THE BLUE TOWER 

  

 By EVELYN E. SMITH 

  

  As the vastly advanced guardians of mankind, the Belphins knew how to make a lesson stick—but whom?  

  

 Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS 

  

  Transcriber's Note:  This etext was produced from Galaxy, February, 1958. Extensive research did not reveal any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. 

 Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. 

  

  

 Ludovick Eversole sat in the golden sunshine outside his house, writing a poem as he watched the street flow gently past him. There were very few people on it, for he lived in a slow part of town, and those who went in for travel generally preferred streets where the pace was quicker. 

 Moreover, on a sultry spring afternoon like this one, there would be few people wandering abroad. Most would be lying on sun-kissed white beaches or in sun-drenched parks, or, for those who did not fancy being either kissed or drenched by the sun, basking in the comfort of their own air-conditioned villas. 

 Some would, like Ludovick, be writing poems; others composing symphonies; still others painting pictures. Those who were without creative talent or the inclination to indulge it would be relaxing their well-kept golden bodies in whatever surroundings they had chosen to spend this particular one of the perfect days that stretched in an unbroken line before every member of the human race from the cradle to the crematorium. 

 Only the Belphins were much in evidence. Only the Belphins had duties to perform. Only the Belphins worked. 

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