER Illustrated by Paul Piérre [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction November 1950. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It was a nasty plot Vyrko was involved in. The worst part was that he constructed it himself--and didn't get the end right! There were three of them in the retreat, three out of all mankind safe from the deadly yellow bands. The great Kirth-Labbery himself had constructed the retreat and its extraordinary air-conditioning--not because his scientific genius had foreseen the coming of the poisonous element, agnoton, and the end of the human race, but because he itched. And here Vyrko sat, methodically recording the destruction of mankind, once in a straight factual record, for the instruction of future readers ("if any," he added wryly to himself), and again as a canto in that epic poem of Man which he never expected to complete, but for which he lived. Lavra's long golden hair fell over his shoulders. It was odd that its scent distracted him when he was at work on the factual record, yet seemed to wing the lines of the epic. "But why bother?" she asked. Her speech might have been clearer if her tongue had not been more preoccupied with the savor of the apple than with the articulation of words. But Vyrko understood readily: the remark was as familiar an opening as P-K4 in chess. "It's my duty," Vyrko explained patiently. "I haven't your father's scientific knowledge and perception. Your father's? I haven't the knowledge of his humblest lab assistant. But I can put words together so that they make sense and sometimes more than sense, and I have to do this." From Lavra's plump red lips an apple pip fell into the works of the electronic typewriter. Vyrko fished it out automatically; this too was part of the gambit, with the possible variants of grape seed, orange peel.... "But why," Lavra demanded petulantly, "won't Father let us leave here? A girl might as well be in a ... a...." "_Convent?_" Vyrko suggested. He was a good amateur paleolinguist. "There is an analogy--even despite my presence. _Convents_ were supposed to shelter girls from the Perils of The World. Now the whole world is one great Peril ... outside of this retreat." "Go on," Lavra urged. She had long ago learned, Vyrko suspected, that he was a faintly over-serious young man with no small talk, and that she could enjoy his full attention only by asking to have something explained, even if for the _n_th time. * * * * * He smiled and thought of the girls he used to talk _with_, not _at_, and of how little breath they had for talking now in the world where no one drew an unobstructed breath.