CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION by
Everett F. Bleiler and T. E. Dikty
FIREWATER by
William Tenn
CATEGORY
PHOENIX by Boyd Ellanby
SURFACE TENSION
by James Blish
THE GADGET HAD A
GHOST by Murray Leinster
CONDITIONALLY
HUMAN by Walter M. Miller, Jr.
SCIENCE-FICTION ANTHOLOGIES BY
BLEILER AND DIKTY
The Best Science-Fiction Stories:
1949
The Best Science-Fiction Stories:
1950
The Best Science-Fiction Stories:
1951
The Best Science-Fiction Stories:
1952 .
The Science-Fiction Omnibus
Imagination Unlimited
Year's Best Science-Fiction
Novels: 1952
Year's Best Science-Fiction
Novels: 1953
IN PREPARATION
The Best Science-Fiction Stories:
1953
Year's Best Science-Fiction
Novels: 1954
TO
Frederick V. Fell
IN FRIENDSHIP
YEAR'S BEST SCIENCE-FICTION NOVELS
: 1953
COPYRIGHT
1953 BY EVERETT F. BLEILER AND T. E. DIKTY
All
rights in this book are reserved. It may not be used for dramatic, motion-, or
talking-picture purposes without written authorization from the holder of
these rights. Nor may the book or any part thereof be reproduced in any manner
whatever without permission in writing, except for brief quotations embodied in
critical articles and reviews. For information, address: Frederick Fell, Inc.,
386 Fourth Avenue, New York 16, N. Y. Manufactured in the United States of
America by H. Wolff, New York. Designed by SIDNEY SOLOMON.
PUBLISHED
SIMULTANEOUSLY IN CANADA BY
GEORGE J. MCLEOD, LTD., TORONTO
FIRST PRINTING MARCH 1953
INTRODUCTION
This is the second annual
collection of short science-fiction novels, the best published in magazine form
during the past year.
We use the term short novel
interchangeably with novelette, novella, or even "long short story"
because current American usage has not decided the point. There are
definitions, of course, and we could probably set up a few of our own. The only
relevant fact is that science-fiction pieces averaging 20,000 words in length,
when they were good, had no heaven to look forward to.
The anthologist gave haloes to the
good short story, the book publisher had a supply of hard-cover wings for the
outstanding serial, but none of these literary St. Peters would admit
in-between lengths. In our other annual series, The Best Science-Fiction
Stories, begun in 1949 (Frederick Fell, New York), we ourselves must
confess to the same arbitrariness. The reasoning was that a short novel would
displace three or four of the regular stories and, quality being equal, our
readers preferred the greater number.
But from year to year we saw too
many excellent longer stories go unrecognized in the science-fiction
procession, and finally we broached the subject to our publisher. He being a
merciful man, as well as an enlightened risk-taker, agreed to establish a new and
special Hereafter for neglected story lengths. And it has been his pleasure, as
well as ours, to see this idea a success in the marketplace.
The marketplace is a theme which
has received a growing amount of attention from science-fiction writers in
recent years, and the first story in this collection, Firewater by
William Tenn, is a fine example of this trend. It could be called a kind of
study or exploration of the role of businessmen in the future. Not in this or
that administration, or a set number of years from now, but in any tomorrow,
near or far, when science has noticeably altered social environment. Concern
with the businessman is a significant development in the science-fiction field
because until recently most writers in the genre would not readily have conceded
that businessmen deserved a role in the future.
For convenience, let us refer to
the 1952 presidential election. Perhaps it is a mistake to link any form of
entertainment with the mental state of society at a given time, but there is no
question that Business (with a capital B) has recently undergone a profound
re-evaluation in the public mind, a resurgence of prestige which science-fiction
has foreshadowed as well as reflected.
In the Depression Era, when the
businessman was largely discredited in his relationship to government,
science-fiction may be said to have reflected that widespread attitude in the
nearly total absence of merchants and industry from its story content. Any
mention of traders and commerce was usually unfavorable mention. The truth of
the matter is that most science-fiction writers of the period were implicitly
Technocratic. They upheld the Authority of Science. Efficiency, Impartiality,
Logic, Machine-likeness, were ultimate social goals, conducive to inevitable
personal happiness. And where in this orderly scientific pattern was there
room for the businessman, with his function as middleman or dealer rendered
superfluous? (Overlooking, of course, his uncleanly taint of profit.)
Certain accusatory political words
will leap to the minds of many readers, but those science-fiction writers were
neither socialist, communist, nor fascist. They were simply sciencefictionists,
attempting to read human nature in dispassionate "purely scientific"
terms. In practical terms, perhaps most of them were inexperienced with the
world . . . this world. Their minds were on too many other planets, so they got
their political ideas third- or fourth-hand. In literary terms, few of them are
worth considering, but as a group which supplied the contents of three or four
newsstand science-fiction periodicals, month after month for eight or nine
years, they showed scant respect for the commerce mentality.
Possibly the historical turning
point in this attitude came early the nineteen-forties, with the appearance in
Astounding Science Fiction of The Stolen Dormouse by L. Sprague de Camp,
later reprinted in Divide and Rule (Fantasy Press, Reading, Pa., 1948).
In this story, Mr. de Camp focuses his attention on business as such, and it
becomes a matter of interest. No pun intended here, but speaking of interest,
we are suddenly reminded of a droll imaginative tale by Harry Stephen Keeler
which appeared back in 1927 in Amazing Stories, called John Jones's Dollar.
It showed how a man's posterity could ultimately inherit the Earth on the
compounded interest of a single-dollar bank deposit. But to return to Mr. de
Camp, this popular author has since written a number of other stories on
futuristic business themes, notably some of the stories included in his most
recent book, The Continent Makers (Twayne, New York, 1953). And still
another excellent example of "business science-fiction" is Alfred
Bester's Demolished Man, which appeared as a serial last car in Galaxy
and has just been published in book form (Shasta, Chicago, 1953).
But it is Robert A. Heinlein who
deserves wide credit for reversing the attitude of science-fiction towards
businessmen as a breed, in a memorable short novel, The Man Who Sold the
Moon (Shasta, Chicago, 195o). The implication of this story is, to quote
from Mark Reinsberg's Introduction, "Society must keep open a place for
the entrepreneur, the brilliant risk-taker. For, in the examples of the author,
it is only by combining the motive of intellectual curiosity (the scientist)
with the motive of personal economic gain (the businessman) that we make our
progress." Mr. Heinlein has been able to implant this idea even in his
juvenile science-fiction books, e.g., The Rolling Stones (Scribners, New
York, 1952).
So it is that in the present
collection, William Tenn's Firewater admirably partakes of the new
business-recognition trend in imaginative writing as well as American political
life.
If we are not able to discuss the
other four stories in this volume at similar length, it is not because they
are less worthy or less entertaining. Certainly, Category Phoenix, by
Boyd Ellanby, partakes of one of the most basic of all science-fiction themes,
that of immortality. To live forever, or at least to extend longevity by
hundreds of years, gaining in wisdom and experience while remaining physically
young, is probably the dearest of all human wishes. But to many science-fiction
writers has fallen the task of examining this wish more closely, and finding in
it the seeds of great potential unhappiness, both for those who achieve the
wish and for those who are "left behind." Mr. Ellanby couples the
immortality theme with the concept of a scientific despotism, brutally rigid in
its social organization, where the reward for unusual service to the State is
an occasional Free Choice, and longer life may only mean longer enslavement.
Surface Tension, by James
Blish, offers the inspiring picture of Man overcoming all handicaps of
environment to reach the stars. In this case, the struggle for survival demands
adaptation to a world of water and shrinkage to microscopic size. But it is
accomplished in a very unique manner and the story portrays a triumph for the
human spirit.
Perhaps no science-fiction
anthology would be complete without a time-travel story. This is essentially
what we have in The Gadget Had a Ghost by Murray Leinster. Mr. Leinster
(pen name of Will F. Jenkins) is actually the inventor of one of the basic
time-travel concepts, since used by scores of authors. This is the
"parallel-time-track" idea, of a multi-dimensional universe in which
everything that possibly could happen, somewhere did, and everything that could
have happened, had . . . first used in Sidewise in Time, in 1934, and
later reprinted in book form (Shasta, Chicago, 195o). The present story shows
us time-travel with a difference, however. It might almost be called
"hands across time." The setting is in modern Istanbul, with
excellent local color and a style tinged with sly humor. Mr. Leinster is
probably the senior and most durably productive of all of science-fiction's
old-time Masters, having appeared with his first science-fiction story as early
as 1919; which is to say, his career antedates the field of modem
science-fiction itself.
Walter M. Miller, Jr. is the only
author in this year's collection of short novels who was also represented in
the 1952 collection, and that gives us a feeling of continuity for our part,
and consistency of performance for his. In Conditionally Human he has
delved deep into what constitutes a definition of humanity. The attempt to
limit Earth's overpopulation is rendered personal and poignant through the
applications of genetic science, eugenic control, and the emotional dynamite of
pseudo-parturition.
One of the incidental virtues of
anthologiesfrom the author's point of view, to say nothing of the editor'sis
that re-publication gives an author an opportunity to make minor or even major
revisions in his original story text. Most of the pieces in this collection
have undergone slight "perfections" at the voluntary hands of their
creators, and one has been made even more effective by the addition of a
substantial new episode. We take the view that these improved versions are a
kind of bonus to the reader.
This year we would like to thank
the following people for their aid and encouragement in the preparation of this
volume: O. James Butler, E. J. Carnell, Oscar J. Friend, Melvin Korshak, Dr.
Joseph McNamara, Ned Melman, Frederik Pohl, Mark Reinsberg, Frank M. Robinson,
Jule M. Simmons, Sidney Solomon, and Edward Wood. And most particular thanks to
the ladies (God bless 'em): Judy Dikty, Irene Korshak, and Diane Reinsberg.
EVERETT F. BLEILER
T. E. Dikty
Chicago, Illinois
20 February, 1953
Firewater
By William Tenn
The hairiest, dirtiest and oldest
of the three visitors from Arizona scratched his back against the plastic of
the webfoam chair. "Insinuations are lavender nearly," he remarked
by way of opening the conversation.
His two companionsthe thin young
man with dripping eyes, and the woman whose good looks were marred chiefly by
incredibly decayed teethgiggled and relaxed. The thin young man said
"Gabble, gabble, honk!" under his breath, and the other two nodded
emphatically.
Greta Seidenheim looked up from the
tiny stenographic machine resting on a pair of the most exciting knees her
employer had been able to find in Greater New York. She swiveled her blonde
beauty at him. "That too, Mr. Hebster?"
The president of Hebster
Securities, Inc., waited until the memory of her voice ceased to tickle his
ears; he had much clear thinking to do. Then he nodded and said resonantly,
"That too, Miss Seidenheim. Close phonetic approximations of the
gabble-honk and remember to indicate when it sounds like a question and when
like an exclamation."
He rubbed his recently manicured
fingernails across the desk drawer containing his fully loaded Parabellum.
Check. The communication buttons with which he could summon any quantity of
Hebster Securities personnel up to the nine hundred working at present in the
Hebster Building lay some eight inches from the other hand. Check. And there
were the doors here, the doors there, behind which his uniformed bodyguard
stood poised to burst in at a signal which would blaze before them the moment
his right foot came off the tiny spring set in the floor. And check.
Algernon Hebster could talk
businesseven with Primeys.
Courteously, he nodded at each
one of his visitors from Arizona; he smiled ruefully at what the dirty
shapeless masses they wore on their feet were doing to the almost calf-deep
rug that had been woven specially for his private office. He had greeted them
when Miss Seidenheim had escorted them in. They had laughed in his face.
"Suppose we rattle off some
introductions. You know me. I'm Hebster, Algernon Hebsteryou asked for me
specifically at the desk in the lobby. If it's important to the conversation,
my secretary's name is Greta Seidenheim. And you, sir?"
He had addressed the old fellow,
but the thin young man leaned forward in his seat and held out a taut, almost
transparent hand. "Names?" he inquired. "Names are round if not
revealed. Consider names. How many names? Consider names, reconsider names!"
The woman leaned forward too, and
the smell from her diseased mouth reached Hebster even across the enormous
space of his office. "Rabble and reaching and all the upward clash,"
she intoned, spreading her hands as if in agreement with an obvious point.
"Emptiness derogating itself into infinity"
"Into duration," the
older man corrected.
"Into infinity," the
woman insisted.
"Gabble, gabble, honk?"
the young man queried bitterly.
"Listen!" Hebster
roared. "When I asked for"
The communicator buzzed and he
drew a deep breath and pressed a button. His receptionist's voice boiled out
rapidly, fearfully:
"I remember your orders, Mr.
Hebster, but those two men from the UM Special Investigating Commission are
here again and they look as if they mean business. I mean they look as if
they'll make trouble."
"Yost and Funatti?"
"Yes, sir. From what they
said to each other, I think they know you have three Primeys in there. They
asked me what are you trying to dodeliberately inflame the Firsters? They said
they're going to invoke full supranational powers and force an entry if you
don't"
"Stall them."
"But, Mr. Hebster, the UM
Special Investigating"
"Stall them, I said. Are you
a receptionist or a swinging door? Use your imagination, Ruth. You have a
nine-hundred-man organization and a ten-million-dollar corporation at your
disposal. You can stage any kind of farce in that outer office you wantup to
and including the deal where some actor made up to look like me walks in and
drops dead at their feet. Stall them and I'll nod a bonus at you. Stall
them." He clicked off, looked up.
His visitors, at least, were
having a fine time. They had turned to face each other in a reeking triangle of
gibberish. Their voices rose and fell argumentatively, pleadingly, decisively;
but all Algernon Hebster's ears could register of what they said were very many
sounds similar to gabble and an occasional, indisputable honk!
His lips curled contempt inward.
Humanity prime! These messes? Then he lit a cigarette and shrugged. Oh,
well. Humanity prime. And business is business.
Just remember they're not
supermen, he told himself. They may be dangerous, but they're not supermen.
Not by a long shot. Remember that epidemic of influenza that almost wiped them
out, and how you diddled those two other Primeys last month. They're not
supermen, but they're not humanity either. They're just different.
He glanced at his secretary and
approved. Greta Seidenheim clacked away on her machine as if she were recording
the curtest, the tritest of business letters. He wondered what system she was
using to catch the intonations. Trust Greta, though, she'd do it.
"Gabble, honk! Gabble,
gabble, gabble, honk, honk. Gabble, honk, gabble, gabble, honk? Honk."
What had precipitated all this
conversation? He'd only asked for their names. Didn't they use names in
Arizona? Surely, they knew that it was customary here. They claimed to know at
least as much as he about such matters.
Maybe it was something else that
had brought them to New York this timemaybe something about the Aliens? He
felt the short hairs rise on the back of his neck and he smoothed them down
self-consciously.
Trouble was it was so easy to
learn their language. It was such a very simple matter to be able to understand
them in these talkative moments. Almost as easy as falling off a logor jumping
off a cliff.
Well, his time was limited. He
didn't know how long Ruth could hold the UM investigators in his outer office.
Somehow he had to get a grip on the meeting again without offending them in any
of the innumerable, highly dangerous ways in which Primeys could be offended.
He rapped the desk topgently.
The gabble-honk stopped short at the hyphen. The woman rose slowly.
"On this question of
names," Hebster began doggedly, keeping his eyes on the woman, "since
you people claim"
The woman writhed agonizingly for
a moment and sat down on the floor. She smiled at Hebster. With her rotted
teeth, the smile had all the brilliance of a dead star.
Hebster cleared his throat and
prepared to try again.
"If you want names,"
the older man said suddenly, "you can call me Larry."
The president of Hebster
Securities shook himself and managed to say "Thanks" in a somewhat
weak but not too surprised voice. He looked at the thin young man.
"You can call me
Theseus." The young man looked sad as he said it.
"Theseus? Fine!" One
thing about Primeys, when you started clicking with them, you really moved
along. But Theseus! Wasn't that just like a Primey? Now the woman, and they
could begin.
They were all looking at the
woman, even Greta with a curiosity which had sneaked up past her beauty-parlor
glaze.
"Name," the woman
whispered to herself. "Name a name."
Oh, no, Hebster groaned. Let's
not stall here.
Larry evidently had decided that
enough time had been wasted. He made a suggestion to the woman. "Why not
call yourself Moe?"
The young manTheseus, it was
nowalso seemed to get interested in the problem. "Rover's a good
name," he announced helpfully.
"How about Gloria?" Hebster
asked desperately.
The woman considered. "Moe,
Rover, Gloria," she mused. "Larry, Theseus, Seidenheim, Hebster,
me." She seemed to be running a total.
Anything might come out, Hebster
knew. But at least they were not acting snobbish any more: they were talking
down on his level now. Not only no gabble-honk, but none of this sneering
double-talk which was almost worse. At least they were making senseof a sort.
"For the purposes of this
discussion," the woman said at last, "my name will be...will beMy
name is S.S. Lusitania."
"Fine!" Hebster roared,
letting the word he'd kept bubbling on his lips burst out. "That's a fine
name. Larry, Theseus and...er, S.S. Lusitania. Fine bunch of people. Sound.
Let's get down to business. You came here on business, I take it?"
"Right," Larry said.
"We heard about you from two others who left home a month ago to come to
New York. They talked about you when they got back to Arizona."
"They did, eh? I hoped they
would."
Theseus slid off his chair and
squatted next to the woman who was making plucking motions at the air.
"They talked about you," he repeated. "They said you treated
them very well, that you showed them as much respect as a thing like you could
generate. They also said you cheated them."
"Oh, well, Theseus."
Hebster spread his manicured hands. "I'm a businessman."
"You're a businessman,"
S.S. Lusitania agreed, getting to her feet stealthily and taking a great swipe
with both hands at something invisible in front of her face. "And here, in
this spot, at this moment, so are we. You can have what we've brought, but
you'll pay for it. And don't think you can cheat us."
Her hands, cupped over each
other, came down to her waist. She pulled them apart suddenly and a tiny eagle
fluttered out. It flapped toward the fluorescent panels glowing in the ceiling.
Its flight was hampered by the heavy, striped shield upon its breast, by the
bunch of arrows it held in one claw, by the olive branch it grasped with the
other. It turned its miniature bald head and gasped at Algernon Hebster, then
began to drift rapidly down to the rug. Just before it hit the floor, it
disappeared.
Hebster shut his eyes,
remembering the strip of bunting that had fallen from the eagle's beak when it
had turned to gasp. There had been words printed on the bunting, words too
small to see at the distance, but he was sure the words would have read "E
Pluribus Unum." He was as certain of that as he was of the necessity
of acting unconcerned over the whole incident, as unconcerned as the Primeys.
Professor Kleimbocher said Primeys were mental drunkards. But why did they give
everyone else the D.T.s?
He opened his eyes.
"Well," he said, "what have you to sell?"
Silence for a moment. Theseus
seemed to forget the point he was trying to make; S.S. Lusitania stared at
Larry.
Larry scratched his right side
through heavy, stinking cloth.
"Oh, an infallible method for
defeating anyone who attempts to apply the reductio ad absurdum to a
reasonable proposition you advance." He yawned smugly and began
scratching his left side.
Hebster grinned because he was
feeling so good. "No. Can't use it."
"Can't use it?" The old
man was trying hard to look amazed. He shook his head. He stole a sideways
glance at S.S. Lusitania.
She smiled again and wriggled to
the floor. "Larry still isn't talking a language you can understand, Mr.
Hebster," she cooed, very much like a fertilizer factory being friendly.
"We came here with something we know you need badly. Very badly."
"Yes?" They're like
those two Primeys last month, Hebster exulted: they don't know what's good and
what isn't. Wonder if their masters would know. Well, and if they didwho
does business with Aliens?
"We...have," she spaced
the words carefully, trying pathetically for a dramatic effect, "a new
shade of red, but not merely that. Oh, no! A new shade of red, and a
full set of color values derived from it! A complete set of color values
derived from this one shade of red, Mr. Hebster! Think what a non-objectivist
painter can do with such a"
"Don't sell me, lady.
Theseus, do you want to have a go now?"
Theseus had been frowning at the
green foundation of the desk. He leaned back, looking satisfied. Hebster
realized abruptly that the tension under his right foot had disappeared.
Somehow, Theseus had become cognizant of the signal-spring set in the floor;
and, somehow, he had removed it.
He had disintegrated it without
setting off the alarm to which it was wired.
Giggles from three Primey throats
and a rapid exchange of "gabble-honk." Then they all knew what
Theseus had done and how Hebster had tried to protect himself. They weren't
angry, thoughand they didn't sound triumphant. Try to understand Primey
behavior!
No need to get unduly alarmedthe
price of dealing with these characters was a nervous stomach. The rewards, on
the other hand
Abruptly, they were businesslike
again.
Theseus snapped out his
suggestion with all the finality of a bazaar merchant making his last,
absolutely the last offer. "A set of population indices which can be
correlated with"
"No, Theseus," Hebster
told him gently.
Then, while Hebster sat back and
enjoyed, temporarily forgetting the missing coil under his foot, they poured
out more, desperately, feverishly, weaving in and out of each other's
sentences.
"A portable neutron
stabilizer for high altit"
"More than fifty ways of
saying 'however' without"
"...So that every housewife
can do an entrechat while cook"
"...Synthetic fabric with
the drape of silk and manufactura"
"...Decorative pattern for
bald heads using the follicles as"
"...Complete and utter
refutation of all pyramidologists from"
"All right!" Hebster
roared, "All right! That's enough!"
Greta Seidenheim almost forgot
herself and sighed with relief. Her stenographic machine had been sounding like
a centrifuge.
"Now," said the
executive. "What do you want in exchange?"
"One of those we said is the
one you want, eh?" Larry muttered. "Which onethe pyramidology
refutation? That's it, I betcha."
S.S. Lusitania waved her hands
contemptuously. "Bishop's miters, you fool! The new red color values
excited him. The new"
Ruth's voice came over the
communicator. "Mr. Hebster, Yost and Funatti are back. I stalled them, but
I just received word from the lobby receptionist that they're back and on their
way upstairs. You have two minutes, maybe three. And they're so mad they almost
look like Firsters themselves!"
"Thanks. When they climb out
of the elevator, do what you can without getting too illegal." He turned
to his guests. "Listen"
They had gone off again.
"Gabble, gabble, honk, honk,
honk? Gabble, honk, gabble, gabble! Gabble, honk, gabble, honk, gabble,
honk, honk."
Could they honestly make sense
out of these throat-clearings and half-sneezes? Was it really a language as
superior to all previous languages of man as...as the Aliens were supposed to
be to man himself? Well, at least they could communicate with the Aliens by
means of it. And the Aliens, the Aliens
He recollected abruptly the two
angry representatives of the world state who were hurtling towards his office.
"Listen, friends. You came
here to sell. You've shown me your stock, and I've seen something I'd like to
buy. What exactly is immaterial. The only question now is what you want
for it. And let's make it fast. I have some other business to transact."
The woman with the dental
nightmare stamped her foot. A cloud no larger than a man's hand formed near the
ceiling, burst and deposited a pail full of water on Hebster's fine custom-made
rug.
He ran a manicured forefinger
around the inside of his collar so that his bulging neck veins would not burst.
Not right now, anyway. He looked at Greta and regained confidence from the
serenity with which she waited for more conversation to transcribe. There was
a model of business precision for you. The Primeys might pull what one of them
had in London two years ago, before they were barred from all metropolitan
areasincreased a housefly's size to that of an elephantand Greta Seidenheim
would go on separating fragments of conversation into the appropriate shorthand
symbols.
With all their power, why didn't
they take what they wanted? Why trudge wearisome miles to cities and
attempt to smuggle themselves into illegal audiences with operators like
Hebster, when most of them were caught easily and sent back to the reservation
and those that weren't were cheated unmercifully by the "straight" humans
they encountered? Why didn't they just blast their way in, take their weird and
pathetic prizes and toddle back to their masters? For that matter, why didn't
their mastersBut Primey psych was Primey psychnot for this world, nor of it.
"We'll tell you what we want
in exchange," Larry began in the middle of a honk. He held up a hand on
which the length of the fingernails was indicated graphically by the grime
beneath them and began to tot up the items, bending a digit for each item.
"First, a hundred paper-bound copies of Melville's Moby Dick. Then,
twenty-five crystal radio sets, with earphones; two earphones for each set.
Then, two Empire State Buildings or three Radio Cities, whichever is more
convenient. We want those with foundations intact. A reasonably good copy of
the Hermes statue by Praxiteles. And an electric toaster, circa 1941.
That's about all, isn't it, Theseus?"
Theseus bent over until his nose
rested against his knees.
Hebster groaned. The list wasn't
as bad as he'd expectedremarkable the way their masters always yearned for the
electric gadgets and artistic achievements of Earthbut he had so little time
to bargain with them. Two Empire State Buildings!
"Mr. Hebster," his
receptionist chattered over the communicator. "Those SIC menI managed to
get a crowd out in the corridor to push toward their elevator when it came to
this floor, and I've locked the...I mean I'm trying to...but I don't thinkCan
you"
"Good girl! You're doing
fine!"
"Is that all we want,
Theseus?" Larry asked again. "Gabble?"
Hebster heard a crash in the
outer office and footsteps running across the floor.
"See here, Mr.
Hebster," Theseus said at last, "if you don't want to buy Larry's reductio
ad absurdum exploder, and you don't like my method of decorating bald heads
for all its innate artistry, how about a system of musical notation"
Somebody tried Hebster's door,
found it locked. There was a knock on the door, repeated almost immediately
with more urgency.
"He's already found
something he wants," S.S. Lusitania snapped. "Yes, Larry, that was
the complete list."
Hebster plucked a handful of hair
from his already receding forehead. "Good! Now, look, I can give you
everything but the two Empire State Buildings and the three Radio Cities."
"Or the three Radio
Cities," Larry corrected. "Don't try to cheat us! Two Empire State
Buildings or three Radio Cities. Whichever is more convenient.
Why...isn't it worth that to you?"
"Open this door!" a
bull-mad voice yelled. "Open this door in the name of United Mankind!"
"Miss Seidenheim, open the
door," Hebster said loudly and winked at his secretary, who rose,
stretched and began a thoughtful, slow-motion study in the direction of the
locked panel. There was a crash as of a pair of shoulders being thrown against
it. Hebster knew that his office door could withstand a medium-sized tank. But
there was a limit even to delay when it came to fooling around with the UM
Special Investigating Commission. Those boys knew their Primeys and their
Primey-dealers; they were empowered to shoot first and ask questions
afterwardsas the questions occurred to them.
"It's not a matter of
whether it's worth my while," Hebster told them rapidly as he shepherded
them to the exit behind his desk. "For reasons I'm sure you aren't interested
in, I just can't give away two Empire State Buildings and/or three Radio Cities
with foundations intactnot at the moment. I'll give you the rest of it,
and"
"Open this door or we start
blasting it down!"
"Please, gentlemen,
please," Greta Seidenheim told them sweetly. "You'll kill a poor
working girl who's trying awfully hard to let you in. The lock's stuck."
She fiddled with the door knob, watching Hebster with a trace of anxiety in her
fine eyes.
"And to replace those
items," Hebster was going on, "I will"
"What I mean," Theseus
broke in, "is this. You know the greatest single difficulty composers face
in the twelve-tone technique?"
"I can offer you," the
executive continued doggedly, sweat bursting out of his skin like spring
freshets, "complete architectural blueprints of the Empire State Building
and Radio City, plus five...no, I'll make it ten...scale models of each. And
you get the rest of the stuff you asked for. That's it. Take it or leave it.
Fast!"
They glanced at each other, as
Hebster threw the exit door open and gestured to the five liveried bodyguards
waiting near his private elevator. "Done," they said in
unison.
"Good!" Hebster almost
squeaked. He pushed them through the doorway and said to the tallest of the
five men: "Nineteenth floor!"
He slammed the exit shut just as
Miss Seidenheim opened the outer office door. Yost and Funatti, in the
bottle-green uniform of the UM, charged through. Without pausing, they ran to
where Hebster stood and plucked the exit open. They could all hear the elevator
descending.
Funatti, a little, olive-skinned
man, sniffed. "Primeys," he muttered. "He had Primeys here, all
right. Smell that unwash, Yost?"
"Yeah," said the bigger
man. "Come on. The emergency stairway. We can track that elevator!"
They holstered their service
weapons and clattered down the metal-tipped stairs. Below, the elevator
stopped.
Hebster's secretary was at the
communicator. "Maintenance!" She waited. "Maintenance,
automatic locks on the nineteenth floor exit until the party Mr. Hebster just
sent down gets to a lab somewhere else. And keep apologizing to those cops
until then. Remember, they're SIC."
"Thanks, Greta,"
Hebster said, switching to the personal now that they were alone. He plumped
into his desk chair and blew out gustily: "There must be easier ways of
making a million."
She raised two perfect blond
eyebrows. "Or of being an absolute monarch right inside the parliament of
man?"
"If they wait long
enough," he told her lazily, "I'll be the UM, modern global
government and all. Another year or two might do it."
"Aren't you forgetting
Vandermeer Dempsey? His huskies also want to replace the UM. Not to mention
their colorful plans for you. And there are an awful, awful lot of them."
"They don't worry me, Greta.
Humanity First will dissolve overnight once that decrepit old demagogue
gives up the ghost." He stabbed at the communicator button.
"Maintenance! Maintenance, that party I sent down arrived at a safe lab
yet?"
"No, Mr. Hebster. But
everything's going all right. We sent them up to the twenty-fourth floor and
got the SIC men rerouted downstairs to the personnel levels. Uh, Mr.
Hebsterabout the SIC. We take your orders and all that, but none of us wants
to get in trouble with the Special Investigating Commission. According to the
latest laws, it's practically a capital offense to obstruct them."
"Don't worry," Hebster
told him. "I've never let one of my employees down yet. The boss fixes
everything is the motto here. Call me when you've got those Primeys safely
hidden and ready for questioning."
He turned back to Greta.
"Get that stuff typed before you leave and into Professor Kleimbocher's
hands. He thinks he may have a new angle on their gabble-honk."
She nodded. "I wish you
could use recording apparatus instead of making me sit over an old-fashioned
click-box."
"So do I. But Primeys enjoy
reaching out and putting a hex on electrical apparatuswhen they aren't
collecting it for the Aliens. I had a raft of tape recorders busted in the
middle of Primey interviews before I decided that human stenos were the only
answer. And a Primey may get around to bollixing them some day."
"Cheerful thought. I must
remember to dream about the possibility some cold night. Well, I should
complain," she muttered as she went into her own little office.
"Primey hexes built this business and pay my salary as well as supply me
with the sparkling little knicknacks I love so well."
That was not quite true, Hebster
remembered as he sat waiting for the communicator to buzz the news of his
recent guests' arrival in a safe lab. Something like ninety-five percent of
Hebster Securities had been built out of Primey gadgetry extracted from them in
various fancy deals, but the base of it all had been the small investment bank
he had inherited from his father, back in the days of the Half-Warthe days
when the Aliens had first appeared on Earth.
The fearfully intelligent dots
swirling in their variously shaped multicolored bottles were completely outside
the pale of human understanding. There had been no way at all to communicate
with them for a time.
A humorist had remarked back in
those early days that the Aliens came not to bury man, not to conquer or
enslave him. They had a truly dreadful missionto ignore him!
No one knew, even today, what
part of the galaxy the Aliens came from. Or why. No one knew what the total of
their small visiting population came to. Or how they operated their wide-open
and completely silent spaceships. The few things that had been discovered about
them on the occasions when they deigned to swoop down and examine some human
enterprise, with the aloof amusement of the highly civilized tourist, had
served to confirm a technological superiority over Man that strained and tore
the capacity of his richest imagination. A sociological treatise Hebster had
read recently suggested that they operated from concepts as far in advance of
modern science as a meteorologist sowing a drought-struck area with dry ice was
beyond the primitive agriculturist blowing a ram's horn at the heavens in a
frantic attempt to wake the slumbering gods of rain.
Prolonged, infinitely dangerous
observation had revealed, for example, that the dots-in-bottles seemed to have
developed past the need for prepared tools of any sort. They worked directly on
the material itself, shaping it to need, evidently creating and destroying
matter at will.
Some humans had communicated with
them
They didn't stay human.
Men with superb brains had looked
into the whirring, flickering settlements established by the outsiders. A few
had returned with tales of wonders they had realized dimly and not quite seen.
Their descriptions always sounded as if their eyes had been turned off at the
most crucial moments or a mental fuse had blown just this side of
understanding.
Otherssuch celebrities as a
President of Earth, a three-time winner of the Nobel Prize, famous poetshad
evidently broken through the fence somehow. These, however, were the ones who
didn't return. They stayed in the Alien settlements of the Gobi, the Sahara,
the American Southwest. Barely able to fend for themselves, despite newly
acquired and almost unbelievable powers, they shambled worshipfully around the
outsiders, speaking, with weird writhings of larynx and nasal passage, what was
evidently a human approximation of their masters' languagea kind of pidgin
Alien. Talking with a Primey, someone had said, was like a blind man trying to
read a page of Braille originally written for an octopus.
And that these bearded,
bug-ridden, stinking derelicts, these chattering wrecks drunk and sodden on the
logic of an entirely different life-form, were the absolute best of the human
race didn't help people's egos any.
Humans and Primeys despised each
other almost from the first: humans for Primey subservience and helplessness in
human terms, Primeys for human ignorance and ineptness in Alien terms. And,
except when operating under Alien orders and through barely legal operators
like Hebster, Primeys didn't communicate with humans any more than their
masters did.
When institutionalized, they
either gabble-honked themselves into an early grave or, losing patience
suddenly, they might dissolve a path to freedom right through the walls of the
asylum and any attendants who chanced to be in the way. Therefore the
enthusiasm of sheriff and deputy, nurse and orderly, had waned considerably and
the forcible incarceration of Primeys had almost ceased.
Since the two groups were so far
apart psychologically as to make mating between them impossible, the ragged
miracle-workers had been honored with the status of a separate classification:
Humanity Prime. Not better than
humanity, not necessarily worsebut different, and dangerous.
What made them that way? Hebster
rolled his chair back and examined the hole in the floor from which the alarm
spring had spiraled. Theseus had disintegrated ithow? With a thought?
Telekinesis, say, applied to all the molecules of the metal simultaneously,
making them move rapidly and at random. Or possibly he had merely moved the spring
somewhere else. Where? In space? In hyperspace? In time? Hebster shook his head
and pulled himself back to the efficiently smooth and sanely useful desk
surface.
"Mr. Hebster?" the
communicator inquired abruptly, and he jumped a bit, "this is Margritt of
General Lab 23B. Your Primeys just arrived. Regular check?"
Regular check meant drawing them
out on every conceivable technical subject by the nine specialists in the
general laboratory. This involved firing questions at them with the rapidity of
a police interrogation, getting them off balance and keeping them there in the
hope that a useful and unexpected bit of scientific knowledge would drop.
"Yes," Hebster told
him. "Regular check. But first let a textile man have a whack at them. In
fact, let him take charge of the check."
A pause. "The only textile
man in this section is Charlie Verus."
"Well?" Hebster asked
in mild irritation. "Why put it like that? He's competent, I hope. What
does Personnel say about him?"
"Personnel says he's
competent."
"Then there you are. Look,
Margritt, I have the SIC running around my building with blood in its enormous
eye. I don't have time to muse over your departmental feuds. Put Verus
on."
"Yes, Mr. Hebster. Hey,
Bert! Get Charlie Verus. Him."
Hebster shook his head and
chuckled. These technicians! Verus was probably brilliant and nasty.
The box crackled again: "Mr.
Hebster? Mr. Verus." The voice expressed boredom to the point of obvious
affectation. But the man was probably good despite his neuroses. Hebster Securities,
Inc., had a first-rate personnel department.
"Verus? Those Primeys, I
want you to take charge of the check. One of them knows how to make a synthetic
fabric with the drape of silk. Get that first and then go after anything else
they have."
"Primeys, Mr. Hebster?"
"I said Primeys, Mr. Verus.
You are a textile technician, please to remember, and not the straight or
ping-pong half of a comedy routine. Get humping. I want a report on that
synthetic fabric by tomorrow. Work all night if you have to."
"Before we do, Mr. Hebster,
you might be interested in a small piece of information. There is already in
existence a synthetic which falls better than silk"
"I know," his employer
told him shortly. "Cellulose acetate. Unfortunately, it has a few
disadvantages: low melting point, tends to crack; separate and somewhat inferior
dyestuffs have to be used for it; poor chemical resistance. Am I right?"
There was no immediate answer,
but Hebster could feel the dazed nod. He went on. "Now, we also have
protein fibers. They dye well and fall well, have the thermo-conductivity
control necessary for wearing apparel, but don't have the tensile strength of
synthetic fabrics. An artificial protein fiber might be the answer: it would
drape as well as silk, might be we could use the acid dyestuffs we use on silk
which result in shades that dazzle female customers and cause them to fling
wide their pocketbooks. There are a lot of ifs in that, I know, but one
of those Primeys said something about a synthetic with the drape of silk, and I
don't think he'd be sane enough to be referring to cellulose acetate. Nor
nylon, orlon, vinyl chloride, or anything else we already have and use."
"You've looked into textile
problems, Mr. Hebster."
"I have. I've looked into
everything to which there are big gobs of money attached.
And now suppose you go look into
those Primeys. Several million women are waiting breathlessly for the secrets
concealed in their beards. Do you think, Verus, that with the personal and
scientific background I've just given you, it's possible you might now get
around to doing the job you are paid to do?"
"Um-m-m. Yes."
Hebster walked to the office
closet and got his hat and coat. He liked working under pressure; he liked to
see people jump up straight whenever he barked. And now, he liked the prospect
of relaxing.
He grimaced at the webfoam chair
that Larry had used. No point in having it resquirted. Have a new one made.
"I'll be at the
University," he told Ruth on his way out. "You can reach me through
Professor Kleimbocher. But don't, unless it's very important. He gets
unpleasantly annoyed when he's interrupted."
She nodded. Then, very
hesitantly: "Those two menYost and Funattifrom the Special Investigating
Commission? They said no one would be allowed to leave the building."
"Did they now?" he
chuckled. "I think they were angry. They've been that way before. But
unless and until they can hang something on meAnd Ruth, tell my bodyguard to
go home, except for the man with the Primeys. He's to check with me, wherever
I am, every two hours."
He ambled out, being careful to
smile benevolently at every third executive and fifth typist in the large
office. A private elevator and entrance were all very well for an occasional
crisis, but Hebster liked to taste his successes in as much public as possible.
It would be good to see
Kleimbocher again. He had a good deal of faith in the linguistic approach;
grants from his corporation had tripled the size of the University's philology
department. After all, the basic problem between man and Primey as well as man
and Alien was one of communication. Any attempt to learn their science, to
adjust their mental processes and logic into safer human channels, would have
to be preceded by understanding.
It was up to Kleimbocher to find
that understanding, not him. "I'm Hebster," he thought. "I employ
the people who solve problems. And then I make money off them."
Somebody got in front of him.
Somebody else took his arm. "I'm Hebster," he repeated
automatically, but out loud. "Algernon Hebster."
"Exactly the Hebster we
want," Funatti said, holding tightly on to his arm. "You don't mind
coming along with us?"
"Is this an arrest?"
Hebster asked Yost, who now moved aside to let him pass. Yost was touching his
holstered weapon with dancing fingertips.
The SIC man shrugged. "Why
ask such questions?" he countered. "Just come along and be sociable,
kind of. People want to talk to you."
He allowed himself to be dragged
through the lobby ornate with murals by radical painters and nodded
appreciation at the doorman who, staring right through his captors, said
enthusiastically, "Good afternoon, Mr. Hebster." He made
himself fairly comfortable on the back seat of the dark-green SIC car, a
late-model Hebster Mono-wheel.
"Surprised to see you minus
your bodyguard," Yost, who was driving, remarked over his shoulder.
"Oh, I gave them the day
off."
"As soon as you were through
with the Primeys? No," Funatti admitted, "we never did find out where
you cached them. That's one big building you own, mister. And the UM Special
Investigating Commission is notoriously understaffed."
"Not forgetting it's also
notoriously underpaid," Yost broke in.
"I couldn't forget that if I
tried," Funatti assured him. "You know, Mr. Hebster, I wouldn't have
sent my bodyguard off if I'd been in your shoes. Right now there's something
about five times as dangerous as Primeys after you. I mean Humanity
Firsters."
"Vandermeer Dempsey's
crackpots? Thanks, but I think I'll survive."
"That's all right. Just
don't give any long odds on the proposition. Those people have been expanding
fast and furious. The Evening Humanitarian alone has a tremendous
circulation. And when you figure their weekly newspapers, their penny booklets
and throwaway handbills, it adds up to an impressive amount of propaganda. Day
after day they bang away editorially at the people who're making money off the
Aliens and Primeys. Of course, they're really hitting at the UM, like always,
but if an ordinary Firster met you on the street, he'd be as likely to cut your
heart out as not. Not interested? Sorry. Well, maybe you'll like this. The
Evening Humanitarian has a cute name for you."
Yost guffawed. "Tell him,
Funatti."
The corporation president looked
at the little man inquiringly.
"They call you,"
Funatti said with great savoring deliberation, "they call you an
interplanetary pimp!"
Emerging at last from the
crosstown underpass, they sped up the very latest addition to the strangling
city's facilitiesthe East Side Air-Floating Super-Duper Highway, known
familiarly as Dive-Bomber Drive. At the Forty-Second Street offway, the busiest
road exit in Manhattan, Yost failed to make a traffic signal. He cursed
absent-mindedly, and Hebster found himself nodding the involuntary passenger's
agreement. They watched the elevator section dwindling downward as the cars
that were to mount the highway spiraled up from the right. Between the two,
there rose and fell the steady platforms of harbor traffic while, stacked like
so many decks of cards, the pedestrian stages awaited their turn below.
"Look! Up there, straight
ahead! See it?"
Hebster and Funatti followed
Yost's long, waggling forefinger with their eyes. Two hundred feet north of the
offway and almost a quarter of a mile straight up, a brown object hung in
obvious fascination. Every once in a while a brilliant blue dot would enliven
the heavy murk imprisoned in its bell-jar shape only to twirl around the side
and be replaced by another.
"Eyes? You think they're
eyes?" Funatti asked, rubbing his small dark fists against each other
futilely. "I know what the scientists saythat every dot is equivalent to
one person and the whole bottle is like a family or a city, maybe. But how do they
know? It's a theory, a guess. I say they're eyes."
Yost hunched his great body half
out of the open window and shaded his vision with his uniform cap against the
sun. "Look at it," they heard him say, over his shoulder. A nasal
twang, long-buried, came back into his voice as heaving emotion shook out its
cultivated accents. "A-setting up there, a-staring and a-staring. So
all-fired interested in how we get on and off a busy highway! Won't pay us no
never mind when we try to talk to it, when we try to find out what it wants,
where it comes from, who it is. Oh, no! It's too superior to talk to the likes
of us! But it can watch us, hours on end, days without end, light and dark,
winter and summer; it can watch us going about our business; and every time we
dumb two-legged animals try to do something we find complicated, along
comes a blasted 'dots-in-bottle' to watch and sneer and"
"Hey there, man,"
Funatti leaned forward and tugged at his partner's green jerkin. "Easy!
We're SIC, on business."
"All the same," Yost
grunted wistfully, as he plopped back into his seat and pressed the power
button, "I wish I had Daddy's little old M-1 Garand right now." They
bowled forward, smoothed into the next long elevator section and started to
descend. "It would be worth the risk of getting pinged."
And this was a UM man, Hebster
reflected with acute discomfort. Not only UM, at that, but a member of a
special group carefully screened for their lack of anti-Primey prejudice, sworn
to enforce the reservation laws without discrimination and dedicated to the
proposition that Man could somehow achieve equality with Alien.
Well, how much dirt-eating could
people do? People without a business sense, that is. His father had hauled
himself out of the pick-and-shovel brigade hand over hand and raised his only
son to maneuver always for greater control, to search always for that extra
percentage of profit.
But others seemed to have no such
abiding interest, Algernon Hebster knew regretfully.
They found it impossible to live
with achievements so abruptly made inconsequential by the Aliens. To know with
certainty that the most brilliant strokes of which they were capable, the most
intricate designs and clever careful workmanship, could be duplicatedand
surpassedin an instant's creation by the outsiders and was of interest to them
only as a collector's item. The feeling of inferiority is horrible enough when
imagined; but when it isn't feeling but knowledge, when it is
inescapable and thoroughly demonstrable, covering every aspect of constructive
activity, it becomes unbearable and maddening.
No wonder men went berserk under
hours of unwinking Alien scrutinywatching them as they marched in a
colorfully uniformed lodge parade, or fished through a hole in the ice, as they
painfully maneuvered a giant transcontinental jet to a noiseless landing or
sat in sweating, serried rows chanting to a single, sweating man to "knock
it out of the park and sew the whole thing up!" No wonder they seized
rusty shotgun or gleaming rifle and sped shot after vindictive shot into a sky
poisoned by the contemptuous curiosity of a brown, yellow or vermilion
"bottle."
Not that it made very much
difference. It did give a certain release to nerves backed into horrible
psychic corners. But the Aliens didn't notice, and that was most important.
The Aliens went right on watching, as if all this shooting and uproar, all
these imprecations and weapon-wavings, were all part of the self-same absorbing
show they had paid to witness and were determined to see through if for nothing
else than the occasional amusing fluff some member of the inexperienced cast
might commit.
The Aliens weren't injured, and
the Aliens didn't feel attacked. Bullets, shells, buckshot, arrows, pebbles
from a slingshotall Man's miscellany of anger passed through them like the
patient and eternal rain coming in the opposite direction. Yet the Aliens had
solidity somewhere in their strange bodies. One could judge that by the way
they intercepted light and heat. And also
Also by the occasional ping.
Every once in a while, someone
would evidently have hurt an Alien slightly. Or more probably just annoyed it
by some unknown concomitant of rifle-firing or javelin-throwing.
There would be the barest
suspicion of a soundas if a guitarist had lunged at a string with his
fingertip and decided against it one motor impulse too late. And, after this
delicate and hardly heard ping, quite unspectacularly, the rifleman
would be weaponless. He would be standing there sighting stupidly up along his
empty curled fingers, elbow cocked out and shoulder hunched in, like a large
oafish child who had forgotten when to end the game. Neither his rifle nor a
fragment of it would ever be found. Andgravely, curiously, intentlythe Alien
would go on watching.
The ping seemed to be
aimed chiefly at weapons. Thus, occasionally, a 155mm howitzer was pinged, and
also, occasionally, unexpectedly, it might be a muscular arm, curving back with
another stone, that would disappear to the accompaniment of a tiny elfin note.
And yet sometimescould it be that the Alien, losing interest, had become
careless in its irritation?the entire man, murderously violent and shrieking,
would ping and be no more.
It was not as if a counterweapon
were being used, but a thoroughly higher order of reply, such as a slap to an
insect bite. Hebster, shivering, recalled the time he had seen a black tubular
Alien swirl its amber dots over a new substreet excavation, seemingly
entranced by the spectacle of men scrabbling at the earth beneath them.
A red-headed, blue-shirted giant
of construction labor had looked up from Manhattan's stubborn granite just
long enough to shake the sweat from his eyelids. So doing, he had caught sight
of the dot-pulsing observer and paused to snarl and lift his pneumatic drill,
rattling it in noisy, if functionless, bravado at the sky. He had hardly been
noticed by his mates, when the long, dark, speckled representative of a race
beyond the stars turned end over end once and pinged.
The heavy drill remained upright
for a moment, then dropped as if it had abruptly realized its master was gone.
Gone? Almost, he had never been. So thorough had his disappearance been, so
rapid, with so little flicker had he been snuffed outharming and taking with
him nothing elsethat it had amounted to an act of gigantic and positive
noncreation.
No, Hebster decided, making threatening
gestures at the Aliens was suicidal. Worse, like everything else that had been
tried to date, it was useless. On the other hand, wasn't the Humanity First approach
a complete neurosis? What could you do?
He reached into his soul for an
article of fundamental faith, found it. "I can make money," he quoted
to himself. "That's what I'm good for. That's what I can always do."
As they spun to a stop before the
dumpy, brown-brick armory that the SIC had appropriated for its own use, he
had a shock. Across the street was a small cigar store, the only one on the
block. Brand names which had decorated the plate-glass window in all the colors
of the copyright had been supplanted recently by great gilt slogans. Familiar
slogans they were by nowbut this close to a UM office, the Special Investigating
Commission itself?
At the top of the window, the
proprietor announced his affiliation in two huge words that almost screamed
their hatred across the street:
Humanity
First!
Underneath these, in the exact
center of the window, was the large golden initial of the organization, the
wedded letters HF arising out of the huge, symbolic safety razor.
And under that, in straggling
script, the theme repeated, reworded and sloganized:
"Humanity first, last and
all the time!"
The upper part of the door began
to get nasty:
"Deport the Aliens! Send
them back to wherever they came from!"
And the bottom of the door made
the store-front's only concession to business:
"Shop here! Shop Humanitarian!"
"Humanitarian!" Funatti
nodded bitterly beside Hebster. "Ever see what's left of a Primey if a
bunch of Firsters catch him without SIC protection? Just about enough to pick
up with a blotter. I don't imagine you're too happy about boycott-shops like
that?"
Hebster managed a chuckle as they
walked past the saluting, green-uniformed guards. "There aren't very many
Primey-inspired gadgets having to do with tobacco. And if there were, one Shop
Humanitarian outfit isn't going to break me."
But it is, he told himself
disconsolately. It is going to break meif it means what it seems to.
Organization membership is one thing and so is planetary patriotism, but
business is something else.
Hebster's lips moved slowly, in
half-remembered catechism: Whatever the proprietor believes in or does not
believe in, he has to make a certain amount of money out of that place if he's
going to keep the door free of bailiff stickers. He can't do it if he offends
the greater part of his possible clientele.
Therefore, since he's still in
business and, from all outward signs, doing quite well, it's obvious that he
doesn't have to depend on across-the-street UM personnel. Therefore, there must
be a fairly substantial trade to offset this among entirely transient customers
who not only don't object to his Firstism but are willing to forgo the
interesting new gimmicks and lower prices in standard items that Primey
technology is giving us.
Therefore, it is entirely
possiblefrom this one extremely random but highly significant samplethat
the newspapers I read have been lying and the socioeconomists I employ are
incompetent. It is entirely possible that the buying public, the only aspect of
the public in which I have the slightest interest, is beginning a shift in
general viewpoint which will profoundly affect its purchasing orientation.
It is possible that the entire UM
economy is now at the top of a long slide into Humanity First domination, the
secure zone of fanatic blindness demarcated by men like Vandermeer Dempsey. The
highly usurious, commercially speculative economy of Imperial Rome made a
similar transition in the much slower historical pace of two millennia ago and
became, in three brief centuries, a static unbusinesslike world in which
banking was a sin and wealth which had not been inherited was gross and
dishonorable.
Meanwhile, people may already
have begun to judge manufactured items on the basis of morality instead of
usability, Hebster realized, as dim mental notes took their stolid place
beside forming conclusions. He remembered a folderful of brilliant explanation
Market Research had sent up last week dealing with unexpected consumer resistance
to the new Ewakleen dishware. He had dismissed the pages of carefully developed
thesisto the effect that women were unconsciously associating the product's
name with a certain Katherine Ewakios who had recently made the front page of
every tabloid in the world by dint of some fast work with a breadknife on the
throats of her five children and two loverswith a yawning smile after
examining its first brightly colored chart.
"Probably nothing more than
normal housewifely suspicion of a radically new idea," he had muttered,
"after washing dishes for years, to be told it's no longer necessary! She
can't believe her Ewakleen dish is still the same after stripping the outermost
film of molecules after a meal. Have to hit that educational angle a bit
hardermaybe tie it in with the expendable molecules lost by the skin during a
shower."
He'd penciled a few notes on the
margin and flipped the whole problem onto the restless lap of Advertising and
Promotion.
But then there had been the
seasonal slump in furnitureabout a month ahead of schedule. The surprising
lack of interest in the Hebster Chubbichair, an item which should have revolutionized
men's sitting habits.
Abruptly, he could remember
almost a dozen unaccountable disturbances in the market recently, and all in
consumer goods. That fits, he decided; any change in buying habits wouldn't be
reflected in heavy industry for at least a year. The machine tools plants would
feel it before the steel mills; the mills before the smelting and refining
combines; and the banks and big investment houses would be the last of the
dominoes to topple.
With its capital so thoroughly
tied up in research and new production, his business wouldn't survive even a
temporary shift of this type. Hebster Securities, Inc., could go like a speck
of lint being blown off a coat collar.
Which is a long way to travel
from a simple little cigar store. Funatti's jitters about growing Firstist
sentiment are contagious! he thought.
If only Kleimbocher could crack
the communication problem! If we could talk to the Aliens, find some sort of
place for ourselves in their universe. The Firsters would be left without a
single political leg!
Hebster realized they were in a
large, untidy, map-splattered office and that his escort was saluting a huge,
even more untidy man who waved their hands down impatiently and nodded them
out of the door. He motioned Hebster to a choice of seats. This consisted of
several long walnut-stained benches scattered about the room.
P. Braganza, said the desk
nameplate with ornate Gothic flow. P. Braganza had a long, twirlable and
tremendously thick mustache. Also, P. Braganza needed a haircut badly. It was
as if he and everything in the room had been carefully designed to give the
maximum affront to Humanity Firsters. Which, considering their crew-cut,
closely shaven, "Cleanliness is next to Manliness" philosophy, meant
that there was a lot of gratuitous unpleasantness in this office when a raid on
a street demonstration filled it with jostling fanatics, antiseptically clean
and dressed with bare-bones simplicity and neatness.
"So you're worrying about
Firster effect on business?"
Hebster looked up, startled.
"No, I don't read your
mind," Braganza laughed through tobacco-stained teeth. He gestured at the
window behind his desk. "I saw you jump just the littlest bit when you
noticed that cigar store. And then you stared at it for two full minutes. I
knew what you were thinking about."
"Extremely perceptive of
you," Hebster remarked dryly.
The SIC official shook his head
in a violent negative. "No, it wasn't. It wasn't a bit perceptive. I knew
what you were thinking about because I sit up here day after day staring at
that cigar store and thinking exactly the same thing. Braganza, I tell myself,
that's the end of your job. That's the end of scientific world government.
Right there on that cigar-store window."
He glowered at his completely
littered desk top for a moment. Hebster's instincts woke upthere was a sales
talk in the wind. He realized the man was engaged in the unaccustomed exercise
of looking for a conversational gambit. He felt an itch of fear crawl up his
intestines. Why should the SIC, whose power was almost above law and certainly
above governments, be trying to dicker with him?
Considering his reputation for
asking questions with the snarling end of a rubber hose, Braganza was being
entirely too gentle, too talkative, too friendly. Hebster felt like a trapped
mouse into whose disconcerted ear a cat was beginning to pour complaints about
the dog upstairs.
"Hebster, tell me something.
What are your goals?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"What do you want out of
life? What do you spend your days planning for, your nights dreaming about?
Yost likes the girls and wants more of them. Funatti's a family man, five
kids. He's happy in his work because his job's fairly secure, and there are all
kinds of pensions and insurance policies to back up his life."
Braganza lowered his powerful
head and began a slow, reluctant pacing in front of the desk.
"Now, I'm a little
different. Not that I mind being a glorified cop. I appreciate the regularity
with which the finance office pays my salary, of course; and there are very few
women in this town who can say that I have received an offer of affection from
them with outright scorn. But the one thing for which I would lay down my life
is United Mankind. Would lay down my life? In terms of blood pressure
and heart strain, you might say I've already done it. Braganza, I tell myself,
you're a lucky dope. You're working for the first world government in human
history. Make it count."
He stopped and spread his arms in
front of Hebster. His unbuttoned green jerkin came apart awkwardly and exposed
the black slab of hair on his chest. "That's me. That's basically all
there is to Braganza. Now if we're to talk sensibly I have to know as much
about you. I askwhat are your goals?"
The President of Hebster
Securities, Inc., wet his lips. "I am afraid I'm even less
complicated."
"That's all right," the
other man encouraged. "Put it any way you like."
"You might say that before
everything else, I am a businessman. I am interested chiefly in becoming a
better businessman, which is to say a bigger one. In other words, I want to be
richer than I am."
Braganza peered at him intently.
"And that's all?"
"All? Haven't you ever heard
it said that money isn't everything, but that what it isn't, it can buy?"
"It can't buy me."
Hebster examined him coolly.
"I don't know if you're a sufficiently desirable commodity. I buy what I
need, only occasionally making an exception to please myself."
"I don't like you."
Braganza's voice had become thick and ugly. "I never liked your kind and
there's no sense being polite. I might as well stop trying. I tell you straight
outI think your guts stink."
Hebster rose. "In that case,
I believe I should thank you for"
"Sit down! You were
asked here for a reason. I don't see any point to it, but we'll go through the
motions. Sit down."
Hebster sat. He wondered idly if
Braganza received half the salary he paid Greta Seidenheim. Of course, Greta
was talented in many different ways and performed several distinct and
separately useful services. No, after tax and pension deductions, Braganza was
probably fortunate to receive one-third of Greta's salary.
He noticed that a newspaper was
being proffered him. He took it. Braganza grunted, clumped back behind his desk
and swung his swivel chair around to face the window.
It was a week-old copy of The
Evening Humanitarian. The paper had lost the
voice-of-a-small-but-highly-articulate-minority look, Hebster remembered from
his last reading of it, and acquired the feel of publishing big business. Even
if you cut in half the circulation claimed by the box in the upper left-hand
corner, that still gave them three million paying readers.
In the upper right-hand corner, a
red-bordered box exhorted the faithful to "Read Humanitarian!" A
green streamer across the top of the first page announced that "To make
sense is humanto gibber, Prime!"
But the important item was in the
middle of the page. A cartoon.
Half-a-dozen Primeys wearing
long, curved beards and insane, tongue-lolling grins sat in a rickety wagon.
They held reins attached to a group of straining and portly gentlemen
dressedsomewhat simplyin high silk hats. The fattest and ugliest of these, the
one in the lead, had a bit between his teeth. The bit was labeled "crazy-money"
and the man, "Algernon Hebster."
Crushed and splintering under the
wheels of the wagon were such varied items as a "Home Sweet Home"
framed motto with a piece of wall attached, a clean-cut youngster in a Boy
Scout uniform, a streamlined locomotive and a gorgeous young woman with a
squalling infant under each arm.
The caption inquired starkly:
"Lords of CreationOr Serfs?"
"This paper seems to have
developed into a fairly filthy scandal sheet," Hebster mused out loud.
"I shouldn't be surprised if it makes money."
"I take it then,"
Braganza asked without turning around from his contemplation of the street,
"that you haven't read it very regularly in recent months?"
"I am happy to say I have
not."
"That was a mistake."
Hebster stared at the clumped
locks of black hair. "Why?" he asked carefully.
"Because it has developed
into a thoroughly filthy and extremely successful scandal sheet. You're its
chief scandal." Braganza laughed. "You see, these people look upon
Primey dealing as more of a sin than a crime. And, according to that morality,
you're close to Old Nick himself!"
Shutting his eyes for a moment,
Hebster tried to understand people who imagined such a soul-satisfying and beautiful
concept as profit to be a thing of dirt and crawling maggots. He sighed.
"I've thought of Firstism as a religion myself."
That seemed to get the SIC man.
He swung around excitedly and pointed with both forefingers. "I tell you
that you are right! It crosses all boundariesincompatible and warring creeds
are absorbed into it. It is willful, witless denial of a highly painful
factthat there are intellects abroad in the universe which are superior to our
own. And the denial grows in strength every day that we are unable to contact
the Aliens. If, as seems obvious, there is no respectable place for humanity in
this galactic civilization, why, say men like Vandermeer Dempsey, then let us
preserve our self-conceit at the least. Let's stay close to and revel in the
things that are undeniably human. In a few decades, the entire human race will
have been sucked into this blinkered vacuum."
He rose and walked around the
desk again. His voice had assumed a terribly earnest, tragically pleading
quality. His eyes roved Hebster's face as if searching for a pin-point of
weakness, an especially thin spot in the frozen calm.
"Think of it," he asked
Hebster. "Periodic slaughters of scientists and artists who, in the
judgment of Dempsey, have pushed out too far from the conventional center of
so-called humanness. An occasional auto-da-fe in honor of a merchant
caught selling Primey goods"
"I shouldn't like
that," Hebster admitted, smiling. He thought a moment. "I see the
connection you're trying to establish with the cartoon in The Evening Humanitarian."
"Mister, I shouldn't have
to. They want your head on the top of a long stick. They want it because you've
become a symbol of dealing successfully, for your own ends, with these stellar
foreigners, or at least their human errand-boys and chambermaids. They figure
that maybe they can put a stop to Primey-dealing generally if they put a bloody
stop to you. And I tell you thismaybe they are right."
"What exactly do you
propose?" Hebster asked in a low voice.
"That you come in with us.
We'll make an honest man of youofficially. We want you directing our
investigation; except that the goal will not be an extra buck but all-important
interracial communication and eventual interstellar negotiation."
The president of Hebster Securities,
Inc., gave himself a few minutes on that one. He wanted to work out a careful
reply. And he wanted timeabove all, he wanted time!
He was so close to a
well-integrated and worldwide commercial empire! For ten years, he had been
carefully fitting the component industrial kingdoms into place, establishing
suzerainty in this production network and squeezing a little more control out
of that economic satrapy. He had found delectable tidbits of power in the
dissolution of his civilization, endless opportunities for wealth in the shards
of his race's self-esteem. He required a bare twelve months now to consolidate
and coordinate. And suddenlywith the open-mouthed shock of a Jim Fiske who
had cornered gold on the Exchange only to have the United States Treasury
defeat him by releasing enormous quantities from the Government's own
hoardsuddenly, Hebster realized he wasn't going to have the time. He was too
experienced a player not to sense that a new factor was coming into the game,
something outside his tables of actuarial figures, his market graphs and cargo
loading indices.
His mouth was clogged with the
heavy nausea of unexpected defeat. He forced himself to answer:
"I'm flattered. Braganza, I really
am flattered. I see that Dempsey has linked uswe stand or fall together.
ButI've always been a loner. With whatever help I can buy, I take care of
myself. I'm not interested in any goal but the extra buck. First and last, I'm
a businessman."
"Oh, stop it!" The dark
man took a turn up and down the office angrily. "This is a planet-wide
emergency. There are times when you can't be a businessman."
"I deny that. I can't
conceive of such a time."
Braganza snorted. "You can't
be a businessman if you're strapped to a huge pile of blazing faggots. You
can't be a businessman if people's minds are so thoroughly controlled that
they'll stop eating at their leader's command. You can't be a businessman, my
slavering, acquisitive friend, if demand is so well in hand that it ceases to
exist."
"That's impossible!" Hebster
had leaped to his feet. To his amazement, he heard his voice climbing up the
scale to hysteria. "There's always demand. Always! The trick is to
find what new form it's taken and then fill it!"
"Sorry! I didn't mean to
make fun of your religion."
Hebster drew a deep breath and
sat down with infinite care. He could almost feel his red corpuscles simmering.
Take it easy, he warned himself,
take it easy! This is a man who must be won, not antagonized. They're changing
the rules of the market, Hebster, and you'll need every friend you can buy.
Money won't work with this
fellow. But there are other values
"Listen to me, Braganza.
We're up against the psycho-social consequences of an extremely advanced
civilization smacking into a comparatively barbarous one. Are you familiar with
Professor Kleimbocher's Firewater Theory?"
"That the Aliens' logic hits
us mentally in the same way as whisky hit the North American Indian? And the
Primeys, representing our finest minds, are the equivalent of those Indians
who had the most sympathy with the white man's civilization? Yes. It's a strong
analogy. Even carried to the Indians who, lying sodden with liquor in the
streets of frontier towns, helped create the illusion of the treacherous, lazy,
kill-you-for-a-drink aborigines while being so thoroughly despised by their
tribesmen that they didn't dare go home for fear of having their throats cut.
I've always felt"
"The only part of that I
want to talk about," Hebster interrupted, "is the firewater concept.
Back in the Indian villages, an ever-increasing majority became convinced that
firewater and gluttonous paleface civilization were synonymous, that they must
rise and retake their land forcibly, killing in the process as many drunken
renegades as they came across. This group can be equated with the Humanity
Firsters. Then there was a minority who recognized the white men's superiority
in numbers and weapons, and desperately tried to find a way of coming to terms
with his civilizationterms that would not include his booze. For them read
the UM. Finally, there was my kind of Indian."
Braganza knitted voluminous
eyebrows and hitched himself up to a corner of the desk. "Hah?" he
inquired. "What kind of Indian were you, Hebster?"
"The kind who had enough
sense to know that the paleface had not the slightest interest in saving him
from slow and painful cultural anemia. The kind of Indian, also, whose
instincts were sufficiently sound so that he was scared to death of innovations
like firewater and wouldn't touch the stuff to save himself from snake bite.
But the kind of Indian"
"Yes? Go on!"
"The kind who was fascinated
by the strange transparent container in which the firewater came! Think how
covetous an Indian potter might be of the whisky bottle, something which was
completely outside the capacity of his painfully acquired technology. Can't
you see him hating, despising and terribly afraid of the smelly amber fluid,
which toppled the most stalwart warriors, yet wistful to possess a bottle minus
contents? That's about where I see myself, Braganzathe Indian whose greedy
curiosity shines through the murk of hysterical clan politics and outsiders'
contempt like a lambent flame. I want the new kind of container somehow
separated from the firewater."
Unblinkingly, the great dark eyes
stared at his face. A hand came up and smoothed each side of the arched
mustachio with long, unknowing twirls. Minutes passed.
"Well. Hebster as our
civilization's noble savage," the SIC man chuckled at last. "It
almost feels right. But what does it mean in terms of the overall
problem?"
"I've told you,"
Hebster said wearily, hitting the arm of the bench with his open hand,
"that I haven't the slightest interest in the overall problem."
"And you only want the
bottle. I heard you. But you're not a potter, Hebsteryou haven't an elementary
particle of craftsman's curiosity. All of that historical romance you spoutyou
don't care if your world drowns in its own agonized juice. You just want a
profit."
"I never claimed an
altruistic reason. I leave the general solution to men whose minds are good
enough to juggle its complexitieslike Kleimbocher."
"Think somebody like
Kleimbocher could do it?"
"I'm almost certain he will.
That was our mistake from the beginningtrying to break through with historians
and psychologists. Either they've become limited by the study of human
societies orwell, this is personal, but I've always felt that the science of
the mind attracts chiefly those who've already experienced grave psychological
difficulty. While they might achieve such an understanding of themselves in the
course of their work as to become better adjusted eventually than individuals
who had less problems to begin with, I'd still consider them too essentially
unstable for such an intrinsically shocking experience as establishing rapport
with an Alien. Their internal dynamics inevitably make Primeys of
them."
Braganza sucked at a tooth and
considered the wall behind Hebster. "And all this, you feel, wouldn't
apply to Kleimbocher?"
"No, not a philology
professor. He has no interest, no intellectual roots in personal and group
instability. Kleimbocher's a comparative linguista technician, reallya
specialist in basic communication. I've been out to the University and watched
him work. His approach to the problem is entirely in terms of his
subjectcommunicating with the Aliens instead of trying to understand them. There's
been entirely too much intricate speculation about Alien consciousness, sexual
attitudes and social organization, about stuff from which we will derive no
tangible and immediate good. Kleimbocher's completely pragmatic."
"All right. I follow you.
Only he went Prime this morning."
Hebster paused, a sentence
dangling from his dropped jaw. "Professor Kleimbocher? Rudolf Kleimbocher?"
he asked idiotically. "But he was so close...he almost had it...an
elementary signal dictionary...he was about to"
"He did. About nine
forty-five. He'd been up all night with a Primey one of the psych professors
had managed to hypnotize and gone home unusually optimistic. In the middle of
his first class this morning, he interrupted himself in a lecture on medieval
Cyrillic to...to gabble-honk. He sneezed and wheezed at the students for about
ten minutes in the usual Primey pattern of initial irritation, then, abruptly
giving them up as hopeless, worthless idiots, he levitated himself in that
eerie way they almost always do at first. Banged his head against the ceiling
and knocked himself out. I don't know what it was, fright, excitement, respect
for the old boy perhaps, but the students neglected to tie him up before going
for help. By the time they'd come back with the campus SIC man, Kleimbocher had
revived and dissolved one wall of the Graduate School to get out. Here's a
snapshot of him about five hundred feet in the air, lying on his back with his
arms crossed behind his head, skimming west at twenty miles an hour."
Hebster studied the little paper
rectangle with blinking eyes. "You radioed the air force to chase him, of
course."
"What's the use? We've been
through that enough times. He'd either increase his speed and generate a
tornado, drop like a stone and get himself smeared all over the countryside, or
materialize stuff like wet coffee grounds and gold ingots inside the jets of
the pursuing plane. Nobody's caught a Primey yet in the first flush
of...whatever they do feel at first. And we might stand to lose anything from a
fairly expensive hunk of aircraft, including pilot, to a couple of hundred
acres of New Jersey topsoil."
Hebster groaned. "But the
eighteen years of research that he represented!"
"Yeah. That's where we
stand. Blind Alley umpteen hundred thousand or thereabouts. Whatever the
figure is, it's awfully close to the end. If you can't crack the Alien on a
straight linguistic basis, you can't crack the Alien at all, period, end of
paragraph. Our most powerful weapons affect them like bubble pipes, and our finest
minds are good for nothing better than to serve them in low, fawning idiocy.
But the Primeys are all that's left. We might be able to talk sense to the Man
if not the Master."
"Except that Primeys, by
definition, don't talk sense."
Braganza nodded. "But since
they were humanordinary humanto start with, they represent a hope. We
always knew we might some day have to fall back on our only real contact.
That's why the Primey protective laws are so rigid; why the Primey reservation
compounds surrounding Alien settlements are guarded by our military
detachments. The lynch spirit has been evolving into the pogrom spirit as human
resentment and discomfort have been growing. Humanity First is beginning
to feel strong enough to challenge United Mankind. And honestly, Hebster, at
this point neither of us know which would survive a real fight. But you're one
of the few who have talked to Primeys, worked with them"
"Just on business."
"Frankly, that much of a
start is a thousand times further along than the best that we've been able to
manage. It's so blasted ironical that the only people who've had any
conversation at all with the Primeys aren't even slightly interested in the
imminent collapse of civilization! Oh, well. The point is that in the present
political picture, you sink with us. Recognizing this, my people are prepared
to forget a great deal and document you back into respectability. How about
it?"
"Funny," Hebster said
thoughtfully. "It can't be knowledge that makes miracle-workers out of
fairly sober scientists. They all start shooting lightnings at their families
and water out of rocks far too early in Primacy to have had time to learn new
techniques. It's as if by merely coming close enough to the Aliens to grovel,
they immediately move into position to tap a series of cosmic laws more basic
than cause and effect."
The SIC man's face slowly
deepened into purple. "Well, are you coming in, or aren't you? Remember,
Hebster, in these times, a man who insists on business as usual is a traitor to
history."
"I think Kleimbocher is the
end." Hebster nodded to himself. "Not much point in chasing Alien
mentality if you're going to lose your best men on the way. I say let's forget
all this nonsense of trying to live as equals in the same universe with Aliens.
Let's concentrate on human problems and be grateful that they don't come into
our major population centers and tell us to shove over."
The telephone rang. Braganza had
dropped back into his swivel chair. He let the instrument squeeze out several
piercing sonic bubbles while he clicked his strong square teeth and maintained
a carefully focused glare at his visitor. Finally, he picked it up, and gave it
the verbal minima:
"Speaking. He is here. I'll
tell him. 'Bye."
He brought his lips together,
kept them pursed for a moment and then, abruptly, swung around to face the
window.
"Your office, Hebster. Seems
your wife and son are in town and have to see you on business. She the one you
divorced ten years ago?"
Hebster nodded at his back and
rose once more. "Probably wants her semiannual alimony dividend bonus.
I'll have to go. Sonia never does office morale any good."
This meant trouble, he knew.
"Wife-and-son" was executive code for something seriously wrong with
Hebster Securities, Inc. He had not seen his wife since she had been
satisfactorily maneuvered into giving him control of his son's education. As
far as he was concerned, she had earned a substantial income for life by
providing him with a well-mothered heir.
"Listen!" Braganza said
sharply as Hebster reached the door. He still kept his eyes studiously on the
street. "I tell you this: You don't want to come in with us. All right!
You're a businessman first and a world citizen second. All right! But keep your
nose clean, Hebster. If we catch you the slightest bit off base from now on,
you'll get hit with everything. We'll not only pull the most spectacular trial
this corrupt old planet has ever seen, but somewhere along the line, we'll
throw you and your entire organization to the wolves. We'll see to it that Humanity
First pulls the Hebster Tower down around your ears."
Hebster shook his head, licked
his lips. "Why? What would that accomplish?"
"Hah! It would give a lot of
us here the craziest kind of pleasure. But it would also relieve us temporarily
of some of the mass pressure we've been feeling. There's always the chance
that Dempsey would lose control of his hotter heads, that they'd go on a real
gory rampage, make with the sound and the fury sufficiently to justify full
deployment of troops. We could knock off Dempsey and all of the big-shot
Firsters then, because John Q. United Mankind would have seen to his own vivid
satisfaction and injury what a dangerous mob they are."
"This," Hebster commented
bitterly, "is the idealistic, legalistic world government!"
Braganza's chair spun around to
face Hebster and his fist came down on the desk top with all the crushing
finality of a magisterial gavel. "No, it is not! It is the SIC, a
plenipotentiary and highly practical bureau of the UM, especially created to
organize a relationship between Alien and human. Furthermore, it's the SIC in
a state of the greatest emergency when the reign of law and world government
may topple at a demagogue's belch. Do you think"his head snaked forward
belligerently, his eyes slitted to thin lines of purest contempt"that the
career and fortune, even the life, let us say, of as openly selfish a slug as
you, Hebster, would be placed above that of the representative body of two
billion socially operating human beings?"
The SIC official thumped his
sloppily buttoned chest. "Braganza, I tell myself now, you're lucky he's
too hungry for his blasted profit to take you up on that offer. Think how much
fun it's going to be to sink a hook into him when he makes a mistake at last!
To drop him onto the back of Humanity First so that they'll run amuck
and destroy themselves! Oh, get out, Hebster. I'm through with you."
He had made a mistake, Hebster
reflected as he walked out of the armory and snapped his fingers at a gyrocab.
The SIC was the most powerful single government agency in a Primey-infested
world; offending them for a man in his position was equivalent to a cab driver
delving into the more uncertain aspects of a traffic cop's ancestry in the
policeman's popeyed presence.
But what could he do? Working
with the SIC would mean working under Braganzaand since maturity, Algernon
Hebster had been quietly careful to take orders from no man. It would mean
giving up a business which, with a little more work and a little more time,
might somehow still become the dominant combine on the planet. And worst of
all, it would mean acquiring a social orientation to replace the calculating
businessman's viewpoint which was the closest thing to a soul he had ever
known.
The doorman of his building
preceded him at a rapid pace down the side corridor that led to his private
elevator and flourished aside for him to enter. The car stopped on the
twenty-third floor. With a heart that had sunk so deep as to have practically
foundered, Hebster picked his way along the wide-eyed clerical stares that
lined the corridor. At the entrance to General Laboratory 23B, two tall men in
the gray livery of his personal bodyguard moved apart to let him enter. If they
had been recalled after having been told to take the day off, it meant that a
full-dress emergency was being observed. He hoped that it had been declared in
time to prevent any publicity leakage.
It had, Greta Seidenheim assured
him. "I was down here applying the clamps five minutes after the fuss
began. Floors twenty-one through twenty-five are closed off and all outside
lines are being monitored. You can keep your employees an hour at most past
five o'clockwhich gives you a maximum of two hours and fourteen minutes."
He followed her green-tipped
fingernail to the far corner of the lab where a body lay wrapped in murky rags.
Theseus. Protruding from his back was the yellowed ivory handle of quite an old
German S.S. dagger, 1942 edition. The silver swastika on the hilt had been
replaced by an ornate symbolan HF. Blood had soaked Theseus' long matted hair
into an ugly red rug.
A dead Primey, Hebster thought,
staring down hopelessly. In his building, in the laboratory to which the
Primey had been spirited two or three jumps ahead of Yost and Funatti. This was
capital offense materialif the courts ever got a chance to weigh it.
"Look at the dirty
Primey-lover!" a slightly familiar voice jeered on his right. "He's
scared! Make money out of that, Hebster!"
The corporation president
strolled over to the thin man with the knobby, completely shaven head who was
tied to an unused steampipe. The man's tie, which hung outside his laboratory
smock, sported an unusual ornament about halfway down. It took Hebster several
seconds to identify it. A miniature gold safety razor upon a black
"3."
"He's a third-echelon
official of Humanity First!"
"He's also Charlie Verus of
Hebster Laboratories," an extremely short man with a corrugated forehead
told him. "My name is Margritt, Mr. Hebster, Dr. J.H. Margritt. I spoke to
you on the communicator when the Primeys arrived."
Hebster shook his head
determinedly. He waved back the other scientists who were milling around him
self-consciously. "How long have third-echelon officials, let alone
ordinary members of Humanity First, been receiving salary checks in my
laboratories?"
"I don't know."
Margritt shrugged up at him. "Theoretically no Firsters can be Hebster
employees. Personnel is supposed to be twice as efficient as the SIC when it
comes to sifting background. They probably are. But what can they do when an employee
joins Humanity First after he passed his probationary period? These
proselytizing times you'd need a complete force of secret police to keep tabs
on all the new converts!"
"When I spoke to you earlier
in the day, Margritt, you indicated disapproval of Verus. Don't you think it
was your duty to let me know I had a Firster official about to mix it up with
Primeys?"
The little man beat a violent
negative back and forth with his chin. "I'm paid to supervise research,
Mr. Hebster, not to coordinate your labor relations nor vote your political
ticket!"
Contemptthe contempt of the
creative researcher for the businessman-entrepreneur who paid his salary and
was now in serious troubleflickered behind every word he spoke. Why, Hebster
wondered irritably, did people so despise a man who made money? Even the
Primeys back in his office, Yost and Funatti, Braganza, Margrittwho had
worked in his laboratories for years. It was his only talent. Surely, as such,
it was as valid as a pianist's?
"I've never liked Charlie
Verus," the lab chief went on, "but we never had reason to suspect
him of Firstism! He must have hit the third-echelon rank about a week ago, eh,
Bert?"
"Yeah," Bert agreed
from across the room. "The day he came in an hour late, broke every
Florence flask in the place and told us all dreamily that one day we might be
very proud to tell our grandchildren that we'd worked in the same lab with
Charles Bolop Verus."
"Personally," Margritt
commented, "I thought he might have just finished writing a book which
proved that the Great Pyramid was nothing more than a prophecy in stone of our
modern textile designs. Verus was that kind. But it probably was his little
safety razor that tossed him up so high. I'd say he got the promotion as a sort
of payment in advance for the job he finally did today."
Hebster ground his teeth at the
carefully hairless captive who tried, unsuccessfully, to spit in his face; he
hurried back to the door, where his private secretary was talking to the
bodyguard who had been on duty in the lab.
Beyond them, against the wall,
stood Larry and S.S. Lusitania conversing in a low-voiced and anxious
gabble-honk. They were evidently profoundly disturbed. S.S. Lusitania kept
plucking tiny little elephants out of her rags which, kicking and trumpeting
tinnily, burst like malformed bubbles as she dropped them on the floor. Larry
scratched his tangled beard nervously as he talked, periodically waving a hand
at the ceiling, which was already studded with fifty or sixty replicas of the
dagger buried in Theseus. Hebster couldn't help thinking anxiously of what
could have happened to his building if the Primeys had been able to act human
enough to defend themselves.
"Listen, Mr. Hebster,"
the bodyguard began, "I was told not to"
"Save it," Hebster
rapped out. "This wasn't your fault. Even Personnel isn't to blame. Me and
my experts deserve to have our necks chopped for falling so far behind the
times. We can analyze any trend but the one which will make us superfluous.
Greta! I want my roof helicopter ready to fly and my personal stratojet at
LaGuardia alerted. Move, girl! And you...Williams, is it?" he
queried, leaning forward to read the bodyguard's name on his badge,
"Williams, pack these two Primeys into my helicopter upstairs and stand by
for a fast take-off."
He turned. "Everyone
else!" he called. "You will be allowed to go home at six. You will be
paid one hour's overtime. Thank you."
Charlie Verus started to sing as
Hebster left the lab. By the time he reached the elevator, several of the
clerks in the hallway had defiantly picked up the hymn. Hebster paused outside
the elevator as he realized that fully one-fourth of the clerical personnel,
male and female, were following Verus' cracked and mournful but terribly
earnest tenor.
Mine eyes have seen the coming
of the glory of the shorn:
We will overturn the cesspool
where the Primey slime is
born,
We'll be wearing cleanly
garments
as we face a human morn
The First are on the march!
Glory, glory, hallelujah,
Glory, glory, hallelujah...
If it was like this in Hebster
Securities, he thought wryly as he came into his private office, how fast was Humanity
First growing among the broad masses of people? Of course, many of those
singing could be put down as sympathizers rather than converts, people who were
suckers for choral groups and vigilante possesbut how much more momentum did
an organization have to generate to acquire the name of political juggernaut?
The only encouraging aspect was
the SIC's evident awareness of the danger and the unprecedented steps they were
prepared to take as countermeasure.
Unfortunately, the unprecedented
steps would take place upon Hebster.
He now had a little less than two
hours, he reflected, to squirm out of the most serious single crime on the
books of present World Law.
He lifted one of his telephones.
"Ruth," he said. "I want to speak to Vandermeer Dempsey. Get me
through to him personally."
She did. A few moments later he
heard the famous voice, as rich and slow and thick as molten gold. "Hello
Hebster, Vandermeer Dempsey speaking." He paused as if to draw breath,
then went on sonorously: "Humanitymay it always be ahead, but,
ahead or behind, Humanity!" He chuckled. "Our newest. What we
call our telephone toast. Like it?"
"Very much," Hebster
told him respectfully, remembering that this former video quizmaster might
shortly be church and state combined. "Er...Mr. Dempsey, I notice you
have a new book out, and I was wondering"
"Which one? Anthropolitics?
"That's it. A fine study!
You have some very quotable lines in the chapter headed, 'Neither More Nor Less
Human.' "
A raucous laugh that still
managed to bubble heavily. "Young man, I have quotable lines in every
chapter of every book! I maintain a writer's assembly line here at headquarters
that is capable of producing up to fifty-five memorable epigrams on any subject
upon ten minutes' notice. Not to mention their capacity for political metaphors
and two-line jokes with sexy implications! But you wouldn't be calling me to
discuss literature, however good a job of emotional engineering I have done in
my little text. What is it about, Hebster? Go into your pitch."
"Well," the executive
began, vaguely comforted by the Firster chieftain's cynical approach and
slightly annoyed at the openness of his contempt, "I had a chat today with
your friend and my friend, P. Braganza."
"I know."
"You do? How?"
Vandermeer Dempsey laughed again,
the slow, good-natured chortle of a fat man squeezing the curves out of a
rocking chair. "Spies, Hebster, spies. I have them everywhere
practically. This kind of politics is twenty percent espionage, twenty percent
organization and sixty percent waiting for the right moment. My spies tell me
everything you do."
"They didn't by any chance
tell you what Braganza and I discussed?"
"Oh, they did, young man,
they did!" Dempsey chuckled a carefree scale exercise. Hebster remembered
his pictures: the head like a soft and enormous orange, gouged by a brilliant
smile. There was no hair anywhere on the headall of it, down to the last
eyelash and follicled wart, was removed regularly through electrolysis.
"According to my agents, Braganza made several strong representations on
behalf of the Special Investigating Commission which you rightly spurned. Then,
somewhat out of sorts, he announced that if you were henceforth detected in the
nefarious enterprises which everyone knows have made you one of the wealthiest
men on the face of the Earth, he would use you as bait for our anger. I must
say I admire the whole ingenious scheme immensely."
"And you're not going to
bite," Hebster suggested. Greta Seidenheim entered the office and made a
circular gesture at the ceiling. He nodded.
"On the contrary, Hebster,
we are going to bite. We're going to bite with just a shade more
vehemence than we're expected to. We're going to swallow this provocation that
the SIC is devising for us and go on to make a worldwide revolution out of it.
We will, my boy."
Hebster rubbed his left hand back
and forth across his lips." Over my dead body!" He tried to chuckle
himself and managed only to clear his throat. "You're right about the
conversation with Braganza, and you may be right about how you'll do when it
gets down to paving stones and baseball bats. But if you'd like to have the whole
thing a lot easier, there is a little deal I have in mind"
"Sorry, Hebster my boy. No
deals. Not on this. Don't you see we really don't want to have it
easier? For the same reason, we pay our spies nothing despite the risks they
run and the great growing wealth of Humanity First. We found that the
spies we acquired through conviction worked harder and took many more chances
than those forced into our arms by economic pressure. No, we desperately need L'affaire
Hebster to inflame the populace. We need enough excitement running loose so
that it transmits to the gendarmerie and the soldiery, so that conservative
citizens who normally shake their heads at a parade will drop their bundles and
join the rape and robbery. Enough such citizens and Terra goes Humanity
First."
"Heads you win, tails I
lose."
The liquid gold of Dempsey's
laughter poured. "I see what you mean, Hebster. Either way, UM or HF, you
wind up a smear-mark on the sands of time. You had your chance when we asked
for contributions from public-spirited businessmen four years ago. Quite a few
of your competitors were able to see the valid relationship between economics
and politics. Woodran of the Underwood Investment Trust is a first-echelon
official today. Not a single one of your top executives wears a razor.
But, even so, whatever happens to you will be mild compared to the
Primeys."
"The Aliens may object to
their body-servants being mauled."
"There are no Aliens!"
Dempsey replied in a completely altered voice. He sounded as if he had stiffened
too much to be able to move his lips.
"No Aliens? Is that your
latest line? You don't mean that!"
"There are only
Primeyscreatures who have resigned from human responsibility and are
therefore able to do many seemingly miraculous things, which real humanity
refuses to do because of the lack of dignity involved. But there are no Aliens.
Aliens are a Primey myth."
Hebster grunted. "That is
the ideal way of facing an unpleasant fact. Stare right through it."
"If you insist on talking
about such illusions as Aliens," the rustling and angry voice cut in,
"I'm afraid we can't continue the conversation. You're evidently going
Prime, Hebster."
The line went dead.
Hebster scraped a finger inside
the mouthpiece rim. "He believes his own stuff." he said in an awed
voice. "For all of the decadent urbanity, he has to have the same
reassurance he gives his followersthe horrible, superior thing just isn't
there!"
Greta Seidenheim was waiting at
the door with his briefcase and both their coats. As he came away from the
desk, he said, "I won't tell you not to come along, Greta, but"
"Good," she said,
swinging along behind him. "Think we'll make it towherever we're
going?"
"Arizona. The first and
largest Alien settlement. The place our friends with the funny names come
from."
"What can you do there that
you can't do here?"
"Frankly, Greta, I don't
know. But it's a good idea to lose myself for a while. Then again, I want to get
in the area where all this agony originates and take a close look; I'm an
off-the-cuff businessman; I've done all of my important figuring on the
spot."
There was bad news waiting for
them outside the helicopter. "Mr. Hebster," the pilot told him tonelessly
while cracking a dry stick of gum, "the stratojet's been seized by the
SIC. Are we still going? If we do it in this thing, it won't be very far or
very fast."
"We're still going,"
Hebster said after a moment's hesitation.
They climbed in. The two Primeys
sat on the floor in the rear, sneezing conversationally at each other.
Williams waved respectfully at his boss. "Gentle as lambs," he said.
"In fact, they made one. I had to throw it out."
The large pot-bellied craft
climbed up its rope of air and started forward from the Hebster Building.
"There must have been a
leak," Greta muttered angrily. "They heard about the dead Primey.
Somewhere in the organization there's a leak that I haven't been able to find.
The SIC heard about the dead Primey and now they're hunting us down. Real
efficient, I am!"
Hebster smiled at her grimly. She
was very efficient. So was Personnel and a dozen other subdivisions of the
organization. So was Hebster himself. But these were functioning members of a
normal business designed for stable times. Political spies! If Dempsey
could have spies and saboteurs all over Hebster Securities, why couldn't
Braganza? They'd catch him before he had even started running; they'd bring him
back before he could find a loophole.
They'd bring him back for trial,
perhaps, for what in all probability would be known to history as the Bloody
Hebster Incident. The incident that had precipitated a world revolution.
"Mr. Hebster, they're
getting restless," Williams called out. "Should I relax 'em out, kind
of?"
Hebster sat up sharply,
hopefully. "No," he said. "Leave them alone!" He watched
the suddenly agitated Primeys very closely. This was the odd chance for which
he'd brought them along! Years of haggling with Primeys had taught him a lot
about them. They were good for other things than sheer gimmick-craft.
Two specks appeared on the
windows. They enlarged sleekly into jets with SIC insignia.
"Pilot!" Hebster
called, his eyes on Larry, who was pulling painfully at his beard. "Get
away from the controls! Fast! Did you hear me? That was an order! Get away
from those controls!"
The man moved off reluctantly. He
was barely in time. The control board dissolved into rattling purple shards
behind him. The vanes of the gyro seemed to flower into indigo saxophones.
Their ears rang with supersonic frequencies as they rose above the jets on a
spout of unimaginable force.
Five seconds later they were in
Arizona.
They piled out of their weird
craft into a sage-cluttered desert.
"I don't ever want to know
what my windmill was turned into," the pilot commented, "or what was
used to push it alongbut how did the Primey come to understand the cops were
after us?"
"I don't think he knew
that," Hebster explained, "but he was sensitive enough to know he was
going home, and that somehow those jets were there to prevent it. And so he
functioned, in terms of his interests, in what was almost a human fashion. He
protected himself."
"Going home " Larry
said. He'd been listening very closely to Hebster, dribbling from the right-hand
corner of his mouth as he listened. "Haemostat, hammersdarts, hump. Home
is where the hate is. Hit is where the hump is. Home and locks the door."
S.S. Lusitania had started on one
leg and favored them with her peculiar fleshy smile. "Hindsight," she
suggested archly, "is no more than home site. Gabble, honk?"
Larry started after her, some
three feet off the ground. He walked the air slowly and painfully as if the
road he traveled were covered with numerous small boulders, all of them
pitilessly sharp.
"Goodbye, people,"
Hebster said. "I'm off to see the wizard with my friends in greasy gray
here. Remember, when the SIC catches up to your unusual vesselstay close to it
for that purpose, by the wayit might be wise to refer to me as someone who
forced you into this. You can tell them I've gone into the wilderness looking
for a solution, figuring that if I went Prime I'd still be better off than as a
punching bag whose ownership is being hotly disputed by such characters as P.
Braganza and Vandermeer Dempsey. I'll be back with my mind or on it."
He patted Greta's cheek on the
wet spot; then he walked deftly away in pursuit of S.S. Lusitania and Larry. He
glanced back once and smiled as he saw them looking curiously forlorn,
especially Williams, the chunky young man who earned his living by guarding
other people's bodies. The Primeys followed a route of sorts, but it seemed to
have been designed by someone bemused by the motions of an accordion. Again
and again it doubled back upon itself, folded across itself, went back a
hundred yards and started all over again.
This was Primey countryArizona,
where the first and largest Alien settlement had been made. There were mighty
few humans in this corner of the southwest any morejust the Aliens and their
coolies.
"Larry," Hebster called
as an uncomfortable thought struck him. "Larry! Do...do your masters know
I'm coming?"
Missing his step as he looked up
at Hebster's peremptory question, the Primey tripped and plunged to the ground.
He rose, grimaced at Hebster and shook his head. "You are not a
businessman," he said. "Here there can be no business. Here there can
be only humorous what-you-might-call-worship. The movement to the universal,
the inner natureThe realization, complete and eternal, of the partial and evanescent
that alone enables...that alone enables" His clawed fingers writhed into
each other, as if he were desperately trying to pull a communicable meaning
out of the palms. He shook his head with a slow rolling motion from side to
side.
Hebster saw with a shock that the
old man was crying. Then going Prime had yet another similarity to madness! It
gave the human an understanding of something thoroughly beyond himself, a
mental summit he was constitutionally incapable of mounting. It gave him a glimpse
of some psychological promised land, then buried him, still yearning, in his
own inadequacies. And it left him at last bereft of pride in his realizable
accomplishments with a kind of myopic half-knowledge of where he wanted to go
but with no means of getting there.
"When I first came,"
Larry was saying haltingly, his eyes squinting into Hebster's face, as if he
knew what the businessman was thinking, "when first I tried to know...I
mean the charts and textbooks I carried here, my statistics, my plotted curves
were so useless. All playthings I found, disorganized, based on shadow-thought.
And then, Hebster, to watch real-thought, real-control! You'll see the
joyYou'll serve beside us, you will! Oh, the enormous lifting"
His voice died into angry
incoherencies as he bit into his fist. S.S. Lusitania came up, still hopping on
one foot. "Larry," she suggested in a very soft voice,
"gabble-honk Hebster away?"
He looked surprised, then nodded.
The two Primeys linked arms and clambered laboriously back up to the invisible
road from which Larry had fallen. They stood facing him for a moment, looking
like a weird, ragged, surrealistic version of Tweedledee and Tweedledum.
Then they disappeared and
darkness fell around Hebster as if it had been knocked out of the jar. He felt
under himself cautiously and sat down on the sand, which retained all the heat
of daytime Arizona.
Now!
Suppose an Alien came. Suppose an
Alien asked him point-blank what it was that he wanted. That would be bad.
Algernon Hebster, businessman extraordinaryslightly on the run, at the moment,
of coursedidn't know what he wanted; not with reference to Aliens.
He didn't want them to leave,
because the Primey technology he had used in over a dozen industries was
essentially an interpretation and adaptation of Alien methods. He didn't want
them to stay, because whatever was orderly in his world was dissolving under
the acids of their omnipresent superiority.
He also knew that he personally
did not want to go Prime.
What was left then? Business? Well,
there was Braganza's question. What does a businessman do when demand is so
well controlled that it can be said to have ceased to exist?
Or what does he do in a case like
the present, when demand might be said to be nonexistent, since there was
nothing the Aliens seemed to want of Man's puny hoard?
"He finds something
they want," Hebster said out loud.
How? How? Well, the Indian
still sold his decorative blankets to the paleface as a way of life, as a
source of income. And he insisted on being paid in cashnot firewater. If
only, Hebster thought, he could somehow contrive to meet an Alienhe'd find
out soon enough what its needs were, what was basically desired.
And then as the retort-shaped,
the tube-shaped, the bell-shaped bottles materialized all around him, he
understood! They had been forming the insistent questions in his mind. And they
weren't satisfied with the answers he had found thus far. They liked answers.
They liked answers very much indeed. If he was interested, there was always a
way
A great dots-in-bottle brushed
his cortex and he screamed. "No! I don't want to!" he
explained desperately.
Ping! went the
dots-in-bottle and Hebster grabbed at his body. His continuing flesh reassured
him. He felt very much like the girl in Greek mythology who had begged Zeus for
the privilege of seeing him in the full regalia of his godhood. A few moments
after her request had been granted, there had been nothing left of the inquisitive
female but a fine feathery ash.
The bottles were swirling in and
out of each other in a strange and intricate dance from which there radiated
emotions vaguely akin to curiosity, yet partaking of amusement and rapture.
Why rapture? Hebster was positive
he had caught that note, even allowing for the lack of similarity between
mental patterns. He ran a hurried dragnet through his memory, caught a few
corresponding items and dropped them after a brief, intensive examination. What
was he trying to rememberwhat were his supremely efficient businessman's
instincts trying to remind him of?
The dance became more complex,
more rapid. A few bottles had passed under his feet and Hebster could see them,
undulating and spinning some ten feet below the surface of the ground as if
their presence had made the Earth a transparent as well as permeable medium.
Completely unfamiliar with all matters Alien as he was, not knowingnot
caring!whether they danced as an expression of the counsel they were taking
together, or as a matter of necessary social ritual, Hebster was able
nonetheless to sense an approaching climax. Little crooked lines of green
lightning began to erupt between the huge bottles. Something exploded near his
left ear. He rubbed his face fearfully and moved away. The bottles followed,
maintaining him in the imprisoning sphere of their frenzied movements.
Why rapture? Back in the
city, the Aliens had had a terribly studious air about them as they hovered,
almost motionless, above the works and lives of mankind. They were cold and
careful scientists and showed not the slightest capacity for...for
So he had something. At last he
had something. But what do you do with an idea when you can't communicate it
and can't act upon it yourself?
Ping!
The previous invitation was being
repeated, more urgently. Ping! Ping! Ping!
"No!" he yelled and
tried to stand. He found he couldn't. "I'm not...I don't want to go
Prime!"
There was detached, almost divine
laughter.
He felt that awful scrabbling
inside his brain as if two or three entities were jostling each other within
it. He shut his eyes hard and thought. He was close, he was very close. He had
an idea, but he needed time to formulate ita little while to figure out just
exactly what the idea was and just exactly what to do with it!
Ping, ping, ping! Ping, ping,
ping!
He had a headache. He felt as if
his mind were being sucked out of his head. He tried to hold on to it. He
couldn't.
All right, then. He
relaxed abruptly, stopped trying to protect himself. But with his mind and his
mouth, he yelled. For the first time in his life and with only a partially
formed conception of whom he was addressing the desperate call to, Algernon
Hebster screamed for help.
"I can do it!" he
alternately screamed and thought. "Save money, save time, save whatever it
is you want to save, whoever you are and whatever you call yourselfI can help
you save! Help me, help meWe can do itbut hurry. Your
problem can be solvedEconomize. The balance-sheetHelp"
The words and frantic thoughts
spun in and out of each other like the contracting rings of Aliens all around
him. He kept screaming, kept the focus on his mental images, while, unbearably,
somewhere inside him, a gay and jocular force began to close a valve on his
sanity.
Suddenly, he had absolutely no
sensation. Suddenly, he knew dozens of things he had never dreamed he could
know and had forgotten a thousand times as many. Suddenly, he felt that every
nerve in his body was under control of his forefinger. Suddenly, he
Ping, ping, ping! Ping! Ping!
PING! PING! PING! PING!
"...like that," someone
said.
"What, for example?"
someone else asked.
"Well, they don't even lie
normally. He's been sleeping like a human being. They twist and moan in their
sleep, the Primeys do, for all the world like habitual old drunks. Speaking of
moans, here comes our boy."
Hebster sat up on the army cot,
rattling his head. The fears were leaving him, and, with the fears gone, he
would no longer be hurt. Braganza, highly concerned and unhappy, was standing
next to his bed with a man who was obviously a doctor. Hebster smiled at both
of them, manfully resisting the temptation to drool out a string of nonsense
syllables.
"Hi, fellas," he said.
"Here I come, ungathering nuts in May."
"You don't mean to tell me
you communicated!" Braganza yelled. "You communicated and didn't go
Prime!"
Hebster raised himself on an
elbow and glanced out past the tent flap to where Greta Seidenheim stood on the
other side of a port-armed guard. He waved his fist at her, and she nodded a
wide-open smile back.
"Found me lying in the desert
like a waif, did you?"
"Found you!"
Braganza spat. "You were brought in by Primeys, man. First time in history
they ever did that. We've been waiting for you to come to in the serene faith
that once you did, everything would be all right."
The corporation president rubbed
his forehead. "It will be, Braganza, it will be. Just Primeys, eh? No
Aliens helping them?"
"Aliens?" Braganza
swallowed. "What led you to believeWhat gave you reason to hope
that...that Aliens would help the Primeys bring you in?"
"Well, perhaps I shouldn't
have used the word 'help.' But I did think there would be a few Aliens in the
group that escorted my unconscious body back to you. Sort of an honor guard,
Braganza. It would have been a real nice gesture, don't you think?"
The SIC man looked at the doctor,
who had been following the conversation with interest. "Mind stepping out
for a minute?" he suggested.
He walked behind the man and
dropped the tent flap into place. Then he came around to the foot of the army
cot and pulled on his mustache vigorously. "Now, see here, Hebster, if you
keep up this clowning, so help me I will slit your belly open and snap your
intestines back in your face! What happened?"
"What happened?"
Hebster laughed and stretched slowly, carefully, as if he were afraid of
breaking the bones of his arm. "I don't think I'll ever be able to answer
that question completely. And there's a section of my mind that's very glad
that I won't. This much I remember clearly: I had an idea. I communicated it to
the proper and interested party. We concludedthis party and Ia tentative
agreement as agents, the exact terms of the agreement to be decided by our
principals and its complete ratification to be contingent upon their
acceptance. Furthermore, weAll right, Braganza, all right! I'll tell it
straight. Put down that folding chair. Remember, I've just been through a
pretty unsettling experience!"
"Not any worse than the
world is about to go through," the official growled. "While you've
been out on your three-day vacation, Dempsey's been organizing a full-dress
revolution every place at once. He's been very careful to limit it to parades
and verbal fireworks so that we haven't been able to make with the riot squads,
but it's pretty evident that he's ready to start using muscle. Tomorrow might
be it; he's spouting on a world-wide video hookup and it's the opinion of the
best experts we have available that his tag line will be the signal for action.
Know what their slogan is? It concerns Verus, who's been indicted for murder;
they claim he'll be a martyr."
"And you were caught with
your suspicions down. How many SIC men turned out to be Firsters?"
Braganza nodded. "Not too
many, but more than we expected. More than we could afford. He'll do it,
Dempsey will, unless you've hit the real thing. Look, Hebster," his heavy
voice took on a pleading quality, "don't play with me any more. Don't hold
my threats against me; there was no personal animosity in them, just a
terrible, fearful worry over the world and its people and the government I was
supposed to protect. If you still have a gripe against me, I, Braganza, give
you leave to take it out of my hide as soon as we clear this mess up. But let
me know where we stand first. A lot of lives and a lot of history depend on
what you did out there in that patch of desert."
Hebster told him. He began with
the extraterrestrial Walpurgisnacht. "Watching the Aliens slipping
in and out of each other in that cockeyed and complicated rhythm, it struck me
how different they were from the thoughtful dots-in-bottles hovering over our
busy places, how different all creatures are in their home environmentsand how
hard it is to get to know them on the basis of their company manners. And then
I realized that this place wasn't their home."
"Of course. Did you find out
which part of the galaxy they come from?"
"That's not what I mean.
Simply because we have marked this area offand others like it in the Gobi, in
the Sahara, in Central Australiaas a reservation for those of our kind whose
minds have crumbled under the clear, conscious and certain knowledge of
inferiority, we cannot assume that the Aliens around whose settlements they
have congregated have necessarily settled themselves."
"Huh?" Braganza
shook his head rapidly and batted his eyes.
"In other words we had made
an assumption on the basis of the Aliens' very evident superiority to
ourselves. But that assumptionand therefore that superioritywas in our own
terms of what is superior and inferior, and not the Aliens'. And it especially
might not apply to those Aliens on...the reservation."
The SIC man took a rapid walk
around the tent. He beat a great fist into an open sweaty palm. "I'm
beginning to, just beginning to"
"That's what I was doing at
that point, just beginning to. Assumptions that don't stand up under the
structure they're supposed to support have caused the ruin of more
close-thinking businessmen than I would like to face across any conference
table. The four brokers, for example, who, after the market crash of
1929"
"All right," Braganza
broke in hurriedly, taking a chair near the cot. "Where did you go from
there?"
"I still couldn't be certain
of anything; all I had to go on were a few random thoughts inspired by
extrasubstantial adrenalin secretions and, of course, the strong feeling that
these particular Aliens weren't acting the way I had become accustomed to expect
Aliens to act. They reminded me of something, of somebody. I was positive that
once I got that memory tagged, I'd have most of the problem solved. And I was
right."
"How were you right? What
was the memory?"
"Well, I hit it backwards,
kind of. I went back to Professor Kleimbocher's analogy about the paleface
inflicting firewater on the Indian. I've always felt that somewhere in that
analogy was the solution. And suddenly, thinking of Professor Kleimbocher and
watching those powerful creatures writhing their way in and around each other,
suddenly I knew what was wrong. Not the analogy, but our way of using it. We'd
picked it up by the hammer head instead of the handle. The paleface gave
firewater to the Indian all rightbut he got something in return."
"What?"
"Tobacco. Now there's
nothing very much wrong with tobacco if it isn't misused, but the first white
men to smoke probably went as far overboard as the first Indians to drink. And
both booze and tobacco have this in commonthey make you awfully sick if you
use too much for your initial experiment. See, Braganza? These Aliens out here
in the desert reservation are sick. They have hit something in our
culture that is as psychologically indigestible to them as...well, whatever
they have that sticks in our mental gullet and causes ulcers among us. They've
been put into a kind of isolation in our desert areas until the problem can be
licked."
"Something that's as
indigestible psychologicallyWhat could it be, Hebster?"
The businessman shrugged
irritably. "I don't know. And I don't want to know. Perhaps it's just that
they can't let go of a problem until they've solved itand they can't solve the
problems of mankind's activity because of mankind's inherent and basic
differences. Simply because we can't understand them, we had no right to assume
that they could and did understand us."
"That wasn't all, Hebster.
As the comedians put iteverything we can do, they can do better."
"Then why did they keep
sending Primeys in to ask for those weird gadgets and impossible
gimcracks?"
"They could duplicate
anything we made."
"Well, maybe that is
it," Hebster suggested. "They could duplicate it, but could they
design it? They show every sign of being a race of creatures who never had to
make very much for themselves; perhaps they evolved fairly early into animals
with direct control over matter, thus never having had to go through the
various stages of artifact design. This, in our terms, is a tremendous
advantage; but it inevitably would have concurrent disadvantages. Among other
things, it would mean a minimum of art forms and a lack of basic engineering
knowledge of the artifact itself if not of the directly activated and altered
material. The fact is I was right, as I found out later.
"For example. Music is not a
function of theoretical harmonics, of complete scores in the head of a
conductor or composerthese come later, much later. Music is first and foremost
a function of the particular instrument, the reed pipe, the skin drum, the
human throatit is a function of tangibles which a race operating upon electrons,
positrons and mesons would never encounter in the course of its construction.
As soon as I had that, I had the other flaw in the analogythe assumption itself."
"You mean the assumption
that we are necessarily inferior to the Aliens?"
"Right, Braganza. They can
do a lot that we can't do, but vice very much indeed versa. How many special
racial talents we possess that they don't is a matter of pure conjectureand
may continue to be for a good long time. Let the theoretical boys worry that
one a century from now, just so they stay away from it at present."
Braganza fingered a button on his
green jerkin and stared over Hebster's head. "No more scientific
investigation of them, eh?"
"Well, we can't right now
and we have to face up to that mildly unpleasant situation. The consolation is
that they have to do the same. Don't you see? It's not a basic inadequacy. We
don't have enough facts and can't get enough at the moment through normal
channels of scientific observation because of the implicit psychological dangers
to both races. Science, my forward-looking friend, is a complex of interlocking
theories, all derived from observation.
"Remember, long before you
had any science of navigation you had coast-hugging and river-hopping traders
who knew how the various currents affected their leaky little vessels, who had
learned things about the relative dependability of the moon and the
starswithout any interest at all in integrating these scraps of knowledge into
broader theories. Not until you have a sufficiently large body of these scraps,
and are able to distinguish the preconceptions from the actual observations,
can you proceed to organize a science of navigation without running the grave
risk of drowning while you conduct your definitive experiments.
"A trader isn't interested
in theories. He's interested only in selling something that glitters for
something that glitters even more. In the process, painlessly and imperceptibly,
he picks up bits of knowledge which gradually reduce the area of unfamiliarity.
Until one day there are enough bits of knowledge on which to base a sort of
preliminary understanding, a working hypothesis. And then, some Kleimbocher of
the future, operating in an area no longer subject to the sudden and
unexplainable mental disaster, can construct meticulous and exact laws out of
the more obviously valid hypotheses."
"I might have known it would
be something like this, if you came back with it, Hebster! So their theorists
and our theorists had better move out and the traders move in. Only how do we
contact their tradersif they have any such animals?"
The corporation president sprang
out of bed and began dressing. "They have them. Not a Board of Director
type perhapsbut a business-minded Alien. As soon as I realized that the
dots-in-bottles were acting, relative to their balanced scientific colleagues,
very like our own high IQ Primeys, I knew I needed help. I needed someone I
could tell about it, someone on their side who had as great a stake in an
operating solution as I did. There had to be an Alien in the picture somewhere
who was concerned with profit and loss statements, with how much of a return
you get out of a given investment of time, personnel, materiel and energy. I
figured with him I could talkbusiness. The simple approach: What have
you got that we want and how little of what we have will you take for it. No
attempts to understand completely incompatible philosophies. There had to be
that kind of character somewhere in the expedition. So I shut my eyes and let
out what I fondly hoped was a telepathic yip channeled to him. I was
successful.
"Of course, I might not have
been successful if he hadn't been searching desperately for just that sort of yip.
He came buzzing up in a rousing United States Cavalry-routs-the-redskins
type of rescue, stuffed my dripping psyche back into my subconscious and
hauled me up into some sort of never-never-ship. I've been in this interstellar
version of Mohammed's coffin, suspended between Heaven and Earth, for three
days, while he alternately bargained with me and consulted the home office
about developments.
"We dickered the way I do
with Primeysby running down a list of what each of us could offer and
comparing it with what we wanted; each of us trying to get a little more than
we gave to the other guy, in our own terms, of course. Buying and selling are
intrinsically simple processes; I don't imagine our discussions were very much
different from those between a couple of Phoenician sailors and the
blue-painted Celtic inhabitants of early Britain."
"And this...this
business-Alien never suggested the possibility of taking what they
wanted"
"By force? No, Braganza, not
once. Might be they're too civilized for such shenanigans. Personally, I think
the big reason is that they don't have any idea of what it is they do want from
us. We represent a fantastic enigma to thema species which uses matter to alter
matter, producing objects which, while intended for similar functions, differ
enormously from each other. You might say that we ask the question 'how?' about
their activities; and they want to know the 'why?' about ours. Their
investigators have compulsions even greater than ours. As I understand it, the
intelligent races they've encountered up to this point are all comprehensible
to them since they derive from parallel evolutionary paths. Every time one of
their researchers gets close to the answer of why we wear various colored
clothes even in climates where clothing is unnecessary, he slips over the edges
and splashes.
"Of course, that's why this
opposite number of mine was so worried. I don't know his exact statushe maybe
anything from the bookkeeper to the business-manager of the expeditionbut it's
his neck, or should I say bottleneck, if the outfit continues to be
uneconomic. And I gathered that not only has his occupation kind of barred him
from doing the investigation his unstable pals were limping back from into the
asylums he's constructed here in the deserts, but those of them who've managed
to retain their sanity constantly exhibit a healthy contempt for him. They
feel, you see, that their function is that of the expedition. He's strictly
supercargo. Do you think it bothers them one bit," Hebster snorted,
"that he has a report to prepare, to show how his expedition stood up in
terms of a balance sheet"
"Well, you did manage to
communicate on that point, at least," Braganza grinned. "Maybe
traders using the simple, earnestly chiseling approach will be the answer.
You've certainly supplied us with more basic data already than years of heavily
subsidized research. Hebster, I want you to go on the air with this story you
told me and show a couple of Primey Aliens to the video public."
"Uh-uh. You tell 'em. You
can use the prestige. I'll think a message to my Alien buddy along the private
channel he's keeping open for me, and he'll send you a couple of human-happy
dots-in-bottles for the telecast. I've got to whip back to New York and get my
entire outfit to work on a really encyclopedic job."
"Encyclopedic?"
The executive pulled his belt
tight and reached for a tie. "Well, what else would you call the first
edition of the Hebster Interstellar Catalogue of All Human Activity and
Available Artifacts, prices available upon request with the understanding that
they are subject to change without notice?"
THE door-knob turned, then rattled.
Dr. David Wong stepped out from
behind the large bookcase, listening. He pressed the brass handle of the top
shelf and the case silently pivoted back to become part of the wall,
obliterating the dark passage behind it.
An imperative knocking began at
the door; David walked softly to his desk and picked up his notebook. He tried
to remain relaxed, but he could feel the tightening of his shoulder muscles.
With his right hand, he shut his notebook and concealed it under a mass of
papers, while his left hand pressed the desk button to release the lock of the
door.
The door burst open and two men
strode in, a black-uniformed Ruler, followed by a watchguard. Black-visored cap
still on his head, the first man marched to the desk and spoke without
ceremonial greeting.
"The door was locked, Dr.
Wong?"
"Correct, Dr. Lanza. The door
was locked."
"I shall have to instruct the
guard to report it. Have you forgotten Leader Marley's Maxim: Constructive
science does not skulk behind locked doors?"
Wong leaned back in his chair and
smiled at his visitors.
"The wisdom of Leader Marley
is a constant help to us all, but his generosity is also a byword. Surely you
remember that on the tenth anniversary of his accession, he honored me by the
grant of occasional hours of Privacy, as a reward for my work on Blue Martian
Fever?"
"I remember now," said
Dr. Lanza.
"But what for?" asked
Officer Blagun. "It's anti-social!"
"Evidently you have
forgotten, Officer Blagun, another Maxim of Leader Marley: Nature has not
equipped one Category to judge the needs of another; only the Leader
understands all. Now, Dr. Lanza, will you tell me the reason for this visit?
Since your promotion from Research to Ruler, I have rarely been honored by
your attention."
"I am here with a
message," said Lanza. "Leader Marley's compliments, and he requests
your presence at a conference on next Wednesday at ten in the morning."
"Why did you have to deliver
that in person? What's wrong with using Communications?"
"It's not my province to ask
questions, Dr. Wong. I was told to come here, and I was told to wait for a
reply."
"Next Wednesday at ten? Let's
see, this is Friday." David Wong pressed the key of his electronic
calendar, but he had no need to study the dull green and red lights that
flashed on to indicate the pattern of his day. He did not delude himself that
he had any real choice, but he had learned in the past fifteen years that it
kept up his courage to preserve at least the forms of independence. He allowed
a decent thirty seconds to ponder the coded lights, then blanked the board and
looked up with an easy smile.
"Dr. Wong's compliments to
Leader Marley, and he will be honored to attend a conference on Wednesday at
ten."
Nodding his head, Dr. Lanza
glanced briefly around the office. "Queer, old-fashioned place you have
here."
"Yes. It was built many years
ago by a slippery old politician who wanted to be safe from his enemies. Makes
a good place for Research, don't you think?"
Lanza did not answer. He strode to
the door, then paused to look back.
"You understand, Dr. Wong,
that I shall have to report the locked door? I have no choice."
"Has anyone?"
Officer Blagun followed his
superior, leaving the door wide open behind them. Wong remained rigid in his
chair until the clack of heels on marble floor had become a mere echo in his
brain, then stretched out his hand to the intercom. He observed with pride that
his hand did not tremble as he pressed the dial.
"Get me Dr. Karl Haslam . . .
Karl? Can you meet me in the lab right away? I've thought of a new approach
that might help us crack the White Martian problem. Yes, I know we planned on
conferring tomorrow, but it's getting later than you think."
Again he pressed the dial.
"Get me Leah Hachovnik. Leah? I've got some new stuff to dictate. Be a
good girl and come along right away."
Breaking the connection, he drew
out his notebook and opened it.
David Wong was a big man, tall,
well-muscled, compact, and he might have been handsome but for a vague
something in his appearance. His lean face and upcurving mouth were those of a
young man; his hair was a glossy black, too thick to be disciplined into
neatness; and he was well-dressed, except for the unfashionable bulging of his
jacket pocket, where he carried a bulky leather case of everfeed pens and
notebooks. But it was his eyes that were disconcertingan intense blue,
brilliant and direct, they had a wisdom and a comprehension that seemed
incongruous in so young a face.
A worried frown creased his
forehead as he turned back to one of the first pages, studying the symbols he
had recorded there, but he looked up without expression on hearing the tapping
of slender heels.
"Quick work, Leah. How are
you this morning?"
"As if anybody cared!"
Leah Hachovnik settled down before the compact stenograph machine, her shoulders
slumped, her thin mouth drooping at the corners.
"Feel like working?"
said David.
"As much as I ever do, I
guess. Sometimes I wonder if the traitors in the granite quarries have it any
worse than I do. Sometimes I wish I'd been born into some other Category. Other
people have all the luck. I don't know what it is, Dr. Wong, but I just don't
seem to have the pep I used to have. Do you think it could be the climate here
in New York?"
"People do grow older,
Leah," he reminded her gently.
"I know. But Tanyayou
remember my twin sister Tanya, the one that got so sick that time, ten years
ago, when you did that experiment with Blue Martian Fever, and she had to be
sent out to Arizona? Of course I haven't ever seen her since then people in
Office Category never get permission for that kind of travelbut she writes me
that ever since she got well again she feels just like a kid, and works as hard
as she ever did, and she still seems to enjoy life. Why, she's had three
proposals of marriage this past year alone, she says, and yet she's
thirty-five, just the same age as I ambeing twins, you know?and nobody's
proposed to me in ages. Well, I'm certainly going to try to find out what her
method is. She's coming back tomorrow."
"She's what?"
"Coming back. BureauMed is
sending her back here to the Institute to take up her old job in Intercom.
Funny they haven't told you, her being an old employee and all."
Dr. Wong was gripping his notebook
in stiff fingers, but he replied easily, "Oh, well, BureauMed is a complex
organization. With all they have to do, it's not surprising they get things
mixed up sometimes."
"Don't I know!" she
sighed, and droned on in a dreary monotone. "This one institute alone
would turn your hair gray before your time. I don't know how some people seem
to keep so young. I was just thinking to myself this morning when I watched you
walking through the office, 'Why, Dr. Wong doesn't seem to age a bit! He looks
just as young as he ever did, and look at me!' "
Looking at her, David admitted to
himself, was not the pleasure it had once been. Ten years ago, she and her
twin sister Tanya had been plump, delectable, kittenish girls, their mental
equipment no more than standard for Office Category, of course, but their
physical appearance had been outstanding, almost beautiful enough for Theater
Category. Creamy ivory skin, gray eyes, and soft red hair dramatized by a
freakish streak of white that shot abruptly back from the center of the
forehead, Tanya's swirling to the left, and Leah's to the right, one girl the
mirror image of the other.
But the Leah sitting before him
now was thin and tired-looking, her sallow skin was lined, and her soft voice
had become vinegary with disappointments. Her red hair had faded to a commonplace
brown, and the white streak in the center was yellowed. An unwanted, souring
old maid. But there was only one response to make.
"You look fine to me,
Leah," he said. "What time did you say your sister is coming?"
"Tomorrow evenings'
Playground Jet. Why?"
"We'll have to think of a way
to celebrate. But right now, I'd like to get started on my new paper. I've got
to meet Dr. Haslam before long."
"I know." She raised her
faded gray eyes. "That was a funny thing you said to him just now over the
intercom. You said to him it was getting late. But it isn't late. It's only
eleven o'clock in the morning."
David stared. "Do you mean to
say you were listening to our conversation? Why did you do that?"
She fidgeted and turned away from
him. "Oh, I just happened to be at Comdesk and I guess the circuit wasn't
closed. Does it matter? But it seemed a funny thing for you to say."
"People in Office Category
are not supposed to understand Research," he said severely. "If they
were capable of Research, Leader Marley's planners would have placed them
there. As for its being late, it is, as far as White Martian Fever is
concerned. Which is the subject of my paper. Prepare to take dictation."
Shrugging her shoulders, she
poised her bony fingers over the keys of the little machine.
"Paper for delivery at the
Summer Seminar," he began. "But, Dr. Wong, that doesn't have to be
ready for three months yet!"
"Miss Hachovnik! Please
remember Leader Marley's Maxim:
Individuals born into Office
Category are the bone and muscle of the State; Nature has designed them to act,
not to think." "Yes, Dr. Wong. I'm sorry."
"Don't worry, Leah. We're old
friends, so I won't report you. All set?"
He took a pencil from his leather
case and tapped it against his notebook as he ruffled the pages, wondering how
to begin. It was hard to think logically when a part of his mind was in such
confusion. Had Leah been listening in to all of his phone conversations? If so,
it was fortunate that he had long ago devised an emergency code. Was it only
idle curiosity that had prompted her or was she acting under orders? Was anyone
else watching him, he wondered, listening to his talk, perhaps even checking
the routine of his experimental work? There was Lanza this morningwhy had he
come unannounced, in person, when a Communications call would have served the
purpose equally well?
Leah's voice broke in. "I'm
ready, Dr. Wong."
He cleared his throat. ". . .
the Summer Seminar. Title: The Propagation of White Martian virus. Paragraph.
It will be remembered that the early attempts to establish Earth colonies on
Mars were frustrated by the extreme susceptibility of our people to two viruses
native to the foreign planet, viruses which we designate as Blue Martian and
White Martian, according to the two distinct types of fever which they cause.
Blue Martian Fever in the early days caused a mortality among our colonists of
nearly eighty-five per cent, and made the establishment of permanent colonies
a virtual impossibility.
"Under the inspired
leadership of Leader Marley and with the advice of his deputy Dr. Lanza, this
laboratory in Research worked out a method of growing the virus and producing
an immunizing agent which is effective in nearly all human beings. Only the
cooperation of several Categories made possible such a feat. It will not be
forgotten that even the humblest helpers in the Institute had their share in
the project, that some of them acted as human volunteers in the experiments,
well knowing the risks they ran, and were afterward rewarded by a Free Choice.
"One person in Office
Category, for instance, was given the privilege of learning to play the flute,
although nobody in his family had ever belonged to Music, and another person in
Menial Category was permitted a month's study of elementary algebra, a nearly
unheard of indulgence for a person in his position. But as Leader Marley so
graciously remarked in conferring the awards: 'To the individual who risks
much, the State gives much.' "
"Like me and Tanya?" the
girl asked, stopping her typing.
"Yes, like you and Tanya. You
were allowed to act a part in an amateur Theater group, I remember, and since
Tanya was made too ill to be able to use a Free Choice, she was sent out west
to the Playground, just as though she had belonged to Ruler Category. Now
where was I?"
"'The State gives
much.'"
"Oh, yes. Paragraph. Since
the discovery of the immunizing mechanism to Blue Martian, permanent colonies
have been established on Mars. But there remains the more elusive problem of
White Martian Fever, which, though its mortality is only thirty per cent, is
still so crippling to those victims who survive that the Martian colonies
cannot begin to expand, and the resources of the planet cannot be fully
developed until an immunizing agent is found.
"For the past eight years
this laboratory has been working at the problem, among others, and we are now
in a position to report a small degree of progress. Since it proved to be
impossible to grow the virus in the usual media, it occurred to us"
The intercom buzzed, and Dr. Wong
turned away to open the dial.
"David? What's happened to
you? I've been waiting here in the lab a quarter of an hour."
"Sorry, Karl. I thought I had
more time. Be right down."
He reached for his white lab coat
and shoved his long arms into the starched sleeves. "That's all we have
time for now, Leah. Can you get an early lunch and be back here this afternoon
at two?"
But she was not listening. She was
leaning over to look at the desk, staring avidly at the open pages of Dr.
Wong's notebook. Without comment he picked up the book, closed it, put it in
the top drawer and locked the drawer. She watched him with curious eyes.
"What funny marks those were,
Dr. Wong! Do you keep your notes in a private system of shorthand?"
"No. I write them in Coptic.
For the sake of privacy." "What's Coptic?"
"A dead language, spoken by
the ancient Egyptians thirty or forty centuries ago."
"But you're Research, not
Linguistics! It's against the law for you to know other languages. Are you a
traitor?"
"My dear Leah," he said,
"I'm far too sensible a man to go in for bootleg study, to learn anything
without permission. I have no wish to end up with a pick-ax in my hands. But
you shouldn't tax your little mind with thinking. It's not your job. You're not
equipped for it, and it's dangerous."
David passed the watchguard
stationed in the basement corridor, walked through the open door of the
laboratory, past the bench where a row of pretty technicians sat making serial
dilutions of bacterial and virus suspensions, through the glow of the sterilizing
room, and on into the small inner lab where flasks of culture media and
developing hens' eggs sat in a transparent incubator, and petri dishes flecked
with spots of color awaited his inspection.
Dr. Karl Haslam was standing at
the work bench, with a pair of silver forceps which held a small egg under the
psi light. Gently he lowered the egg into its warm observation chamber, covered
the container, and sat down.
"Well, here I am. What's gone
wrong? Explain yourself, my boy."
"Just a minute."
Grinning maliciously, David took down a bottle from the shelf of chemicals,
poured a colorless liquid into a beaker, and walked casually toward the doorway
as he agitated the mixture of hydrogen sulphide and mercaptans. He held his
breath, then coughed, when the fumes of putrescence filled the room and drifted
out the door. He looked into the technician's room.
"Sorry for the aroma, girls,
but this is a vital experiment." "Can't you at least shut the
door?" one called pleadingly. "Explain to the watchguard out there,
will you?" Closing the door, he turned on the ventilator and sat down
beside Dr. Haslam.
"Why all the melodrama?"
Karl asked, baffled. "First you call me by emergency code, then you hole
in like a conspirator. I'm beginning to think you're a great loss to Theater.
What's happened? Why is it later than I think?"
"Do you take everything as a
joke, Karl?"
"Certainly, until I'm forced
to do otherwise. What's worrying you?"
"I'm afraid of being arrested
for treason. Don't laugh! This morning I received a message, delivered in
person by our old schoolmate Lanza, to report to Leader Marley on Wednesday,
and Marley hasn't paid any attention to me since he last inspected our lab,
years ago. For another thing, Leah Ilachovnik is making a nuisance of herself
with her curiosity about my affairs. If she weren't so clumsy about her prying,
I'd almost believe she was under orders to spy on me."
Karl moved impatiently. "I
hope you're not turning psychotic. You have a clean record of continuous production
and you've never mixed in politics. You've never expressed what you may really
think of our Leader even to me, although we've been friends since we were in
Med-school, and I hope you never will. And you're making progress with White
Martian. Why, my boy, you're all set! What's treasonable about that?"
Someone knocked at the door.
Hastily David uncovered the
fragrant beaker and waved it about as he called, "Come in!"
The watchguard looked in for an instant, wrinkled his nose, and quickly shut
the door. Laughing, David covered the beaker, and began walking about with long
nervous strides, snapping his fingers as he tried to explain.
"I'm in trouble, Karl. I've
run into something I don't know how to deal with, and I need help, I need
advice, I need cooperation. I've lived alone with this thing for ten long
years, hoping month after month that something would turn up so I could evade
the issue. But nothing has. And now there's going to be a showdown."
Karl touched his arm
sympathetically. "My dear boy" "That's it!" shouted David.
"What's what?"
"That's what I'm trying to
tell you. Why do you always call me your 'dear boy?' You know I'm a year older
than you are."
"It's just habit, I suppose.
You look so youngyour hair is black, while mine is nearly white. You're full
of vigor, while I begin to creak with middle age. I didn't realize that I
irritated you with my little phrase. I should think you'd be pleased that you
have somehow managed to sip at the fountain of youth."
David sank down on a stool.
"I'm not pleased. I'm terrified."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that's exactly what's
happened. I have sipped at the fountain of youth. I've discovered how to keep
people from growing old. I myself have not aged a bit in the last ten
years."
There was a long silence. Karl sat
unmoving, his face like stone.
"I don't believe you,"
he said at last.
"It's no longer a question of
belief. In a few days everybody will know, the proof will stare you in the
face. And what will happen then?"
"Evidence?" Karl asked.
"I can't accept a statement as a fact."
"Would you like to see my
mice? Come with me."
David Wong hurried into the small
animal room and paused before a stack of wire cages in which furry creatures
darted and squeaked.
"You remember when we were
working on Blue Martian, those peculiar mutants we found in our mice, and how I
used six of them in trying to make antibodies to the virus?"
"I remember," said Karl.
"They were spotted with tufts of white hair on the right forelegs."
David took down a cage, thrust in
his hand, and brought out two of the tiny black mice which crawled over his
trembling hand. Their right forelegs bore tufts of long white hair.
"These," he said,
"are the same mice."
"Their descendants, you mean.
Mice don't live that long."
"These mice do. And they'll
go on living. For years I've lived in fear that someone would notice and
suspect the truth. Just as for years, every time someone has laughed and told
me I never seemed to age a day, I've been terrified that he might guess the
truth. I'm not aging."
Karl looked dazed. "Well, my
boy, you've got a bear by the tail. How did you find the elixir or whatever it
is?"
"You remember the early work
with radioactive tracers, a couple of hundred years ago, that proved that all
our body cells are in a continuous state of flux? There's a dynamic equilibrium
between the disintegration and the resynthesis of the essential factors such
as proteins, fats and amino groups, but the cell directs all the incoming
material into the right chemical structures, under the influence of some
organizing power which resides in the cell.
"Foreign influences like
viruses may disrupt this order and cause cancer. The cells are continually in a
state of change, but always replace their characteristic molecules, and it is
only as they grow older that they gradually become 'worn out.' Then the body
grows old, becomes less resistant to infection, and eventually succumbs to one
disease or another. And you know, of course, that viruses also have this
self-duplicating ability.
"I reasoned that at birth a
man had a definite, finite amount of this essential self-duplicating
entitySDEin his body cells, a kind of directing factor which reproduces
itself, but more slowly than do the body cells. In that case, with the normal
multiplication of the cells, the amount of SDE per cell would slowly but
surely grow smaller with the years. Eventually the time would come when the
percentage would be below the critical levelthe cells would be less resistant,
would function with less efficiency, and the man would 'grow old.' "
Karl nodded soberly.
"Reasonable hypothesis."
"But one day, by pure chance,
I isolated a component which I recognized as being the factor essential to the
normal functioning of body cells. It hit me like a toothache. I found that I
could synthesize the SDE in the lab, and the only problem then was to get it
into a man's cells. If I could do that, keep the SDE level up to that of youth,
a man would stop aging! Since viruses penetrate our cells when they infect us,
it was no trick at all to effect a chemical coupling of the SDE to the virus. I
used Martian Blue, since it was handy, and its effects arc usually brief.
"Presto! Old age is held at
bay for another twenty or thirty yearsI really don't know how long. These mice
were my first experiment, and as you see, they're still alive. Next, I tried it
on myself."
David put the mice back in their
cage, locked it, and returned to the lab.
"Tomorrow, the whole thing is
bound to come out because Tanya Hachovnik is coming back. You know her sister
Leahgray, dried-up, soured on life. Well, I've had ways of checking, and when
Tanya Hachovnik walks into the Institute, everyone will see her as the same
luscious redhead of twenty-five we knew ten years ago. I realize that what I
did was a criminal act. I didn't think the thing through or I wouldn't have
been such a fool. But when I made those final experiments, I used the Hachovnik
twins for a controlled pair."
"You must have been
crazy!"
"Perhaps I was. I'd tried it
on myself, of course, with no bad effects except a few days' fever, but I
realized that without a control I never could be sure the SDE was actually
working. It might be just that my particular genetic constitution caused me to
age more slowly than the average. So I chose the twins. To Leah I gave the
attenuated Martian Blue, but to Tanya I gave the simple Blue coupled with SDE.
The experiment worked. Identical twinsone grows old like other people; the other
remains young. I know now, Karl, how to prolong youth indefinitely. But what
in the name of Leader Marley shall I do with my knowledge?"
Karl Haslam absently twisted his
white hair and spoke slowly, as though he found trouble in choosing his words.
"You realize, of course, that
it is your duty to acquaint Leader Marley with all the details of your
discovery?"
"Is it? Can you imagine what
this will do to our society? What about the generations of children coming into
a world where no places have been vacated for them by death? What about the
struggles for power? Who will decide, and on what basis, whether to confer or
to withhold this gift? There'll be riots, civil wars. I know that I'm only a
scientist; all I ever wanted from life was to be left alone, in a peaceful
laboratory, and let other people worry about the world and its troubles. But
nowdon't you see that by the mere fact that I made this discovery, I've lost
the right to sit by quietly and let other people make the decisions?"
"But, David, you and I aren't
able to handle such a problem! We're only Research!"
"I know. We're inadequate,
yet we have the responsibility. The men who created atomic power probably felt
inadequate, too, but could they have made as bad a mess of handling it as
others did? Suppose I did turn this over to Marleyhe'd use it to become the
most absolute tyrant in the history of the race."
Karl ran his fingers through his
hair and smiled crookedly. "Well, you could always start a revolution, I
suppose, and start by assassinating the Leader."
"With what kind of weapon?
Men like you and me are not allowed to own so much as an old-fashioned pistol.
Except for the Military, Marley's the only man allowed to wear a Needler. And,
besides, I'm a Research, not a Military. I hate violence and I'm naturally
conditioned against killing."
"Then you shouldn't have got
into this mess. It would have been far better never to have discovered this
SDE. I presume your notes are safely locked up, by the way?"
David grinned. "Don't worry
about my notes; they're written in Coptic. You remember when I was still in
Medschool and made my first important discovery, how to prevent the development
of hereditary baldness by the injection of certain parahormones? Leader Marley
rewarded me with a Free Choice, and I chose to learn a dead language. Not half
a dozen men in the world could read my notes."
"If your notes are safe, why
don't you just destroy your mice and get rid of your proof that way?"
"And the Hachovnik
twins?"
"You could at least keep
Tanya out of sight."
"Don't be a fool. That would
only be a temporary measure and has nothing to do with the real problem. Lanza
and Marley may suspect the truth right now, for all I know; they keep such
close watch on my work. Anyway, the secret is bound to come out sooner or
later."
Dr. Haslam clasped his hands and
stared at them for a long while. His lined face looked grayer than ever.
He looked up at last with a faint
smile. "Well, my boy, I never asked you to discover this stuff, but since
you haveI hereby burn my bridges! You're right, we can't give it to Marley.
But you can't handle it alone. What we need is time, and we haven't got it. We
shall both be liquidated before this is over, there's no doubt of that, but we
must do what we can. When is Tanya arriving?"
"Tomorrow night, on the
Playground Jet."
"And you see Leader Marley
when?"
"Next Wednesday."
"Five days yet. Then this is
what we'll do. Too bad Lanza is in the other camp, but there's you and me, and
I think Hudson and Faurë from Serology will come in with us. We'll need others
sociologists, anthropologists, psychologiststhe most promising material from
all Categories if we're to create a new society based on the prospect of
immortality. But I'll see the first two and bring them to your apartment
tomorrow night for Tanya's welcome-home party. I leave it to you to muzzle
Leah."
"That won't do," said
David. "I don't have a current Free Choice."
"But I have. Two, as a matter
of fact, a reward for curing the insomnia of Leader Marley's wife. I choose to
give a party, I choose tomorrow night, and I choose your apartment."
A knock rattled the door, and the
watchguard thrust in his head. "How much longer is this here experiment
going to take? Do you guys want to be reported?"
"Just finishing,
Officer," called Karl. "You can leave the door open now."
"What a stink!" said the
guard. "Thank God I'm in Military!"
It hardly seemed like a party,
David thought. His guests were ill at ease, and their conversation labored,
then stopped altogether when the Menial came into the library with a tray of
glasses and niblets.
"Put them on the liquor
cabinet, James," said David. "And that will be all. Enjoy yourself
tonight."
The Menial put down the tray and
then stooped to fumble with the lock.
"Let that alone! I've told
you a thousand times not to monkey with my liquor cabinet!"
"Don't you want me to get out
the ice cubes, Doctor?" "I'll do it. You can go now."
"But are you sure you won't
want me later in the evening, Doctor? Who's to serve the supper? Who's going to
clear up afterward?"
"We'll manage. Don't worry
about us."
James shuffled out of the room.
"I suppose that means I'll
manage," said Leah, with a self-pitying sigh. "I've noticed that
whenever people decide to rough it and do without a Menial, they take it for
granted the women will do the work, never the menunless the women are still
young and pretty. Well, at any rate, I'll have Tanya to help me. I still don't
see why you wouldn't let me go to the Port to meet her, Dr. Wong."
"I just thought it would be
more of a celebration if we had a surprise party all waiting for her to walk
into. Dr. Haslam will bring her here directly from the Port, and here we all
are, her old friends from the Institute, waiting to welcome her home."
"I'd hardly say all,"
said Leah. "I'm the only person from Office that's here. And why have a
party in your Library, Dr. Wong? Nothing here but books, books, books."
"Because I keep my liquor
here, in the only room I have a right to lock up. My Menial is a good man, but
he can't resist an opened bottle."
"Well, it's still a gloomy
party."
David turned appealingly to his
other guests, Hudson and Faure, but they only looked uncomfortable.
"Perhaps we need a
drink." David unlocked the cupboard and picked up a bottle which he set
down hastily when he heard voices in the hall. He hurried to the outer door and
opened it a few inches to reveal the sturdy shoulders of the watchguard of the
floor and, beyond him, Karl Haslam.
"Everything in order,
Officer?" asked Karl.
"Your permit is in order, Dr.
Haslam. A private party. Let me just checkyes, three guests have arrived, and
you two make five. That all? You have until midnight. But it beats me why you
people in Research prefer a party without a watchguard, or why Leader Marley
ever gives permission. Why, in all my years in Military, I've never been to an
unwatched party, and I must say it never held us down any."
Karl laughed a little too
forcedly. "I'll bet it didn't! But all Research people are a little
peculiar. You must have noticed that yourself."
"Well"
"And you know how generous
Leader Marley is, and how kind he is to loyal citizens. He wants us to be
happy, so he pampers us now and then."
"I guess he knows what he's
doing, all right. Well, I'll check you out at twelve, then."
"Go on in, Tanya," said
Karl.
They stepped into the apartment
and David quietly closed the door.
"Hi, Sis," drawled Leah.
"You made us wait long enough!" She walked toward the girl, hand
outstretched, then stopped with a gasp of disbelief.
Tanya's red hair was still
brilliant and gleaming, her creamy skin unlined, and her full red lips curved
up into a friendly smile as she leaned forward for a sisterly kiss. But Leah
jerked away and glared with anger.
A puzzled frown creased Tanya's
lovely white forehead. "What's the matter, Leah? Aren't you glad to see
me? You look so strange, as though you'd been terribly ill!"
Leah shook her head, tears of rage
gathering in her pale eyes. "I'm okay," she whispered. "It's
you. You haven't changed. I have. You're still young, you're pretty, you're
just the way I used to be!" She whirled to face David, her voice choking.
"What have you done to her,
Dr. Wong?"
The four men in the room were all
staring at the sisters, scarcely believing what they saw, although they had all
been prepared for the contrast. The twin sisters were no longer twins. One had
retained her youth the other was faded, aging.
"This is awful," Haslam
muttered. "Absolutely ghastly." He put a comforting hand on Leah's
shoulder, and with a deep sob she hid her face against him and cried.
Hudson and Faure could not take
their eyes from Tanya, and David leaned against the wall to stop his trembling.
"Sit down, all of you,"
he said. "First we'll have a drink. I'm sure we all need it. Then we'll
facewhat has to be faced."
An hour later, they had achieved a
calmness, of sorts. They had given up some of their normal sobriety to achieve
the calm, but they were grateful to the drug for cushioning the shock.
David paced the floor, glass in
hand, talking rapidly as he finished his long explanation.
"So you see what
happened," he said. "When I began the experiment, I had no idea how
staggering the results might be. That is, I knew in my mind, but I never
imagined the redness of what would happen. I thought of it as just an
experiment."
Leah sniffed, her resentment
somewhat dulled by drink. "So I was just an experiment! Don't you ever
think about people's feelings? I know I'm not as good as you are; I'm only
Office, but I'm human."
Karl patted her hand. "Of course
you are, Leah. But that is one of the defects of people in Researchthey forget
about human emotions." He looked up sternly at David. "They go ahead
with their experiments, and hang the consequences. If Dr. Wong had had any
sense, he would never have kept this a secret for ten years, and we might have
had ten years to prepare ourselves for such a responsibility. Instead, we have
only a few days or, at most, weeks. Hudson! Faure! How do you feel about this
thing now? Are you still game?"
Both men seemed a little dazed,
but Faure pulled himself together, speaking slowly, like a man in a dream.
"We're with you. It's still
hard to believe: we've got immortality!"
"I'd hardly call it
immortality," said Hudson drily, "since, as I understand it, SDE does
not kill disease entities, nor ward off bullets or the disintegrating nuclear
shaft of the needleras we will very likely find out before very long. But what
do we do now? When people see these two girls together, it won't be an hour
before Marley hears about it."
David spoke up with a new
authority. "He must not hear about it. I know how poorly equipped I am to
handle this situation, but since I created it, I must assume responsibility,
and I have made my plans.
"First, you, Tanya. Try to
realize that if the Leader finds out that I have this secret of keeping youth,
he will want it for himself. Nobody in Menial, nobody in Office, nobody in Researchalmost
nobody at allwill be allowed to benefit from it. Marley will use it as a
special reward for certain Rulers, and he will try to keep its very existence a
secret so that people in general will not be envious or rebellious. That means
that he will have to get rid of you."
"Get rid of me? But I haven't
done any harm!"
"Just by existing and letting
people look at your unchanging youth; you will be a threat to him, for you will
give away his secret. How he'll deal with you, I don't know. Concentration
camp, exile, or more probably, simple execution on grounds of treason, such as
unauthorized choices of activity or study. It doesn't matter, he'll find a way.
The only safety for you is in keeping hidden. You must stay quietly in Leah's
apartment until we can find a refuge for you. Do you see that?"
She looked around in bewilderment.
"Is that right, Dr. Haslam? And what will they think at the Institute? I'm
supposed to go back to my job in Intercom."
"Dr. Wong is right," he
said kindly. "Please believe us. It's hard for you to understand that we
are asking you to do something secret, but just try to remember that you are,
after all, an Office Category and are not equipped by training or constitution
to think out problems like this. We'll tell you what is the right thing to do.
You just do as we tell you, and you'll be perfectly safe."
Leah snickered. "Oh, she'll
be safe enough, being as pretty as she is! What are you going to do about me?
Don't I count?"
"We'll come to that in a few
minutes. Right now, we need food. Leah, you and Tanya be good girls and go out
to the kitchen and heat up some supper for us. After we've eaten, we'll talk
about you."
As soon as the girls were out of
the room, the four men drew together at the table.
"No use burdening them with
too much knowledge," Karl remarked. "Even as it is, they are a great
danger to us, and the less they know the better. David, will you proceed?"
"I have little to add to the
plans we made last night at the lab. The thing we need most is time; and next
to that, a hiding place. We may very soon be classed as traitors, with every
watchguard on the continent hunting for us. We will take care that they don't
find us. Now, you said last night that each one of you has accumulated a Free Choice
during the past year, which hasn't yet been used."
"That's right," said
Fauth. "I intended to use mine next winter to live among the Australian
aborigines for a week. I've been wanting that for years, but the planners
always refused me; it was a project without practical purpose."
"And I intended to use mine
to attempt a water-color painting," added Hudson. "In my boyhood I
hoped to be put in Arts Category, but the Planners laughed at me. I suppose
it's wrong, yet I still have the yen."
"You have my sympathy,"
said Karl. "I was going to take an Aimless Tramp. Just shed my identity
and wander on foot through the great north area of woods and lakes."
David sighed. "Well, if we
are successful in hiding and in changing the world as we'd like, you can all
three be free to do as you like without asking permission. But at present
that's only the wildest of dreams. And, first, we must find our refuge. Today
is Saturday. Tomorrow morning, each of you will go to BureauMed and claim your
Free Choice. And each of you will choose an Aimless Tramp."
"But I don't like
hiking," objected Hudson.
"You won't be hiking. You'll
take off in your roboplanes and then disappear. You will be without
supervision. You will then proceed, disguised as you think suitable, to find a
place for our new colonysomewhere in South America?and make preliminary
arrangements to receive us. You must be back by Tuesday afternoon at the
latest. On Tuesday, as soon as you have reported back to BureauMed, get to the
Institute as fast as you can."
"Why the deadline?"
"Because by Tuesday
afternoon, sometime before evening, probably, I expect all three of you to be
suffering from an attack of Blue Martian Fever, and I want you to get expert
hospital care. You will be the nucleus of the new regime."
Karl laughed. "I wish you
could have picked a base for your SDE that was less unpleasant than Blue
Martian."
"Who's got Blue
Martian?" asked Tanya, as the girls came in from the kitchen with their
trays of food. "I'll never forget how sick it made me."
"You should worry," said
Leah. "It kept you young and beautiful, didn't it?"
"You won't have to envy her,
Leah," said David going to the liquor cabinet. "I'm going to give you
and the others a shot of the SDE-Martian Blue. Sometime Tuesday afternoon you
should feel the first symptoms. But after forty-eight hours in the hospital,
you'll be good as new. And you will all stop growing older."
They watched, fascinated, as he
opened the cooling compartment of the liquor cupboard.
"I always like plenty of ice
in my drinks," he remarked, drawing out a tray of cubes and opening a
small door behind the tray. He removed several small bottles filled with a
milky liquid, and a copper box of sterile needles and syringes.
"Who'll be first?"
There was a knock at the door, and
David stopped. "What is it?" he called.
"Me," came the
watchguard's voice. "Just thought I'd do you a favor and tell you it's
only ten minutes till checkout time. Time to get yourselves decent!"
They could hear the rumble of his
laugh as he moved on down the hall. Trembling, David picked up a bottle, poured
alcohol onto the rubber cap, and deftly filled the sterile syringe. He reached
for a piece of cotton, dipped it in iodine, and looked up, waiting. Karl Haslam
had already bared his left arm. David swabbed the spot on the upper deltoid.
Karl laughed. "Here I come,
Methuselah!"
"All set?" asked David.
He plunged the needle home.
David ran up the steps of the
Institute, two at a time, and hurried toward his office through the echoing
corridors, where the usual watchguard sauntered on patrol.
"Morning, Jones."
"Good morning, Doctor. Pretty
early, aren't you?"
"Wednesday's my busy
day." He settled at his desk, miserably conscious of the open door and
curious eyes behind him, opened his briefcase, then glanced at his wristwatch.
More than an hour before his interview with Leader Marley.
Spreading some data sheets before
him, he looked at them blankly as he tried to order his thoughts. His eyes were
ringed with dark depressions, for he had had no sleep. There had been so many
things to plan for, so many arrangements to make.
It was possible, of course, that
this morning's talk would turn out to be mere routine. There might remain
several weeks of freedombut there might be only a few hours. He shrank from
the complexity of the problem before him; he was a Research man, devoted to his
test tubes and his culture growths, and would have been happy never to face any
problem beyond them.
He had a moment's revulsion at the
unfairness of the fact that a simple experiment in the lab, an addition to
man's knowledge of the Universe, should have plunged him against his will into
a situation far beyond his ability to handle. There had been, as Karl pointed
out, the alternative of turning the SDE over to the Leader. That would have
absolved him of all responsibility. But that was the trouble, he thought.
Responsibility could not be confined to squiggles in his notebook, when those
squiggles might affect the whole of society.
"Dr. Wong!"
He jumped and turned around hastily.
"Leah! What in the
world?"
She stood in the doorway, glaring
at him, breathing heavily as though she were trying to hold back sobs. Slowly
she tottered to the desk and sank down into her chair by the stenograph.
"You doublecrosser!" she
whispered.
He looked quickly at the doorway,
but the guard had not come back. Leaning forward, he questioned her fiercely.
"What are you doing here?
They told me yesterday that several people had come down with attacks of Blue
Martian. Why aren't you in the hospital with the others?"
"Because I wasn't sick!"
"But I gave you"
"Imagine how I felt,"
she raced on, "watching Dr. Haslam start having a chill, hearing Dr. Faure
complain about his awful headache, and listening to Dr. Hudson dial Intercom
and call for a doctor. And all that time I was waiting, waiting for something
to happen to me. And nothing did! What have you got against me, Dr. Wong, that
you infect all the others and only pretend to do it to me? I don't want to grow
old any more than they do!"
"But I wasn't pretending.
Quiet, now, and let me think."
He waited until the watchguard had
passed by the door, then raised his head.
"Look here, Leah. Evidently
the infection didn't take. This is what must have happened. That treatment I
gave you ten years ago must have made you permanently immune to Blue Martian,
and the antibodies it formed in your cells simply protected you against this
new invasion of the virus. It never occurred to me that the immunity would last
so long. But don't worry, I'll find a way."
She looked suspicious. "What
do you mean?"
"I mean that there's no
reason why Blue Martian should be the only vehicle for giving you the SDE.
There must be other viruses that will work equally well. It's only a question
of finding one."
"And how long will that take
you?"
"How long does anything take
in Research? Maybe a week, maybe a year."
"And maybe ten! I can't wait,
Dr. Wong. I'm thirty-five now; I'm growing older. What good will a long life do
me, if it only preserves me as the middle-aged woman I'll be by then? And all
those years that I'll be getting older and older, there'll be Tanya, lively and
pretty, to remind me that I was once like that, too. I can't face it!"
"The watchguard will hear
you!" Haggard-faced, he watched her shaking shoulders, hearing her muffled
sobs.
"You're a criminal, Dr. Wong!
It was a crime, what you did to Tanya and me."
"I didn't realize in the
beginning or I'd never have touched the thing. I know it now, even better than
you do, but what can I do?"
She looked up and wiped her eyes,
her mouth set hard. "I know what I can do. I can report you to the
Leader."
"What good will that do? You
know how terrible you feel now about being left outthough I swear I never
meant it to be like this. But just try to imagine. If you report me so that Leader
Marley gets the secret of SDE, then thousands of people will be put in just the
same situation you are in. You're only one person suffering. But then there'd
be hundreds of thousand'', millions! Surely you wouldn't want to have that on
your conscience?"
"Do you think I'd care?"
"You would when you felt
calmer. You're wrought up, ill. Let me send you home. Promise me you'll go home
quietly, talk it over with Tanya, and not say anything to anyone else. I'll
think of a way out for you. Just be patient."
"Patient!"
He thought of calling Karl Haslam.
Karl would know best how to deal with her, how to bring her back to reason. He
reached toward the intercom, then dropped his hand in despair. Karl was in the
hospital, with Faurë and Hudson, shivering with the cold of Blue Martian fever.
But he had to get her away.
He pressed the intercom dial.
"Dr. Wong speaking. Miss Hachovnik is ill and is being sent home. Please
send an aircab for her at once."
He helped Leah to her feet, and spoke
pleadingly. "Promise you'll be good, Leah?"
The fury in her eyes nearly
knocked him down. Without a word, without a gesture, she walked out.
David felt as though he'd been put
through a wringer as he followed Officer Magnun into the Leader's suite at
State House. Several nights of sleeplessness, the worries of planning for a
refuge, and the scene with Leah had left him limp and spiritless. The girl was
a danger, he knew, but she was only one of many.
He nodded at Dr. Lanza, who was
busy reading reports from BureauMed, and saluted Leader Marley, who was talking
with a watchguard.
Marley looked up briefly.
"Sit down, Wong."
David folded himself into a chair,
grateful for a few moments in which to collect himself, while Marley gave the
last of his orders.
"Put them in the Vermont
granite quarries, and keep them at work for the next year."
"As you say, Leader. With the
usual secrecy, of course?"
"No, you blockhead! These are
a bunch of nobodies. Use all the publicity you can get. Keep a punishment a
secret and how can it have any effect on other people? No, I want full radio
and news coverage and telecast showings as they swing the first pick at the
first rocks. People have got to realize that the Leader knows best, that
treason doesn't pay. No matter how clever they think they are, they'll always
get caught. Understand?"
"As you say, Leader."
"Then get going." As the
guard left the room, Leader Marley turned to David. "What fools people
are!"
He ran his beefy hands through a
shock of black hair, blinked his eyes, and wrinkled the heavy black brows that
met over his nose. Wonderingly, he shook his massive head as he drew his
gleaming needler from his breast pocket and played with it, tossing it from
hand to hand while he talked.
"I'm probably the most generous
Leader the State has had since the Atomic Wars, Wong, and I never withhold a
privilege from someone who has deserved it. But people mistake me when they
think that I am weak and will overlook treason."
"Your generosity is a byword,
Leader Marley," said Wong. "But some people are incapable of acting
for their best interests even when you have defined it for them. Who are these
latest traitors?"
"Oh, nobody really important,
of course, except as they waste time which they owe to the State. Just attempts
at illegal study. An Office Category who had found a basement room in a deserted
building and was spending all his evening hours there practicing the violin. A
Theater man who was illegally trying to learn carpentry. And a teacher of
mathematics who had forged a key to the Linguistics library, and had been
getting in every night to study a dead languageCuneiform, Latin, something
like that, utterly without practical value. This last one is an old man, too,
and ought to have known better. People must be made to realize that if they
want the privilege of useless study, they will have to earn it. And I am very
broadminded in such cases."
"Nobody has better reason to
know that than I, Leader Marley, and I am always grateful to you."
Marley coughed and straightened
the jacket over his bearlike chest as he put back his needler.
"Now to business. Where's
that memorandum, Lanza?"
Dr. Lanza handed him the paper,
then sat down beside the Leader.
"First. When Dr. Lanza called
on you last week, he found the door to your office locked. What explanation do
you have?"
David smiled and spread his hands.
"My explanation is the generosity of Leader Marley. You have so many
affairs to occupy your attention that it is not surprising that you do not
remember rewarding me with a Free Choice some years ago, for my work on
Martian Blue. I chose, as I am sure you remember now, an occasional hour of
Privacy."
The Leader blinked. "That's
right. I had forgotten. Well, the Leader never goes back on his word. Though
why in the name of Marley you fellows want a crazy thing like that is beyond
me. What do you do, behind a locked door, that you don't want anyone to
see?"
"Do you doubt my loyalty,
Leader Marley?"
"I doubt everything. What do
you want with Privacy?"
Lanza broke in amiably. "I'm
afraid we just have to accept such wishes as one of the harmless abnormalities
of the Research mind, Leader. Since I grew up in that Category, I understand
it to some extent."
"You're right in calling it
abnormal. I think perhaps I'd better remove that from the possible Choices in
the future. It could easily be misused, and it never did make any sense to me.
"Well, second. It's been more
than three years since you reported any progress with the problem of White
Martian Fever, Wong. What is your explanation?"
"Research is not always
swift, Leader."
"But I distinctly ordered you
to find an immunizing agent within three years. Our colonies on Mars cannot
wait forever. I've been patient with you, but you've had more than enough
time."
"I am very sorry, Leader
Marley. I have done my best and so have my colleagues. But the problem is
complex. If I may explain, we had to find a suitable culture medium for
growing the virus, and then we had to work at the problem of coupling it with
suitable haptens"
Impatiently, Marley waved his
hand. "You know I don't understand your jargon. That's not my business,
what troubles you've had. I want results. You got results on Blue Martian quickly
enough."
"We were fortunate. But when
we storm the citadel of knowledge, Leader Marley, no one can predict how long
it will take for the citadel to fall."
"Nonsense! I'm warning you,
Wong, you're failing in your duty to the State, and you can't escape the
consequences with poetic doubletalk. I allow special privileges to you people
in Research and I expect a proper appreciation in return. When I order you to
produce a protection for White Martian, I want results!"
"But you can't get a thing
like that just by asking for it. Such things are simply not under your
control."
"Watch yourself, Wong! Your
remarks are dangerously close to treason!"
"Is it treason to tell you a
plain fact?"
Stony-faced, David stared
defiantly at Marley, trying to control the trembling of his body. If he had
had a needler at that instant, he realized incredulously, he would have shot
the Leader and thought his own life a small price to pay for such a pleasure.
Lanza coughed. "I'm afraid
Dr. Wong is not well, Leader. Worrying over the slowness of his work has
distorted his reactions. But I am sure that you will understand, as you always
do, and be indulgent"
"I'll overlook your remarks,
Wong," said Marley, relaxing. "But you'd better change your attitude.
You Research people cause me more trouble than any other three Categories put
together. Sometimes I wonder if a spell in the granite quarries
mightn't"
A light flashed on his desk. He
watched the blinking code for a second, then rose abruptly and left the room.
The two men sat in silence. David
glanced at Lanza, and Lanza shifted in his chair.
"Thanks for the good
word," said David wearily. "How do you like being a Ruler, by the
way? When we were at Medschool together, I thought you were a man with
ideas."
"When I was at Medschool I
didn't know what was good for me," Lanza replied stiffly.
"And you think you do
now?"
A slow flush crept over Lanza's
face. "Look here, Wong! Each man has to make his own terms with himself.
Don't act so smug! You shut yourself away inside the nice white walls of your
laboratory and ignore all the conflicts of life. You shut your ears and your
eyes, live in perfect harmony with your test tubes, and let the world go hang.
Well, that isn't my way."
"Your way, apparently, is to
worm yourself into the confidence of that steel-hearted imbecile who rules our
lives and our thoughts, and spend twenty-four hours a day saying, 'Yes, Yes,'
and waiting for him to die so you can step into his shoes!"
"We're alone," said
Lanza. "I won't report you. But I have no intention of justifying myself.
Have you any idea why you've been let alone for so long? You haven't produced
anything tangible in several years. Haven't you ever wondered why no one put
on the pressure? Haven't"
He broke off as Marley lumbered
back into the room and fell into a chair. The Leader's manner had altered. He
stared at David with grim inquiry, the beady eyes traveling slowly over him,
taking in his rumpled hair, his strained face, the rigid set of his shoulders.
At last Marley spoke, his voice soft
with menace.
"You're looking well, Dr.
Wong. Remarkably well. In fact, it occurs to me that you don't seem to have
aged a bit since my last visit to your laboratory. Tell me, how do you keep
your youth?"
David could feel the rush of blood
through his body, feel the thud of his racing heart. He kept his voice low so
that it would not tremble.
"Thank you, Leader Marley,
for your kindness in noticing my appearance. I suppose I chose my parents well.
They both lived to be over ninety, you know."
"This is no joking matter.
I've just had a report. An epidemic of Blue Martian fever has broken out among
the people of your Institute. Why have you not mentioned it?"
"If you will forgive me,
Leader Marley, I've had no chance. I reported it in the usual manner to the
health authorities, and have here in my briefcase a memorandum which I hoped to
bring to your attention, among several other matters, when you had finished
giving your instructions to me."
Marley continued implacably,
"And how did this epidemic begin? It was my understanding that no insect
existed here on Earth that could transmit the virus. Yet several people from
your lab came down with the disease on the same day. What is your explanation?"
"It's very simple. To prepare
the vaccine, as I am sure you will remember from your last visit to us, we have
to keep in the lab a limited number of the Fafli, the Martian insects which act
as hosts at one stage of the virus's life. Last week a Menial carelessly
knocked over one of the cages and several Fafli escaped. The Menial was
discharged, of course, and put in Punishment, but the damage had already been
done."
"You have a very ready
explanation."
"Would you rather I had none
at all, Leader Marley?"
"Well, let that go."
Marley drummed his plump fingers on the desk as he continued. "There was
another report for me just now. A report so wild, so incredible, so staggering
that I can scarcely bring myself to take it seriously. From an Office Category
at the Institute."
David's heart beat wildly, but he
forced a smile to his lips. "Oh, yes. You must mean Miss Hachovnik. I've
been worried about that poor girl for some time."
"What do you mean, 'poor
girl'?"
"It's very distressing to me,
because she has been a good and loyal worker for many years. But she is
becoming unstable. She has a tendency to burst into tears over nothing, is
sometimes hysterical, seems to have secret grievances, and is extremely
jealous of all women whom she considers more attractive. She was never too
bright, to be sure, but until recently she has done her work well, so I've
hated to take any action. Just this morning I had to send her home because she
was ill."
"Do you mean to say,"
asked Marley, "that none of her story is true?"
"I don't know. What is her
story?"
"She reports that you have
been working on a private project of your own, instead of on White Martian.
That you have discovered a way to make people immortal, by infecting them with
Blue Martian. What is your explanation?"
David only stared, his mind so
blurred with panic that he could not speak. His stunned silence was broken by a
laugh. It was Dr. Lanza, leaning backward in his chair, holding himself over
the stomach as he shook his head.
"These hysterical
women!" His laughter trailed off to a commiserating chuckle. "You're
too forbearing, Wong. You shouldn't keep a worker who's so far gone. Take a
leaf from Leader Marley's book and remember: Kindness is often weakness; when
it is necessary for the good of the State, be harsh!"
"I hardly know what to
say," said David. "I had no idea she'd gone so far."
"Then there's no truth in
it?" Marley persisted. "What she says is impossible?"
"Well," said David
judiciously, "we people in Research have learned not to call anything impossible,
but this dream of immortality is as old as the human race. We have a thousand
legends about it, including the story of the Phoenix, that fabulous bird which,
when consumed by fire, rose triumphant from its own ashes to begin life anew. A
pretty story, of course. But I need only put it to a mind as logical as yours,
Leader Marley. Throughout all the millennia of man's existence, the Sun has always
risen each morning in the east, and thus we know that it always will. That is
the order of nature. Likewise, from the earliest generations of man, no
individual has ever lived longer than a hundred and some years, and thus we
know that he never will. That is the order of Nature and we can't alter it to
the best of my knowledge."
Leader Marley was thoughtful. He
touched the intercom. "Send in Officer Magnun."
David held his breath.
"Magnun, Office Category
Hachovnik is to be taken from her home at once and put in indefinite
Psychodetention."
Marley stood up. "Very well,
Dr. Wong. You may go. But I shall suspend your privilege of Privacy, at least
until after you have devised a protection against White Martian. It is not wise
to disregard the wishes of the Leader. Lanza, show him out."
At the street door, they paused.
Lanza looked at David speculatively.
"You do keep your youth well,
David."
"Some people do."
"I remember that legend of
the Phoenix. What do you suppose the Phoenix did with his new life, once he'd
risen from the ashes of his old self?"
"I'm no philosopher."
"Neither am I. But you and I
both know that the principle of induction was exploded centuries ago. It's true
that the Sun has always risen in the east. But is there anything to keep it,
someday, from rising in the west?"
That night David sat late at his
desk. Through the open door behind him, he could hear the watchguard slowly
pacing the dimly lit corridor. He could feel time pressing at his back. He was
reprieved, he knew, but for how long?
He got up, at one point, when the
corridor behind him was quiet, and went to the bookcase. He pressed the brass
handle, saw the shelves silently swing away from the wall, then set it back
again. The mechanism, installed a century ago by a cautious politician, was
still in good order.
Back at his desk, he thought of
Leah and her lost youth, lost because of his own impersonal attitude. He felt
sorry for her, but there was nothing he could do for her now. It was a relief
to know that Tanya, at least, remained hidden and secure in her sister's
apartment.
It was after midnight before he
closed his notebook and locked it away in the top drawer. His plans were completed.
There would not be time given him, he knew, to finish his work on White
Martian. That would have to be dropped, and resumed at some more favorable time
in the futureif there was a future for him. But he would begin at once to
produce in quantity a supply of the SDE-Blue Martian, for he was sure that the
untrained guards who watched his movements would never realize that he had
shifted to another project.
With a brief good night to the
guard, he left the building to walk home. His shoulders were straight, his
stride confident, and he disdained looking behind him to see if anyone was
following. He had made his terms with himself, and only death, which he would
certainly try to prevent, could alter his plans.
Going into his apartment he
wearily turned on the light. Then he froze, feeling as though he had been
clubbed. Leah Hachovnik was huddled at one end of the sofa, her face dripping
tears.
"I thought you'd never
come," she whispered.
He slumped down beside her.
"How did you get here, Leah? I thought you were"
"I hid in your hallway until
the watchguard was at the other end. When his back was turned, I just took off
my shoes and slipped in. I've been waiting for hours." Her voice was
almost inaudible, spent beyond emotion.
"They got Tanya," she
said dully. "They took her away." "What happened? Ouick!"
"After I reported to
BureauMedI'm sorry I did that, Dr. Wong, but I just couldn't help myself. I
didn't tell them about Tanya and the others, just about you. Then I walked
around for hours, hating you, hating Tanya, hating everybody. Finally I got so
tired that I went home. Just as I got into the hall, I heard a loud knock and I
saw Officer Magnun at my door. When Tanya opened it, he simply said, 'Office
Category Hachovnik?' When she nodded her head, he said, 'You're under detention.'
She screamed and she fought, but he took her away. Since then, I've been
hiding. I'm afraid."
David tried to think. He
remembered that he had said only "Miss Hachovnik" in his talk with
the Leader. Had Marley never known that there was more than one? But Lanza
surely knew. Or had he merely assumed that Magnun would ask for Leah? Would they
realize, at Psychodetention, that they had the wrong woman? Probably not, for
she would be hysterical with terror, and her very youth and beauty taken in
connection with the "jealousy and envy of younger women" which was
noted in her commitment order, would seem to confirm her madness. He was still
safe, for a whileif he could keep Leah away from the Institute.
"I'm afraid," she
whimpered. "Don't let them put me away." "Then you'll have to do
exactly as I tell you. Can you follow orders exactly?"
"Yes, yes!"
"I'll have to hide you here.
We can fix up my library as a room for you. It's the only room I can keep
locked, and which my Menial never enters in my absence. Whatever happens, Leah
no matter what happenskeep yourself hidden. More than your life depends on that."
When the three convalescents
returned from the hospital, pale and shaky, David summoned them to his office.
At the door, Watchguard Jones looked them over.
"Say, that Blue Martian fever
sure does take it out of you. You fellows look like you've been plenty
sick!"
"They have been," said
David. "Let them by so they can sit down and rest."
Jones moved aside, but he lounged
in the doorway, listening.
David ignored him. "Glad to
see you back, gentlemen. I'll make this brief. You have been the victims of a
laboratory accident just as much as if you'd been contaminated with radiation.
Our Leader Marley, who understands the problems of all Categories, has very
generously consented to grant you a two weeks' convalescence, in addition to a
Free Choice. Take a few minutes to think over your decision."
He strolled over to the window and
looked out at the green of the trees just bursting into leaf. Then, as if on
impulse, he turned back.
"While you're thinking it
over, will you look at these protocols? We discussed them before you got sick,
you remembera plan to prevent an epidemic of Blue Martian. Do you approve of
the final form? I'd like to carry on, and after all," he added with an
ironic smile, "it's getting later than we might think."
He handed each man a sheet of
paper whose contents were identical. They studied them. Karl Haslam was the
first to speak.
"You think, then, that other
cases of Blue Martian may develop?"
"It is certainly probable.
Those Fafli insects were never caught."
Karl looked back at his paper. It
contained a list of names, some of which were well known to all the country,
some of them obscure. Thoughtfully, he nodded as he ran down the list.
Hudson glanced up, frowning, his
finger pointed at one name.
"I don't know," he said
slowly, "that this particular experiment would prove useful. Surely the
Lanza method has not proved to be as effective as we once hoped."
"You may be right. But
there's the bare possibility that the modified Lanza method might be of
enormous benefit to us."
"It is uncertain. Too much of
a risk. That's my opinion."
"Then I'll reconsider. The
rest has your approval? Very well. And now what choice have you made for your
holiday?"
"I think we are all
agreed," said Karl soberly. "We'll have an Aimless Tramp."
"An excellent idea,"
approved David. "Oh, Jones, will you get an aircab to take the doctors to
BureauMed, and then arrange for their Roboplanes to be serviced and ready in an
hour?"
"I don't know as I ought to
leave my post," said Jones.
"You'd rather stay with us
and perhaps be exposed to the Fever?"
"Okay, okay!"
When his footsteps had died away,
David leaned forward. "We've done our best. Another month or so and we
should be completely ready for our retirement act."
"If we have a month,"
said Faure.
David grinned. "Well, if our
time runs out, at least we'll go down fighting. You know all your lines, your
props are ready, the plot is worked out, and we can slip into our makeup in an
instant provided the audience shows up."
"You're getting to be quite a
joker, David," said Karl. "What if the audience comes around to the
stage door?"
"Then we'll try to receive
him properly. Our Leader is a man of iron, but I doubt that lie's
immortal."
They heard the approaching guard.
"I'm sure you'll benefit from
your holiday," David went on. "That last checkup showed an antibody
titer entirely too high for safety."
"In other words, it's time
for us to get going?" asked Karl, smiling.
"That's right. Only the next
time the antibody curve rises, it will be for keeps."
Four days later it was reported
that Judge Brinton, the well-known champion of Category rights, was ill with
Blue Martian fever. Three little-known nuclear physicists living in the same department
in Oak Ridge developed symptoms on the same day. Sporadic cases of Blue Martian
flared up all over the continent. Occasionally a whole family was
affectedhusband, wife, and all the children. There was a mild epidemic at MIT,
a more serious one at the School of Social Structure, and at Harvard Medical
School nearly a third of the senior class, and they the most brilliant, were
hospitalized at the same time.
Rumors blanketed the country like
a fog, and people everywhere became uneasy. There were no deaths from the
illness, but the very idea that an infectious disease could flare up unpredictably
all over the nation, out of control, was frightening. It was said that the
disease had been beamed to Earth by alien enemies from space; that all its
victims became sterile; or that their minds were permanently damaged.
It was also said, though people
laughed even as they repeated the rumor, that if you once had Blue Martian
Fever you'd become immortal. This particular theory had been clearly traced to
the ravings of a red-haired madwoman who was confined to Psychodetention, but
still it was too ridiculous not to repeat. For a week, comedians rang a hundred
changes on the basic joke:
Wife: Drop dead!
Husband: I can't. I've had Blue
Martian.
The unrest became so great that
Leader Marley himself appeared on the telecaster to reassure the nation.
He was an impressive figure on the
lighted screen, resting solid and at ease in a leather chair, raising his
massive black head, lifting his big hand to gesture as his rich voice rolled
out.
"You have nothing to
fear," he said. "Under your beneficent Leaders, infectious disease
has been wiped out many years ago. BureauMed informs me that these scattered
cases of Blue Martian fever have been caused by the escape of a few Fafli
insects, which have, since then, been isolated and destroyed. The illness has
no serious after-effects. And as for the rumors that it confers
immortality"
He allowed his face to break into
a pitying smile as he slowly shook his head, looking regretful and yet somehow
amused.
"Those who continue to spread
gossip about the fever will only reveal themselves as either psychotics or
traitors. Whichever they are, they will be isolated for the good of our
society."
The effect of his words was
somewhat diminished by the brief glimpse people had of Dr. Lanza, who reached a
hand to help the Leader rise. For Dr. Lanza wore an anxious frown, and his face
was thin with worry.
In spite of numerous arrests, the
rumors continued. For two weeks sporadic outbreaks of the fever occurred, and
then, abruptly, they ceased.
It was more than a week after the
last case had been reported that David sat in his basement laboratory beside
the opened mouse cage, watching with wry affection as the furry creatures
crawled over his hand. These were historic mice, he reflected, whose reactions
to SDE had opened up a new world, a world which he must somehow help to make
better than the present one.
His three colleagues had returned
a few days ago from their holiday. They had calmly come back to work, and
apparently nobody had thought to put two and two together, and thus connect
the epidemic with the vacationers. It had been unfortunate that Tanya should
have been put under arrest; it was difficult trying to find amusement for Leah
so that she would keep out of sight, but still, on the whole, their luck had
been good.
But it was time for David to go
back to work in his office. Gently he detached the mice from his hand, dropped
them into their cage, and closed the wire trap. He took his leather pencil case
and the keys to his desk from the pocket of his lab coat and laid them on the
desk, below the nail on which his wristwatch hung. Carelessly he dropped his
lab coat onto the desk and reached for his jacket, then paused, listening.
The chatter in the technicians'
room suddenly died. In the unnatural quiet sounded a steady march of feet.
David turned to meet the probing
black eyes of Leader Marley. Just behind him were Dr. Lanza and Officer
Magnun.
There was no time to conceal his
mice, David realized. Shrugging into his jacket, he strode forward without
hesitation, a smile on his face, and stretched out his hand.
"Leader Marley! This is
indeed an honor. If you had only notified us of your visit, we should have been
prepared." "Young as ever, I see, Wong."
"Thank you, Leader."
There was no banter in Marley's eyes, he noted, but he continued amiably.
"It has been some years since you have honored us by a visit in person.
I'm afraid a laboratory is not a very exciting place, but I'd be honored to
show you anything that may be of interest to you."
A faint contempt curled Marley's
mouth as he glanced around the room. "Nothing to see that I haven't seen
before, is there? A lot of test tubes, a bunch of flasks, a mess of apparatus
you'd think had been dreamed up by an idiot, and a bad smell. You still keep
animals, I notice."
He sauntered over to the bench,
picked up the cage and looked at the scurrying rodents.
David scarcely breathed.
Marley only nodded. "Well,
mice are mice." He put down the cage and turned away. "These look
just like the ones I saw when I was here eight or ten years ago. Same white
patch on the forelimbs. I never knew mice could live that long."
"But" began Lanza,
bending over to study the mice.
"What an amazing memory you
have, Leader," said David. "Just as you guessed, these mice are the
direct descendants of the ones you saw on your former visit, a special mutant
strain. The chief difference is that these are marked with white patches on the
right forelimbs, while, as I am sure you recall, the original specimens were
marked on the left forelimbs. Odd how these marks run in families, isn't
it?"
Lanza put down the cage and
strolled toward the door as Marley took a last bored look around.
"Nothing new here that I
ought to see, Lanza?"
"No. Nothing new."
"Well, I've no time to waste.
I've come here for two reasons, Dr. Wong. We both want a booster shot for Blue
Martian. Ten years is a long time, and there's been this epidemic."
"Which is now under
control."
"That may be, but I still
want a booster. You Research people don't always know as much as you think you
do. When that's done, I want a detailed report of your progress on White Martian."
"I shall be happy to give
it," said David. "If you will go directly to my office, I'll pick up
the vaccine and syringes, and be with you in a few minutes."
Marley and Officer Magnun marched
to the door, and David followed, standing aside to let Lanza precede him. Lanza
hesitated there, staring at the floor. Then he smiled and looked directly at
David.
"Beautiful spring weather we
are having. I'm wondering about the marvelous order of nature. Did you happen
to notice, this morning, whether the Sun did actually rise in the east?"
David stared at the retreating
back. There was no longer any doubt in his mind. Lanza knew. What was he going
to do?
"Hurry up, Doctor," said
Officer Magnun from the doorway.
"Right away." He opened
the refrigerator and inspected the two groups of red-capped vials sitting on
the shelf. He had no time to think, no time to weigh pros and cons; he could
only act. Choosing two vials, he added them to the sterile kit from the
autoclave, and took a last look around.
He noticed his watch still hanging
on the wall, and the lab coat which covered his leather pencil case. He started
to take them, then slowly dropped his hand and touched the intercom.
"Get me Dr. Karl
Haslam."
"You're keeping the Leader
waiting," said Magnun, but David paid no attention.
"Dr. Haslam? Dr. Wong
speaking. I may be a little late getting up to see those precipitates of
yours. But you keep them simmering, just in case. It's very probable that the
antibody curve will rise. . . Yes, I'll let you know if I can."
Magnun followed him to the office,
then strolled away for a chat with Watchguard Jones.
David put his things on his desk
and made his preparations in businesslike fashion while Marley and Lanza
glanced curiously around the office. He watched apprehensively as Marley inspected
the bookcase, then turned away.
"I never could understand why
Research needs so many books," he remarked.
"Please roll up your sleeve,
Leader Marley. I'm ready for you now."
Deftly he assembled the syringe,
filled it to the two centimeter mark, and scrubbed the arm presented to him.
"Ready?" He inserted the
needle and slowly expelled the fluid. Then, taking a fresh syringe, he repeated
the operation, filling from the second vial.
"Why do those bottles have
different numbers?" asked Marley. "Aren't we getting the same
thing?"
"Certainly. Just lab routine,
so we can keep track of how many units have been used from our stock. There,
that does it, Lanza. Both of you will be perfectly safe for a good many years
to come."
He was washing his hands at the
sink when he heard a struggle at the door. Turning, he saw Leah, thin, gaunt
and terrified, held fast in the grip of Officer Magnun, who forced her inside
and slammed the door behind them.
"What's the meaning of this
intrusion?" demanded Marley.
"There's some funny business
going on, Leader," said Magnun. "I caught this woman trying to sneak
in here. She says she's Miss Hachovnik and she works here. Only she ain't. I arrested
Miss Hachovnik myself, and I remember well enough what she looked like. She was
a cute chick, not a bit like this dame."
Marley was staring at the sobbing
girl, eyes blinking as he thought, looked back, remembered. Slowly his eyes
shifted to David, and David felt like a man impaled.
"You may leave, Magnun,"
said the Leader.
"You don't want me to arrest
this woman?"
"Let go of her! I said you
may leave!"
"As you say, Leader."
When the door closed, the room
throbbed to Leah's sobs.
"I couldn't help it, Dr.
Wong," she cried. "I got so bored, sitting and looking at those books,
day after day, with nothing to do! I thought I'd just slip down here for an
hour and say hello to people, and"
"Quiet, Hachovnik!"
roared Marley. He quieted his voice. "I understand now, Wong. I remember.
There were two girls. Twins. The one in Psychodetention, according to Officer
Magnun, is still beautiful and young. It's no use, Wong. You do know the
secret of immortality. And you told me the Phoenix was only a fairy tale!"
David felt entirely calm. Whatever
might happen now, at least the suspense was over. He had done all he could, and
it was a relief to have things in the open. He thought fleetingly of his
colleagues, alerted by his message, frantically putting their plans into
operation, but he leaned back against the sink with every appearance of ease.
"You're not quite right,
Leader Marley. I cannot confer immortality. All I am able to do is stave off
the aging process."
"That will do me nicely. And
it's connected somehow with the Blue Martian virus?"
"Yes. The disease serves as
the vehicle."
With a brisk motion, Marley drew
his needler from his breast pocket and aimed it steadily at David. "Give
it to me!"
"You're rather
ambiguous," said David. How were his friends getting along? Were they
ready yet? Had Karl visited the basement lab? "Do you mean you want me to
give you the injection to prolong your life, or the secret of how to do it, or
what?"
"Don't quibble! First you'll
give me the injection to make me immortal. Then you'll turn over to me all your
notes on procedure. Then my friend here will needle you with a shaft of electrons
and end your interest in the problem."
"Surely you won't keep such a
good thing all for yourself," said David. "What about Dr. Lanza? He's
your right-hand man. Don't you want him to live forever, too? What about Officer
Magnun? He's a faithful servant."
"You're stalling, Wong. Do
you want me to kill you now?"
"It won't be wise to needle
me yet, Leader Marley. The secret would be lost forever."
"I'll have your notes!"
"Yes? Try to read them.
They're written in Coptic, a dead language that you consider it a waste of time
to learn, because such knowledge is impractical. There aren't half a dozen men
on Earth who could make head or tail of my notebook."
"Then I'll find that
half-dozen! I want the injection." He gestured with the gleaming weapon.
"This is once when I have no
Free Choice," said David. "Very well." He started toward the
door, but halted at the roar of command.
"Stop! Do you think I'm fool
enough to let you out of my sight?"
"But I have to get the
inoculant."
"Use the intercom. Send for
it."
David slumped into the chair and
opened the intercom. He could almost feel the electronic shaft of the needier
ripping into his body. His heart beat wildly, and the tension of adrenalin ran
through his body. His lips felt cold, but he held them steady as he spoke into
the dial.
"Get me Dr. Haslam. . . Karl?
David Wong speaking. Will you send someone up with a vial of phoenix special?
The precipitates? I should say the antibody titer has reached the danger
point. Don't delay treatment any longer."
Silently they waited. Marley's
grim face did not relax; his eyes were alight. Leah lay back in her chair with
closed eyes, and Lanza stared intently at the floor.
A soft knock came at the door, and
a female technician hurried in, carrying a tray.
"I'm sorry to be so slow, Dr.
Wong. Dr. Haslam had a little trouble locating the right vial. Oh, and he said
to tell you not to worry about those precipitates. They're taken care of."
"Just a minute," said
David. "Leader Marley, Miss Hachovnik here is very ill. Won't you let
this girl help her to the rest room? She'll be safe there until you're ready
for her."
Marley looked at the half-fainting
woman. "All right. You take her there, Lanza, and this girl too. Lock them
in. And she's not to talk. Do you understand? She's not to talk!"
"As you say, Leader
Marley," the technician whispered. She helped Leah to her feet, and Lanza
followed them from the room.
Marley closed the door and locked
it. "Now, then, Wong, give me that shot, and heaven help you if you try
any tricks!"
"Will you bare your arm while
I prepare the syringe?"
Awkwardly hanging onto the
needler, Marley tugged at his sleeve while David calmly picked up a bottle of
colorless liquid and filled his syringe. He turned to the Leader, swabbed his
arm, then picked up the syringe.
"There you are," said
David.
Jerking the syringe upward, he
forced a thin jet of pure alcohol into the man's eyes. Marley screamed.
Agonizing pain blinded him, and as he clutched at his eyes, David snatched the
needler from the writhing fingers, and flashed the electronic dagger straight
to the heart.
He stared at the twitching body
for only an instant. People were pounding on the door, shouting. He tugged at
the desk drawer to get his notebook, then remembered sickly that he had left
his keys in the lab. He would have to leave his notes.
The shouts were growing louder,
people were battering the door. Swiftly he moved to the bookcase, swung it away
from the wall, and dropped into darkness.
He brought the bookcase back, then
turned and ran along the black passageway.
Leader Lanza sat in his suite at
State House, conferring with his subordinates.
"It hardly seems possible,
Magnun, that so many people could have slipped through your fingers without
help from the Military. You say both the Hachovnik twins have
disappeared?"
"Yes, Leader."
"And how many people from the
Institute?"
"Six, Leader. But it didn't
do them any good. We got them, all right."
"But you found no
bodies!"
"They wouldn't have bodies
after we got through with them, Leader."
"You're quite certain,
Officer Magnun, that all the fugitives were destroyed?"
Lanza looked tired, and his
officers noticed in him a lack of firmness, an indecision, to which they were
not accustomed in a Leader.
"Say, those babies never had
a chance, Leader. We picked up their roboplanes somewhere over Kansas, and we
shot them out of the air like ducks. They didn't even fire back. They just
crashed, burned, disintegrated. They won't give you any more trouble. Why, we
even picked up the remains of Doc Wong's wristwatch and that old beat-up pencil
case of his." He flung them on the desk.
Lanza fingered the charred and
molten relics.
"That will do, Magnun. I'll
call you when I need you."
"Say, ain't you feeling well,
Leader? You look kind of green." "That will be all, Magnun!"
"As you say, Leader."
Lanza shoved aside the charred
remnants and spread out the papers waiting for him, the unimportant,
miscellaneous notes accumulated over the years by Hudson, Faure, and Haslam.
And the unreadable notebook of David Wong. He sighed and looked up as his
secretary entered.
"I'm sorry to disturb you,
Leader. You look tired."
"The funeral this morning was
quite an ordeal, and so much has happened the last three days!"
"Well, I thought you ought to
know that strange reports are coming in. Some of our most prominent citizens
have disappeared. We're trying to trace them, of course, but"
"Anything more?"
"Those rumors about Blue Martian
are cropping up again."
"Yes? And?"
"That old man you asked me to
bring from the Vermont quarries, the one who was detained for illegal study of
the Coptic language? Well, I guess the excitement of his release was too much
for him. He died of a heart attack when he was being taken to the plane."
Lanza sighed. "Very well,
that will be all."
Alone at last, he looked sadly
through the pages of David's notebook, at the tantalizing curls and angles of
the Coptic letters, cryptic symbols of a discovery which prevented a man from
growing old. Well, no one could read them now. That secret was dead, along with
its discoverer, because, in this world, no study was permitted without a
practical end in view. And perhaps it was just as well. Could any man be trusted,
he wondered, to deal wisely with a power so great?
After closing the notebook, he
dropped his head into his hands.
How his head ached! He felt cold,
suddenly, and his whole body began to shake with a hard chill. He lifted his
head, his vision blurred, and suddenly he knew.
He had Blue Martian fever!
Teeth chattering, he paced wildly
about the room, puzzling things out, trying to remember. That booster shot! And
then he realized the amazing truth: David Wong had given him a chance! He had
inoculated him with the seeds of immortality, giving him a chance to help right
the wrongs of this Categorized world. And now he was left alone in a world of
mortals. David and the others had been annihilated, and he was left to live on
and on alone.
He staggered toward his private
apartments, then sank into his chair as his secretary once again ran into the
room. With a supreme effort he controlled his trembling.
"Yes?"
"Leader Lanza. Another
report."
"Just a minute," said
Lanza, trying to bring his eyes into focus on the excited girl. "I am in
need of a rest. As soon as you have gone, I shall retire into seclusion for a
few days. There are to be no interruptions. Is that clear? Now, proceed."
"There's a new epidemic of
Martian Fever reported where one never was before."
He stirred tiredly. "Where
now?"
"South America. Somewhere in
the Andes."
"I think we'll have just one
Category after this," said Lanza dreamily. "Category Phoenix."
"What did you say,
Leader?"
His thoughts wandered. No wonder
Magnun's men found no bodies. The planes they shot down were roboplanes, after
all, and it was easy to plant in an empty seat a man's wristwatch and his bulky
leather pencil case. David and the others were safe now. They were free and had
enough time to plan for the new free world.
"What did you say,
Leader?" the girl repeated, bewildered.
"Nothing. It doesn't matter." He frowned painfully, and then
shrugged. "On second thought, I may be away longer than a week. If anyone
asks for me, say I'm on an Aimless Tramp. I've always hoped that some day I
might earn the right to a Free Choice."
"But you're the Leader,"
the girl said in astonishment. "You're entitled to all the Free Choices
you want!"
He lifted his twitching head,
smiling wanly. "It would seem that way, wouldn't it? Well, whether I am or
not, I think I've really earned a Free Choice. I wonder," he said in a
wistful voice, "whether the climate in the Andes is hospitable."
SURFACE TENSION
by James Blish
Dr. Chatvieux took a long look
over the microscope, leaving la Ventura with nothing to do but look out at the
dead landscape of Hydrot. Waterscape, he thought, would be a better word. The
new world had shown only one small, triangular continent, set amid endless
ocean; and even the continent was mostly swamp.
The wreck of the seed-ship lay
broken squarely across the one real spur of rock Hydrot seemed to possess,
which reared a magnificent twenty-one feet above sea-level. From this eminence,
la Ventura could see forty miles to the horizon across a flat bed of mud. The
red light of the star Tau Ceti, glinting upon thousands of small lakes, pools,
ponds, and puddles, made the watery plain look like a mosaic of onyx and ruby.
"If I were a religious
man," the pilot said suddenly, "I'd call this a plain case of divine
vengeance."
Chatvieux said. "Hmm?"
"It's as if we've been
struck down foris it hubris, arrogant pride?"
"Well, is it?"
Chatvieux said, looking up at last. "I don't feel exactly swollen with
pride at the moment. Do you?"
"I'm not exactly proud of my
piloting," la Ventura admitted. "But that isn't quite what I meant.
I was thinking about why we came here in the first place. It takes arrogant
pride to think that you can scatter men, or at least things like men, all over
the face of the Galaxy. It takes even more pride to do the jobto pack up all
the equipment and move from planet to planet and actually make men suitable for
every place you touch."
"I suppose it does,"
Chatvieux said. "But we're only one of several hundred seed-ships in this
limb of the Galaxy, so I doubt that the gods picked us out as special
sinners." He smiled drily. "If they had, maybe they'd have left us
our ultraphone, so the Colonization Council could hear about our cropper.
Besides, Paul, we try to produce men adapted to Earthlike planets, nothing
more. We've sense enoughhumility enough, if you liketo know that we can't
adapt men to Jupiter or to Tau Ceti."
"Anyhow, we're here,"
la Ventura said grimly. "And we aren't going to get off. Phil tells me
that we don't even have our germ-cell bank any more, so we can't seed this
place in the usual way. We've been thrown onto a dead world and dared to adapt
to it. What are the panatropes going to doprovide built-in waterwings?"
"No," Chatvieux said
calmly. "You and I and the rest of us are going to die, Paul. Panatropic
techniques don't work on the body, only on the inheritance-carrying factors. We
can't give you built-in waterwings, any more than we can give you a new set of
brains. I think we'll be able to populate this world with men, but we won't
live to see it."
The pilot thought about it, a
lump of cold collecting gradually in his stomach. "How long do you give
us?" he said at last.
"Who knows? A month,
perhaps."
The bulkhead leading to the
wrecked section of the ship was pushed back, admitting salty, muggy air, heavy
with carbon dioxide. Philip Strasvogel, the communications officer, came in,
tracking mud. Like la Ventura, he was now a man without a function, but it did
not appear to bother him. He unbuckled from around his waist a canvas belt into
which plastic vials were stuffed like cartridges.
"More samples, Doc," he
said. "All alikewater, very wet. I have some quicksand in one boot, too.
Find anything?"
"A good deal, Phil. Thanks.
Are the others around?"
Strasvogel poked his head out and
hallooed. Other voices rang out over the mudflats. Minutes later, the rest of
the survivors were crowding into the panatrope deck: Saltonstall, Chatvieux's
senior assistant; Eunice Wagner, the only remaining ecologist; Eleftherios
Venezuelos, the delegate from the Colonization Council; and Joan Heath, a
midshipman whose duties, like la Ventura's and Strasvogel's, were now without
meaning.
Five men and two womento colonize
a planet on which standing room meant treading water.
They came in quietly and found
seats or resting places on the deck, on the edges of tables, in corners.
Venezuelos said: "What's the
verdict, Dr. Chatvieux?"
"This place isn't
dead," Chatvieux said. "There's life in the sea and in the fresh
water, both. On the animal side of the ledger, evolution seems to have stopped
with the crustacea; the most advanced form I've found is a tiny crayfish, from
one of the local rivulets. The ponds and puddles are well-stocked with protozoa
and small metazoans, right up to a wonderfully variegated rotifer populationincluding
a castle-building rotifer like Earth's Floscularidae. The plants run
from simple algae to the thalluslike species."
"The sea is about the same,"
Eunice said, "I've found some of the larger simple metazoansjellyfish and
so on and some crayfish almost as big as lobsters. But it's normal to find
salt-water species running larger than freshwater."
"In short," Chatvieux
said, "we'll survive hereif we fight."
"Wait a
minute," la Ventura said. "You've just finished telling me
that we wouldn't survive. And you were talking about us, not about the species,
because we don't have our germ-cell banks any more. What's"
"I'll get to that in a
moment," Chatvieux said. "Saltonstall, what would you think of taking
to the sea? We came out of it once; maybe we could come out of it again."
"No good," Saltonstall
said immediately. "I like the idea, but I don't think this planet ever
heard of Swinburne, or Homer, either. Looking at it as a colonization problem,
as if we weren't involved ourselves, I wouldn't give you a credit for epi
oinopa ponton. The evolutionary pressure there is too high, the competition
from other species is prohibitive; seeding the sea would be the last thing we
attempt. The colonists wouldn't have a chance to learn a thing before they were
destroyed."
"Why?" la Ventura said.
The death in his stomach was becoming hard to placate.
"Eunice, do your seagoing
Coelenterates include anything like the Portuguese man-of-war?"
The ecologist nodded.
"There's your answer,
Paul," Saltonstall said. "The sea is out. It's got to be fresh water,
where the competing creatures are less formidable and there are more places to
hide."
"We can't compete with a
jellyfish?" la Ventura asked, swallowing.
"No, Paul," Chatvieux
said. "The panatropes make adaptations, not gods. They take human
germ-cellsin this case, our own, since our bank was wiped out in the crashand
modify them toward creatures who can live in any reasonable environment. The
result will be manlike and intelligent. It usually shows the donor's
personality pattern, too.
"But we can't transmit
memory. The adapted man is worse than a child in his new environment. He
has no history, no techniques, no precedents, not even a language. Ordinarily
the seeding teams more or less take him through elementary school before they
leave the planet, but we won't survive long enough for that. We'll have to
design our colonists with plenty of built-in protections and locate them in the
most favorable environment possible, so that at least some of them will survive
the learning process."
The pilot thought about it, but
nothing occurred to him which did not make the disaster seem realer and more
intimate with each passing second. "One of the new creatures
can have my personality pattern, but it won't be able to remember being me. Is
that right?"
"That's it. There may be
just the faintest of residuums panatropy's given us some data which seem to
support the old Jungian notion of ancestral memory. But we're all going to die
on Hydrot, Paul. There's no avoiding that. Somewhere we'll leave
behind people who behave as we would, think and feel as we would, but who won't
remember la Ventura, or Chatyieux, or Joan Heathor Earth."
The pilot said nothing more.
There was a gray taste in his mouth.
"Saltonstall, what do you
recommend as a form?"
The panatropist pulled
reflectively at his nose. "Webbed extremities, of course, with thumbs and
big toes heavy and thornlike for defense until the creature has had a chance to
learn. Book-lungs, like the arachnids, working out of intercostal
spiraclesthey are gradually adaptable to atmosphere-breathing, if it ever
decides to come out of the water. Also I'd suggest sporulation. As an aquatic animal,
our colonist is going to have an indefinite lifespan, but we'll have to give it
a breeding cycle of about six weeks to keep its numbers up during the learning
period; so there'll have to be a definite break of some duration in its active
year. Otherwise it'll hit the population problem before it's learned enough to
cope with it."
"Also, it'll be better if
our colonists could winter inside a good hard shell," Eunice Wagner
added in agreement. "So sporulation's the obvious answer. Most microscopic
creatures have it."
"Microscopic?" Phil
said incredulously.
"Certainly," Chatvieux
said, amused. "We can't very well crowd a six-foot man into a two-foot
puddle. But that raises a question. We'll have tough competition from the
rotifers, and some of them aren't strictly microscopic. I don't think your
average colonist should run under 25 microns, Saltonstall. Give them a chance
to slug it out."
"I was thinking of making
them twice that big."
"Then they'd be the biggest
things in their environment," Eunice Wagner pointed out, "and won't
ever develop any skills. Besides, if you make them about rotifer size, I'll
give them an incentive for pushing out the castle-building rotifers.
"They'll be able to take
over the castles as dwellings."
Chatvieux nodded. "All
right, let's get started. While the panatropes are being calibrated, the rest
of us can put our heads together on leaving a record for these people. We'll
micro-engrave the record on a set of corrosion-proof metal leaves, of a size
our colonists can handle conveniently. Some day they may puzzle it out."
"Question," Eunice
Wagner said. "Are we going to tell them they're microscopic? I'm opposed
to it. It'll saddle their entire early history with a gods-and-demons mythology
they'd be better off without."
"Yes, we are,"
Chatvieux said; and la Ventura could tell, by the change in the tone
of his voice that he was speaking now as their senior. "These people will
be of the race of men, Eunice. We want them to win their way back to the
community of men. They are not toys, to be protected from the truth forever in
a fresh-water womb."
"I'll make that
official," Venezuelos said, and that was that.
And then, essentially, it was all
over. They went through the motions. Already they were beginning to be hungry.
After la Ventura had had his personality pattern recorded, he was out of it. He
sat by himself at the far end of the ledge, watching Tau Ceti go redly down,
chucking pebbles into the nearest pond, wondering morosely which nameless
puddle was to be his Lethe.
He never found out, of course.
None of them did.
I
Old Shar set down the heavy metal
plate at last, and gazed instead out the window of the castle, apparently
resting his eyes on the glowing green-gold obscurity of the summer waters. In
the soft fluorescence which played down upon him, from the Noc dozing
impassively in the groined vault of the chamber, Lavon could see that he was in
fact a young man. His face was so delicately formed as to suggest that
it had not been many seasons since he had first emerged from his spore.
But of course there had been no
real reason to expect an old man. All the Shars had been referred to
traditionally as "old" Shar. The reason, like the reasons for
everything else, had been forgotten, but the custom had persisted; the
adjective at least gave weight and dignity to the office.
The present Shar belonged to the
generation XVI, and hence would have to be at least two seasons younger than
Lavon himself. If he was old, it was only in knowledge.
"Lavon, I'm going to have to
be honest with you," Shar said at last, still looking out of the tall,
irregular window. "You've come to me for the secrets of the metal plates,
just as your predecessors did to mine. I can give some of them to youbut for
the most part, I don't know what they mean."
"After so many
generations?" Lavon asked, surprised. "Wasn't it Shar III who first
found out how to read them? That was a long time ago."
The young man turned and looked
at Lavon with eyes made dark and wide by the depths into which they had been
staring. "I can read what's on the plates, but most of it seems to make no
sense. Worst of all, the plates are incomplete. You didn't know that? They are.
One of them was lost in a battle during the final war with the Eaters, while
these castles are still in their hands."
"What am I here for,
then?" Lavon said. "Isn`t there anything of value on the remaining
plates? Do they really contain `the wisdom of the Creators' or is that another
myth?"
"No. No, that's true,"
Shar said slowly, "as far as it goes."
He paused, and both men turned
and gazed at the ghostly creature which had appeared suddenly outside the
window. Then Shar said gravely, "Come in, Para."
The slipper-shaped organism,
nearly transparent except for the thousands of black-and-silver granules and
frothy bubbles which packed its interior, glided into the chamber and hovered,
with a muted whirring of cilia. For a moment it remained silent, probably
speaking telepathically to the Noc floating in the vault, after the ceremonious
fashion of all the protos. No human had ever intercepted one of these
colloquies, but there was no doubt about their reality: humans had used them
for long-range communications for generations.
Then the Para's cilia buzzed once
more. Each separate hairlike process vibrated at an independent, changing rate;
the resulting sound waves spread through the water, inter-modulating,
reinforcing or canceling each other. The aggregate wave-front, by the time it
reached human ears, was recognizable human speech.
"We are arrived, Shar and
Lavon, according to the custom."
"And welcome," said
Shar. "Lavon, let's leave this matter of the plates for a while, until you
hear what Para has to say; that's a part of the knowledge Lavons must have as
they come of age, and it comes before the plates. I can give you some hints of
what we are. First Para has to tell you something about what we aren't."
Lavon nodded, willingly enough,
and watched the proto as it settled gently to the surface of the hewn table at
which Shar and been sitting. There was in the entity such a perfection and
economy of organization, such a grace and surety of movement, that he could
hardly believe in his own new-won maturity. Para, like all the protos, made him
feel not, perhaps, poorly thought-out, but at least unfinished.
"We know that in this
universe there is logically no place for man," the gleaming now immoble
cylinder upon the table droned abruptly. "Our memory is the common
property to all our races. It reaches back to a time when there were no such
creatures as men here. It remembers also that once upon a day there were men
here, suddenly, and in some numbers. Their spores littered the bottom; we found
the spores only a short time after our season's Awakening, and in them we saw
the forms of men slumbering.
"Then men shattered their
spores and emerged. They were intelligent, active. And they were gifted with a
trait, a character, possessed by no other creature in this world. Not even the
savage Eaters had it. Men organized us to exterminate the Eaters and therein
lay the difference. Men had initiative. We have the word now, which you gave
us, and we apply it, but we still do not know what the thing is that it
labels."
"You fought beside us,"
Lavon said.
"Gladly. We would never have
thought of that war by ourselves, but it was good and brought good. Yet we
wondered. We saw that men were poor swimmers, poor walkers, poor crawlers, poor
climbers. We saw that men were formed to make and use tools, a concept we still
do not understand, for so wonderful a gift is largely wasted in this universe,
and there is no other. What good are tool-useful members such as the hands of
men? We do not know. It seems plain that so radical a thing should lead to a
much greater rulership over the world than has, in fact, proven to be possible
for men."
Lavon's head was spinning.
"Para, I had no notion that you people were philosophers."
"The protos are old,"
Shar said. He had again turned to look out the window, his hands locked behind
his back. "They aren't philosophers, Lavon but they are remorseless
logicians. Listen to Para."
"To this reasoning there
could be but one outcome," the Para said. "Our strange ally, Man, was
like nothing else in this universe. He was and is ill-fitted for it. He does
not belong here; he has beenadopted. This drives us to think that there are
other universes besides this one, but where these universes might lie, and what
their properties might be, it is impossible to imagine. We have no imagination,
as men know."
Was the creature being ironic?
Lavon could not tell. He said slowly: "Other universes? How could that be
true?"
"We do not know," the
Para's uninflected voice hummed. Lavon waited, but obviously the proto had nothing
more to say.
Shar had resumed sitting on the
window sill, clasping his knees, watching the come and go of dim shapes in the
lighted gulf. "It is quite true," he said. "What is written on
the remaining plates makes it plain. Let me tell you now what they say.
"We were made, Lavon.
We were made by men who are not as we are, but men who were our ancestors all
the same. They were caught in some disaster, and they made us here in our
universe so that, even though they had to die, the race of men would
live."
Lavon surged up from the woven
spyrogrya mat upon which he had been sitting. "You must think I'm a
fool!" he said sharply.
"No. You're our Lavon; you
have a right to know the facts. Make what you like of them." Shar swung
his webbed toes back into the chamber. "What I've told you may be hard to
believe, but it seems to be so; what Para says backs it up. Our unfitness to
live here is self-evident. IÅ‚ll give you some examples:
"The past four Shars
discovered that we won't get any further in our studies until we learn how to
control heat. We've produced enough heat chemically to show that even the water
around us changes when the temperature gets high enough. But there we're
stopped."
“Why?"
"Because heat produced in
open water is carried off as rapidly as it's produced. Once we tried to enclose
that heat, and we blew up a whole tube of the castle and killed everything in
range; the shock was terrible. We measured the pressures that were involved in
that explosion, and we discovered that no substance we know could have resisted
them. Theory suggests some stronger substancesbut we need heat to form
them!
"Take our chemistry. We live
in water. Everything seems to dissolve in water, to some extent. How de we
confine a chemical test to the crucible we put it in? How do we maintain a
solution at one dilution? I don't know. Every avenue leads me to the same stone
door. We're thinking creatures, Lavon, but there's something drastically wrong
in the way we think about this universe we live in. It just doesn't seem to
lead to results."
Lavon pushed back his floating
hair futilely. "Maybe you're thinking about the wrong results. We've had
no trouble with warfare, or crops, or practical things like that. If we can't
create much heat, well, most of us don't miss it; we don't need any. What's the
other universe supposed to be like, the one our ancestors lived in? Is it any
better than this one?"
"I don't know," Shar
admitted. "It was so different that it's hard to compare the two. The
metal plates tell a story about men who were traveling from one place to
another in a container that moved by itself. The only analogy I can think of is
the shallops of diatom shells that our youngsters used to sled along the
thermocline; but evidently what's meant is something much bigger.
"I picture a huge shallop,
closed on all sides, big enough to hold many peoplemaybe twenty or thirty. It
had to travel for generations through some kind of space where there wasn't any
water to breathe, so that the people had to carry their own water and renew it
constantly. There were no seasons; no yearly turnover; no ice forming on the
sky, because there wasn't any sky in a closed shallop; no spore formation.
"Then the shallop was
wrecked somehow. The people in it knew they were going to die. They made us,
and put us here, as if we were their children. Because they had to die, they
wrote their story on the plates, to tell us what had happened. I suppose
we'd understand it better if we had the plate Shar III lost during the war, but
we don't."
"The whole thing sounds like
a parable," Lavon said, shrugging. "Or a song. I can see why you
don't understand it. What I can't see is why you bother to try."
"Because of the
plates," Shar said. "You've handled them yourself, so you know that
we've nothing like them. We have crude, impure metals we've hammered out,
metals that last for a while and then decay. But the plates shine on and on,
generation after generation. They don't change; our hammers and graving tools
break against them; the little heat we can generate leaves them unharmed. Those
plates weren't formed in our universeand that one fact makes every word on
them important to me. Someone went to a great deal of trouble to make those
plates in-destructible to give them to us. Someone to whom the word 'stars' was
important enough to be worth fourteen repetitions, despite the fact that the
word doesn't seem to mean anything. I'm ready to think that if our makers repeated
the word even twice on a record that seems likely to last forever, it's
important for us to know what it means."
"All these extra universes
and huge shallops and meaningless words I can't say that they don't exist,
but I don't see what difference it makes. The Shars of a few generations ago
spent their whole lives breeding better crops for us, and showing us how to
cultivate them instead of living haphazardly off bacteria. That was work worth
doing. The Lavons of those days evidently got along with-out the metal plates,
and saw to it that the Shars did, too: Well, as far as I'm concerned, you're
welcome to the plates, if you like them better than crop improvementbut I
think they ought to be thrown away."
"All right," Shar said,
shrugging. "If you don't want them, that ends the traditional interview.
We'll go our" There was a rising drone from the table-top. The
Para was lifting itself, waves of motion passing over its cilia, like the waves
which went across the fruiting stalks of the fields of delicate fungi with
which the bottom was planted., It, had been so silent that Lavon had forgotten
it; he could tell from Shar's startlement that Shar had, too.
"This is a great
decision," the waves of sound washing from the creature throbbed.
"Every proto has heard it and agrees with it. We have been afraid of these
metal plates for a long time, afraid that men would learn to understand them
and to follow what they say to some secret place, leaving the protos behind.
Now we are not afraid."
"There wasn't anything to be
afraid of," Lavon said indulgently.
"No Lavon before you had
said so," Para said. "We are glad. We will throw the plates
away."
With that, the shining creature
swooped toward the embrasure. With it, it bore away the remaining plates, which
had been resting under it on the table-top, suspended delicately in the curved
tips of its supple cilia. With a cry, Shar plunged through the water toward the
opening.
"Stop, Paral"
But Para was already gone, so
swiftly that he had not even heard the call. Shar twisted his body and brought
up on one shoulder against the tower wall. He said nothing. His face was
enough. Lavon could not look at it for more than an instant.
The shadows of the two men moved
slowly along the uneven cobbled floor.. The Noc descended toward them from the
vault, its single thick tentacle stirring the water, its internal light flaring
and fading irregularly. It, too, drifted through the window after its cousin,
and sank slowly away toward the bottom. Gently its living glow dimmed,
flickered, winked out.
II
For many days, Lavon was able to
avoid thinking much about the loss. There was always a great deal of work to be
done. Maintenance of the castles, which had been built by the now-extinct
Eaters rather than by human hands, was a never-ending task. The thousand
dichotomously bracing wings tended to crumble, especially at their bases where
they sprouted from each other, and no Shar had yet come forward with a mortar
as good as the rotifer-spittle which had once held them together. In addition,
the breaking through of windows and the construction of chambers in the early
days had been haphazard and often unsound. The instinctive architecture of the
rotifers, after all, had not been meant to meet the needs of human occupants.
And then there were the crops.
Men no longer fed precariously upon passing bacteria: now there were the drifting
mats of specific water-fungi, rich and nourishing, which had been bred by five
generations of Shars. These had to be tended constantly to keep the strains
pure, and to keep the older and less intelligent species of the protos from
grazing on them. In this latter task, to be sure, the more intricate and
far-seeing prototypes cooperated, but men were needed to supervise.
There had been a time, after the
war with the Eaters, when it had been customary to prey upon the slow-moving
and stupid diatoms, whose exquisite and fragile glass shells were so easily
burst, and who were unable to learn that a friendly voice did not necessarily
mean a friend. There were still people who would crack open a diatom when no
one else was looking, but were regarded as barbarians, to the puzzlement of the
protos. The blurred and simple-minded speech of the gorgeously engraved plants
had brought them into the category of petsa concept which the protos were
utterly unable to grasp, especially since men admitted that diatoms on the
half-frustrule were delicious.
Lavon had had to agree, very
early, that the distinction was tiny. After all, humans did eat the desmids, which
differed from the diatoms only in three particulars: their shells were
flexible, they could not move, and they did not speak. Yet to iavon, as
to most men, there did seem to be some kind of distinction, whether the protos
could see it or not, and that was that. Under the circumstances he felt that it
was a part of his duty, as a leader of men, to protect the diatoms from the
occasional poachers who browsed upon them, in defiance of custom, in the high
levels of the sunlit sky.
Yet Lavon found it impossible to
keep himself busy enough to forget that moment when the last clues to Man's
origin and destination had been seized and borne away into dim space.
It might be possible to ask Para
for the return of the plates, explain that a mistake had been made. The protos
were creatures of implacable logic, but they respected Man, and might reverse
their decision if pressed
We are sorry. The plates were
carried over the bar and released in the gulf. We will have the bottom there
searched, but...
With a sick feeling he could not
repress, Lavon knew that when the protos decided something was worthless, they
did not hide it .in some chamber like old women. They threw it
awayefficiently.
Yet despite the tormenting of his
conscience, Lavon was convinced that the plates were well lost. What had they
ever done for man, except to provide Shars with useless things to think about
in the late seasons of their lives? What the Shars themselves had done to
benefit Man, here, in the water, in the world, in the universe, had been done
by direct experimentation. No bit of useful knowledge ever had come from the
plates. There had never been anything in the plates but things best left
unthought. The protos were right.
Lavon shifted his position on the
plant frond, where he had been sitting in order to overlook the harvesting of
an experimental crop of blue-green, oil-rich algae drifting in a clotted mass
close to the top of the sky, and scratched his back gently against the coarse
bole. The protos were seldom wrong, after all. Their lack of creativity, their
inability to think an original thought, was a gift as well as a limitation. It
allowed them to see and feel things at all times as they werenot as they hoped
they might be, for they had no ability to hope, either.
"La-von!
Laa-vah-on!"
The long halloo came floating up
from the sleepy depths. Propping one hand against the top of the frond, Lavon
bent and looked down. One of the harvesters was looking up at him, holding
loosely the adze with which he had splitting free the glutinous tetrads of the
algae.
"Up here. What's the
matter?"
"We have the ripened
quadrant cut free. Shall we tow it away?"
`Tow it away," Lavon said,
with a lazy gesture. He leaned back again. At the same instant, a brilliant
reddish glory burst into being above him, and cast itself down toward the
depths like mesh after mesh of the finest-drawn gold. The great light which
lived above the sky during the day, brightening or dimming according to some
pattern no Shar ever had fathomed, was blooming again.
Few men, caught in the warm glow
of that light, could resist looking up at itespecially when the top of the sky
itself wrinkled and smiled just a moment's climb or swim away. Yet, as always,
Lavon's bemused upward look gave back nothing but his own distorted, bobbling
reflection, and a reflection of the plant on which he rested.
Here was the upper limit, the
third of the three surfaces of the universe.
The first surface was the bottom,
where the water ended.
The second surface was the
thermocline, the invisible division between the colder waters of the bottom and
the warm, light waters of the sky. During the height of the warm weather, the
thermocline was so definite a division as to make for good sledding and for
chilly passage. A real interface formed between the cold, denser bottom waters
and the warm reaches above, and maintained itself almost for the whole of the
warm season.
The third surface was the sky.
One could no more pass through that surface than one could penetrate the
bottom, nor was there any better reason to try. There the universe ended. The
light which played over it daily, waxing and waning as it chose, seemed to be
one of its properties.
Toward the end of the season, the
water gradually grew colder and more difficult to breathe, while at the same
time the light became duller and stayed for shorter periods between darknesses.
Slow currents started to move. The high waters turned chill and began to fall.
The bottom mud stirred and smoked away, carrying with it the spores of the
fields of fungi. The thermocline tossed, became choppy, and melted away. The
sky began to fog with particles of soft silt carried up from the bottom, the
walls, the corners of the universe. Before very long, the whole world was cold,
inhospitable, flocculent with yellowing dying creatures.
Then the protos encysted; the
bacteria, even most of the plants and, not long afterward, men, too, curled up
in their oil-filled amber shells. The world died until the first tentative
current of warm water broke the winter silence.
"La-von!"
Just after the long call, a
shinning bubble rose past Lavon. He reached out and poked it, but it bounded
away from his sharp thumb. The gas-bubbles which rose from the bottom in late
summer were almost invulnerableand when some especially hard blow or edge did
penetrate them, they broke into smaller bubbles which nothing could touch, and
fled toward the sky, leaving behind a remarkably bad smell.
Gas. There was no water inside a
bubble. A rnan who got inside a bubble would have nothing to breathe.
But, of course, it was impossible
to penetrate a bubble. The surface tension was too strong. As strong as Sitar's
metal plates. As strong as the top of the sky.
As strong as the top of the sky.
And above thatonce the bubble was brokena world of gas instead of water? Were
all worlds bubbles of water drifting in gas?
If it were so, travel between
them would be out of the question, since it would be impossible to pierce the
sky to begin with. Nor did the infant cosmology include any provisions for
bottoms for the worlds.
And yet some of the local
creatures did burrow into the bottom, quite deeply, seeking something in
those depths which was beyond the reach of Man. Even the surface of the ooze,
in high summer, crawled with tiny creatures for which mud was a natural medium.
Man, too, passed freely between the two countries of water which were divided
by the thermocline, though many of the creatures with which he lived could not
pass that line at all, once it had established itself.
And if the new universe of which
Shar had spoken existed at all, it had to exist beyond the sky, where the
light was. Why could not the sky be passed, after all? The fact that bubbles
could be broken showed that the surface skin that formed between water and gas
wasn't completely invulnerable. Had it ever been tried?
Lavon did not suppose that one
man could butt his waythrough the top of the sky, any more than he could burrow
into the bottom, but there might be ways around the difficulty. Here at his
back, for instance, was a plant which gave every appearance of continuing
beyond the sky: its uppermost fronds broke off and were bent back only by a
trick of reflection.
It had always been assumed that
the plants died where they touched the sky. For the most part, they did, for
frequently the dead extension could be seen, leached and yellow, the boxes of
its component cells empty, floating imbedded in the perfect mirror. But some
were simply chopped off, like the one which sheltered him now. Perhaps that
was only an illusion, and instead it soared indefinitely into some other place
some place where men might once have been born, and might still live ...
The plates were gone. There was
only one other way to find out.
Determinedly, Lavon began to
climb toward the wavering mirror of the sky. His thorn-thumbed feet trampled
obliviously upon the clustered sheaves of fragile stippled diatoms. The
tulip-heads of Vortae, placid and murmurous cousins of Para, retracted
startledly out of his way upon coiling stalks, to make silly gossip
behind him.
Lavon did not hear them. He
continued to climb doggedly toward the light, his fingers and toes gripping
the plant-bole.
"Lavon! Where are you going?
Lavon!"
He leaned out and looked down.
The man with the adze, a doll-like figure, was beckoning to him from a patch of
blue-green retreating over a violet abyss. Dizzily he looked away, clinging to
the bole; he had never been so high before. Then he began to climb again.
After a while, he touched the sky
with one hand. He stopped to breathe. Curious bacteria gathered about the base
of his thumb where blood from a small cut was fogging away, scattered at his
gesture, and wriggled mindlessly back toward the dull red lure.
He waited until he no longer felt
winded, and resumed climbing. The sky pressed down against the top of his head,
against the back of his neck, against his shoulders. It seemed to give
slightly, with a tough, frictionless elasticity. The water here was intensly
bright, and quite colorless. He climbed another step, driving his
shoulders against that enormous weight.
It was fruitless. He might as
well have tried to penetrate a cliff.
Again he had to rest. While he
panted, he made a curious discovery. All around the bole of the water plant,
the steel surface of the sky curved upward, making a kind of sheath. He found
that he could insert his hand into itthere was almost enough space to admit
his head as well. Clinging closely to the bole, he looked up into the inside of
the sheath, probing with his injured hand. The glare was blinding.
There was a kind of soundless
explosion. His whole wrist was suddently encircled in an intense, impersonal
grip, as if it were being cut in two. In blind astonishment, he lunged upward.
The ring of pain traveled
smoothly down his upflung arm as he rose, was suddenly around his shoulders and
chest. Another lunge and his knees were being squeezed in the circular vine.
Another
Something was horribly wrong. He
clung to the bole and tried to gasp, but there wasnothing to breathe.
The water came streaming out of
his body, from his mouth, his nostrils, the spiracles in his sides, spurting in
tangible jets. An intense and fiery itching crawled over the entire surface of
his body. At each spasm, long knives ran into him, and from a great distance he
heard more water being expelled from his book-lungs in an obscene, frothy
sputtering.
Lavon was drowning.
With a final convulsion, he
kicked away from the splintery bole, and fell. A hard impact shook him; and
then the water, which had clung to him so tightly when he had first attempted
to leave it, took him back with cold violence.
Sprawling and tumbling
grotesquely, he drifted down and down and down, toward the bottom.
III
For many days, Lavon lay curled
insensibly in his spore, as if in the winter sleep. The shock of cold which he
had felt on re-entering his native universe had been taken by his body as a
sign of coming winter, as it had taken the oxygen-starvation of his brief
sojourn above the sky. The spore-forming glands had at once begun to function.
Had it not been for this, Lavon
would surely have died. The danger of drowning disappeared even as he fell, as
the air bubbled out of his lungs and readmitted the life-giving water. But for
acute desiccation and third degree sunburn, the sunken universe knew no remedy.
The healing amnionic fluid generated by the spore-forming glands, after the
transparent amber sphere had enclosed him, offered Lavon his only chance.
The brown sphere was spotted
after some days by a prowling ameba, quiescent in the eternal winter of the
bottom. Down there the temperature was always an even 4°, no matter what the
season, but it was unheard of that a spore should be found there while the high
epilimnion was still warm and rich in oxygen.
Within an hour, the spore was
surrounded by scores of astonished protos, jostling each other to bump their
blunt eyeless prows against the shell. Another hour later, a squad of worried
men came plunging from the castles far above to press their own noses against
the transparent wall. Then swift orders were given.
Four Para grouped themselves
about the amber sphere, and there was a subdued explosion as the trichocysts
which lay embedded at the bases of their cilia, just under the pellicle, burst
and cast fine lines of a quickly solidifying liquid into the water. The four
Paras thrummed and lifted, tugging.
Lavon's spore swayed gently in
the mud and then rose slowly, entangled in the web. Nearby, a Noc cast a cold
pulsating glow over the operationnot for the Paras, who did not need the
light, but for the baffled knot of men. The sleeping figure of Lavon, head
bowed, knees drawn up to its chest, revolved with an absurd solemnity inside
the shell as it was moved.
"Take him to Shar,
Para."
The young Shar justified, by
minding his own business, the traditional wisdom with which his hereditary
office had invested him. He observed at once that there was nothing he could do
for the encysted Lavon which would not be classifiable as simple meddling.
He had the sphere deposited in a
high tower room of his castle, where there was plenty of light and the water
was warm, which should suggest to the hibernating form that spring was again on
the way. Beyond that, he simply sat and watched, and kept his speculations to
himself.
Inside the spore, Lavon's body
seemed rapidly to be shedding its skin, in long strips and patches. Gradually,
his curious shrunkenness disappeared. His withered arms and legs and sunken
abdomen filled out again.
The days went by while Shar
watched. Finally he could discern no more changes, and, on a hunch, had the
spore taken up to the topmost battlements of the tower, into the direct
daylight.
An hour later, Lavon moved in his
amber prison.
He uncurled and stretched, turned
blank eyes up toward the light. His expression was that of a man who had not
yet awakened from a ferocious nightmare. His whole body shone with a strange
pink newness.
Shar knocked gently on the wall
of the spore. Lavon turned his blind face toward the sound, life coming into
his eyes. He smiled tentatively and braced his hands and feet against the inner
wall of the shell.
The whole sphere fell abruptly to
pieces with a sharp crackling. The amnionic fluid dissipated around him and
Shar, carrying away with it the suggestive odor of a bitter struggle against
death.
Lavon stood among the bits of
shell and looked at Shar silently. At last he said:
"SharI've been beyond the
sky."
"I know," Shar said gently.
Again Lavon was silent. Shar
said, "Don't be humble, Lavon. You've done an epoch-making thing. It nearly
cost you your life. You must tell me the restall of it."
'The rest?"
"You taught me a lot while
you slept. Or are you still opposed to useless knowledge?"
Lavon could say nothing. He no
longer could tell what he knew from what he wanted to know. He had only one
question left, but he could not utter it. He could only look dumbly into
Sitar's delicate face.
"You have answered me,"
Shar said, even more gently. "Come, my friend; join me at my table. We
will plan our journey to the stars."
It was two winter sleeps after
Lavon's disastrous climb beyond the sky that all work on the spaceship stopped.
By then, Lavon knew that he had hardened and weathered into that temporarily
ageless state a man enters after he has just reached his prime; and he knew
also that there were wrinkles engraved upon his brow, to stay and to deepen.
"Old" Shar, too had
changed, his features losing some of their delicacy as he came into his
maturity. Though the wedge-shaped bony structure of his face would give him a
withdrawn and poetic look for as long as he lived, participation in the plan
had given his expression a kind of executive overlay, which at best gave it a
masklike rigidity, and at worst coarsened it somehow.
Yet despite the bleeding away of
the years, the space-ship was still only a hulk. It lay upon a platform built
above the tumbled boulders of the sandbar which stretched out from one wall of
the world. It was an immense hull of pegged wood, broken by regularly spaced
gaps through which the raw beams of the skeleton could be seen.
Work upon it had progressed
fairly rapidly at first, for it was not hard to visualize what kind of vehicle
would be needed to crawl through empty space without losing its water. It had
been recognized that the sheer size of the machine would enforce a long period
of construction, perhaps two full seasons; but neither Shar nor Lavon had
anticipated any serious snag.
For that matter, part of the
vehicle's apparent incompleteness was an illusion. About a third of its
fittings were to consist of living creatures, which could not be expected to
install themselves in the vessel much before the actual takeoff.
Yet time and time again, work on
the ship had had to be halted for long periods. Several times whole sections
needed to be ripped out, as it became more and more evident that hardly a
single normal, understandable concept could be applied to the problem of space
travel.
The lack of the history plates, which
the Para steadfastly refused to deliver up, was a double handicap. Immediately
upon their loss, Shar had set himself to reproduce them from memory; but unlike
the more religious of this people, he had never regarded them as holy writ, and
hence had never set himself to memorizing them word by word. Even before the
theft, he had accumulated a set of variant translations of passages presenting
specific experimental problems, which were stored in his library, carved in
wood. But most of these translations tended to contradict each other, and none
of them related to space-ship construction, upon which the original had been
vague in any case.
No duplicates of the cryptic
characters of the original had ever been made, for the simple reason that there
was nothing in the sunken universe capable of destroying the originals, nor of
duplicating their apparently changeless permanence. Shar remarked too late that
through simple caution they should have made a number of verbatim temporary
recordsbut after generations of green-gold peace, simple caution no longer
covers preparation against catastrophe. (Nor, for that matter, did a culture
which had to dig each letter of its simple alphabet into pulpy waterlogged wood
with a flake of stonewort, encourage the keeping of records in triplicate.)
As a result, Shar's imperfect
memory of the contents of the history plates, plus the constant and millennial
doubt as to the accuracy of the various translations, proved finally to be the
worst obstacle to progress on the spaceship itself.
"Men must paddle before they
can swim," Lavon observed belatedly, and Shar was forced to agree with
him.
Obviously, whatever the ancients
had known about spaceship construction, very little of that knowledge was
usable to a people still trying to build its first spaceship from scratch. In
retrospect, it was not surprising that the great hulk still rested incomplete
upon its platform above the sand boulders, exuding a musty odor of wood
steadily losing its strength, two generations after its flat bottom had been
laid down.
The fat-faced young man who
headed the strike delegation was Phil XX, a man two generations younger than
Lavon, four younger than Shar. There were crow's-feet at the corners of his
eyes, which made him look both like a querulous old man and like an infant
spoiled in the spore.
"We're calling a halt to
this crazy project," he said bluntly. "We've slaved our youth away on
it, but now that we're our own masters, it's over, that's all. Over."
"Nobody's compelled
you," Lavon said angrily.
"Society does; our parents
do," a gaunt member of the delegation said. "But now we're going to
start living in the real world. Everybody these days knows that there's no
other world but this one. You oldsters can hang on to your superstitions if you
like. We don't intend to."
Baffled, Lavon looked over at
Shar. The scientist smiled and said, "Let them go, Lavon. We have no use
for the fainthearted."
The fat-faced young man flushed.
"You can't insult us into going back to work. We're through. Build your own
ship to no place!"
"All right," Lavon said
evenly. "Go on, beat it. Don't stand around here orating about it. You've
made your decision and we're not interested in your self-justifications.
Good-by."
The fat-faced young man evidently
still had quite a bit of heroism to dramatize which Lavon's dismissal had
short-circuited. An examination of Lavon's stony face, however, convinced him
that he had to take his victory as he found it. He and the delegation trailed
ingloriously out the archway.
"Now what?" Lavon asked
when they had gone. "I must admit, Shar, that I would have tried to
persuade them. We do need the workers, after all."
"Not as much as they need
us," Shar said tranquilly. "How many volunteers have you got for the
crew of the ship?"
"Hundreds. Every young man
of the generation after Phil's wants to go along. Phil's wrong about that segment
of the population, at least. The project catches the imagination of the very
young."
"Did you give them any
encouragement?"
"Sure," Lavon said.
"I told them we'd call on them if they were chosen. But you can't take
that seriously! We'd do badly to displace our picked group of specialists with
youths who have enthusiasm and nothing else."
"That's not what
I had in mind, Lavon. Didn't I see a Noc in your chambers somewhere? Oh, there
he is, asleep in the dome. Noc!"
The creature stirred its
tentacles lazily.
"Noc, I've a message,"
Shar called. "The protos are to tell all men that those who wish to go to
the next world with the spaceship must come to the staging area right away. Say
that we can't promise to take everyone, but that only those who help us build
the ship will be considered at all."
The Noc curled its tentacles
again and appeared to go back to sleep. Actually, of course, it was sending its
message through the water in all directions.
IV
Lavon turned from the arrangement
of speaking-tube megaphones which was his control board and looked at the Para.
"One last try," he said. "Will you give us back the
plates?"
"No, Lavon. We have never
denied you anything before, but this we must."
"You're going with us
though, Para. Unless you give us the knowledge we need, you'll lose your life
if we lose ours."
"What is one Para?" the
creature said. "We are all alike. This cell will die; but the protos need
to know how you fare on this journey. We believe you should make it without the
plates."
“Why?"
The proto was silent. Lavon
stared at it a moment, then turned deliberately back to the speaking tubes. "Everyone
hang on," he said. He felt shaky. "We're about to start. Toi, is the
ship sealed?"
"As far as I can tell,
Lavon."
Lavon shifted to another
megaphone. He took a deep breath. Already the water seemed stifling, though the
ship hadn't moved.
"Ready with one-quarter
power. One, two, three, go." The whole ship jerked and settled back
into place again.
The raphe diatoms along the under
hull settled into their niches, their jelly treads turning against broad
endless belts of crude leather. Wooden gears creaked, stepping up the slow
power of the creatures, transmitting it to the sixteen axles of the ship's
weels.
The ship rocked and began to roll
slowly along the sandbar. Lavon looked tensely through the mica port. The world
flowed painfully past him. The ship canted and began to climb the slope. Behind
him, he could feel the electric silence of Shar, Para, the two alternate
pilots, as if their gaze were stabbing directly through his body and on out the
port. The world looked different, now that he was leaving it. How had he missed
all this beauty before?
The slapping of the endless belts
and the squeaking and groaning of the gears and axles grew louder as the slope
steepened. The ship continued to climb, lurching. Around it, squadrons of men
and protos dipped and wheeled, escorting it toward the sky.
Gradually the sky lowered and
pressed down toward the top of the ship.
"A little more work from
your diatoms, Tanol," 'Lavon said. "Boulder ahead." The ship
swung ponderously. "All right, slow them up again. Give us a shove from
your side, Thanno, that's too muchthere, that's it. Back to normal; you're
still turning us! Tanol, give us one burst to line us up again. Good. All
right, steady drive on all sides. Won't be long now."
"How can you think in webs
like that?" the Para wondered behind him.
"I just do, that's all. It's
the way men think. Overseers, a little more thrust now; the grade's getting
steeper."
The gears groaned. The ship nosed
up. The sky brightened in Lavon's face. Despite himself, he began to be
frightened. His lungs seemed to burn, and in his mind he felt his long fall
through nothingness toward the chill slap of water as if he were experiencing
it for the first time. His skin itched and burned. Could he go up there again?
Up there into the burning void, the great gasping agony where no life should
go?
The sandbar began to level out
and the going became a little easier. Up here, the sky was so close that the
lumbering motion of the huge ship disturbed it. Shadows of wavelets ran across
the sand. Silently, the thick-barreled bands of blue-green algae drank in the
light and converted it to oxygen, writhing in their slow mindless dance just
under the long mica skylight which ran along the spine of the ship. In the
hold, beneath the latticed corridor and cabin floors, whirring Vortae kept the
ship's water in motion, fueling themselves upon drifting organic particles.
One by one, the figures wheeling
about the ship outside waved arms or cilia and fell back, coasting down the
slope of the sandbar toward the familiar world, dwindling and disappearing.
There was at last only one single Euglena, half-plant cousin of the protos,
forging along beside the spaceship into the marches of the shallows. It loved
the light, but finally it, too, was driven away into cooler, deeper waters, its
single whiplike tentacle undulating placidly as it went. It was not very
bright, but Lavon felt deserted when it left.
Where they were going, though,
none could follow.
Now the sky was nothing but a
thin, resistant skin of water coating the top of the ship. The vessel slowed,
and when Lavon called for more power, it began to dig itself in among the
sandgrains.
"That's not going to
work," Shar said tensely. "I think we'd better step down the gear
ratio, Lavon, so you can apply stress more slowly."
"All right," Lavon
agreed. "Full stop, everybody. Shar, will you supervise gear-changing,
please?"
Insane brilliance of empty space
looked Lavon full in the face just beyond his big mica bull's eye. It was maddening
to be forced to stop here upon the threshold of infinity; and it was dangerous,
too. Lavon could feel building in him the old fear of the outside. A few
moments more of inaction, he knew with a gathering coldness at the pit of his
stomach, and he would be unable to go through with it.
Surely, he thought, there must be
a better way to change gear-ratios than the traditional one, which involved dismantling
almost the entire gear-box. Why couldn't a number of gears of different sizes
be carried on the same shaft, not necessarily all in action all at once, but
awaiting use simply by shoving the axle back and forth longitudinally in its
sockets? It would still be clumsy, but it could be worked on orders from the
bridge and would not involve shutting down the entire machineand throwing the
new pilot into a blue-green funk.
Shar came lunging up through the
trap and swam himself a stop.
"All set," he said.
"The big reduction gears aren't taking the strain too well,
though."
"Splintering?"
"Yes. I'd go it slow at
first."
Lavon nodded mutely. Without
allowing himself to stop, even for a moment, to consider the consequences of
his words, he called "Half power."
The ship hunched itself down
again and began to move, very slowly indeed, but more smoothly than before.
Overhead, the sky thinned to complete transparency. The great light came
blasting in. Behind Lavon there was an uneasy stir. The whiteness grew at the
front ports.
Again the ship slowed, straining
against the blinding barrier. Lavon swallowed and called for more power. The
ship groaned like something about to die. It was now almost at a standstill.
"More power," Lavon
called out.
Once more, with infinite
slowness, the ship began to move. Gently, it tilted upward.
Then it lunged forward and every
board and beam in it began to squall.
"Lavon! Lavon!"
Lavon started sharply at the
shout. The voice was coming at him from one of the megaphones, the one marked
for the port at the rear of the ship.
"Lavon!"
"What is it? Stop your damn
yelling."
"I can see the top of the
sky! From the other side, from the top side! It's like a big sheet of
metal. We're going away from it. We're above the sky, Lavon, we're above the
sky!"
Another violent start swung Lavon
around toward the forward port. On the outside of the mica, the water was
evaporating with shocking swiftness, taking with it strange distortions and
patterns made of rainbows.
Lavon saw Space.
It was at first like a deserted
and cruelly dry version of the bottom. There were enormous boulders, great
cliffs, tumbled, split, riven, jagged rocks going up and away in all
directions.
But it had a sky of its owna
deep blue dome so far away that he could not believe it, let alone compute,
what its distance might be. And in this dome was a ball of white fire that
seared his eyeballs.
The wilderness of rock was still
a long way away from the ship, which now seemed to be resting upon a level,
glistening plain. Beneath the surface-shine, the plain seemed to be made of
sand, nothing but familiar sand, the same substance which had heaped up to form
a bar in Lavon's own universe, the bar along which the ship had climbed. But
the glassy, colorful skin over it
Suddenly Lavon became conscious
of another shout from the megaphone banks. He shook his head savagely and
asked. "What is it now?"
"Lavon, this is Than. What
have you gotten us into? The belts are locked. The diatoms can't move them.
They aren't faking, either; we've rapped them hard enough to make them think we
are trying to break their shells, but they still can't give us more
power."
"Leave them alone,"
Lavon snapped. "They can't fake; they haven't enough intelligence. If they
say they can't give you more power, they can't."
"Well, then, you get us out
of it," Than's voice said frightenedly.
Shar came forward to Lavon's
elbow. "We're on a space-water interface, where the surface tension is
very high," he said softly. "This is why I insisted on our building
the ship so that we could lift the wheels off the ground whenever necessary.
For a long while I couldn't understand the reference of the history plates to
'retractable landing gear,' but it finally occurred to me that the tension along
a space-water interfaceor, to be more exact, a space-mud interfacewould hold
any large object pretty tightly. If you order the wheels pulled up now, I think
we'll make better progress for a while on the belly-treads."
"Good enough," Lavon
said. "Hello belowup landing gear. Evidently the ancients knew their
business after all, Shar."
Quite a few minutes later, for
shifting power to the belly-treads involved another setting of the gear box,
the ship was crawling along the shore toward the tumbled rock. Anxiously, Lavon
scanned the jagged, threatening wall for a break. There was a sort of rivulet
off toward the left which might offer a route, though a dubious one, to the
next world. After some thought, Lavon ordered his ship turned toward it.
"Do you suppose that thing
in the sky is a 'star'?" he asked. "But there were supposed to be
lots of them. Only one is up thereand one's plenty for my taste."
"I don't know," Shar
admitted. 'But I'm beginning to get a picture of the way the universe is made,
I think. Evidently our world is a sort of cup in the bottom of this huge one.
This one has a sky of its own; perhaps it, too, is only a cup in the bottom of
a still huger world, and so on and on without end. It's a hard concept to
grasp, I'll admit. Maybe it would be more sensible to assume that all the
worlds are cups in this one common surface, and that the great light shines on
them all impartially."
"Then what makes it seem to
go out every night, and dim even in the day during winter?" Lavon
demanded.
"Perhaps it travels in
circles, over first one world, then another. How could I know yet?"
"Well, if you're right, it
means that all we have to do is crawl along here for a while, until we
hit the top of the sky of another world," Lavon said. "Then we dive
in. Somehow it seems too simple, after all our preparations."
Shar chuckled, but the sound did
not suggest that he had discovered anything funny. "Simple? Have you
noticed the temperature yet?"
Lavon had noticed it, just
beneath the surface of awareness, but at Shar's remark be realized that he was
gradually being stifled. The oxygen content of the water, luckily, had not
dropped, but the temperature suggested the shallows in the last and worst part
of the autumn. It was like trying to breathe soup.
"Than, give us more action
from the Vortae," Lavon called. "This is going to be unbearable
unless we get more circulation."
It was all he could do now to
keep his attention on the business of steering the ship.
The cut or defile in the
scattered razor-edged rocks was a little closer, but there still seemed to be
many miles of rough desert to cross. After a while, the ship settled into a
steady, painfully slow crawling, with less pitching and jerking than before,
but also with less progress. Under it, there was now a sliding, grinding sound,
rasping against the hull of the ship itself, as if it were treadmilling over
some coarse lubricant whose particles were each as big as a man's head.
Finally Shar said, "Lavon,
we'll have to stop again. The sand this far up is dry, and we're wasting
energy using the treads."
"Are you sure we can take
it?" Lavon asked, gasping for breath. "At least we are moving. If we
stop to lower the wheels and change gears again, we'll boil."
"We'll boil if we
don't," Shar said calmly. "Some of our algae are already dead and the
rest are withering. That's a pretty good sign that we can't take much more. I
don't think we'll make it into the shadows, unless we do change over and
put on some speed."
There was a gulping sound from
one of the mechanics. "We ought to turn back," he said raggedly.
"We were never meant to be out here in the first place. We were made for
the water, not this hell."
"We'll stop," Lavon
said, "but we're not turning back. That's final."
The words made a brave sound, but
the man had upset Lavon more than he dared to admit, even to himself.
"Shar," he said, "make it fast, will you?"
The scientist nodded and dived
below.
The minutes stretched out. The
great white globe in the sky blazed and blazed. It had moved down the sky, far
down, so that the light was pouring into the ship directly in Lavon's face,
illuminating every floating par-tide, its rays like long milky streamers. The
currents of water passing Lavon's cheek were almost hot.
How could they dare go directly
forward into that inferno? The land directly under the "star" must
be even hotter than it was here!
"Lavon! Look at
Para!"
Lavon forced himself to turn and
look at his proto ally. The great slipper had settled to the deck, where it was
lying with only a feeble pulsation of its cilia. Inside, its vacuoles were
beginning to swell, to become bloated, pear-shaped bubbles, crowding the
granulated protoplasm, pressing upon the dark nuclei.
"This cell is dying,"
Para said, as coldly as always. "But go ongo on. There is much to learn,
and you may live, even though we do not. Go on."
"You're . . . for us
now?" Lavon whispered.
"We have always been for
you. Push your folly to its uttermost. We will benefit in the end, and so will
Man."
The whisper died away. Lavon
called the creature again, but it did not respond.
There was a wooden clashing from
below, and then Shar's voice came tinnily from one of the megaphones.
"Lavon, go ahead! The diatoms are dying, too, and then we'll be without
power. Make it as quickly and directly as you can."
Grimly, Lavon leaned forward.
"The `star' is directly over the land we're approaching."
"It is? It may go lower
still and the shadows will get longer. That's our only hope."
Lavon had not thought of that. He
rasped into the banked megaphones. Once more, the ship began to move. It got
hotter.
Steadily, with a perceptible
motion, the "star" sank in Lavon's face. Suddenly a new terror struck
him. Suppose it should continue to go down until it was gone entirely? Blasting
though it was now, it was the only source of heat. Would not space become
bitter cold on the instantand the ship an expanding, bursting block of ice?
The shadows lengthened
menacingly, stretched across the desert toward the forward-rolling vessel.
There was no talking in the cabin, just the sound of ragged breathing and the
creaking of the machinery.
Then the jagged horizon seemed to
rush open upon them. Stony teeth cut into the lower rim of the ball of fire,
devoured it swiftly. It was gone.
They were in the lee of the
cliffs. Lavon ordered the ship turned to parallel the rock-line; it responded
heavily, sluggishly. Far above, the sky deepened steadily from blue to indigo.
Shar came silently up through the
trap and stood beside Lavon, studying that deepening color and the lengthening
of the shadows down the beach toward their world. He said nothing, but Lavon
knew that the same chilling thought was in his mind.
"Lavon."
Lavon jumped. Shar's voice had
iron in it. "Yes?" "We'll have to keep moving. We must make the
next world, wherever it is, very shortly."
"How can we dare move when
we can't see where we're going? Why not sleep it overif the cold will let
us?"
"It will let us." Shar
said. "It can't get dangerously cold up here. If it did, the skyor what
we used to think of as the skywould have frozen over every night, even in
summer. But what I'm thinking about is the water. The plants will go to sleep
now. In our world that wouldn't matter; the supply of oxygen is enough to last
through the night. But in this confined space, with so many creatures in it and
no source of fresh water, we will probably smother."
Shar seemed hardly to be involved
at all, but spoke rather with the voice of implacable physical laws.
"Furthermore," he said,
staring unseeingly out at the raw landscape, "the diatoms are plants, too.
In other words, we must stay on the move for as long as we have oxygen and
powerand pray that we make it."
"Shar, we had quite a few
protos on board this' ship once. And Para there isn't quite dead yet. If he
were, the cabin would be intolerable. The ship is nearly sterile of bacteria,
because all the protos have been eating them as a matter of course and there's
no outside supply of them, any more than there is for oxygen. But still and all
there would have been some decay."
Shar bent and tested the pellicle
of the motionless Parawith a probing finger. "You're right, he's still
alive. What does that prove?"
"The Vortae are also alive;
I can feel the water circulating. Which proves it wasn't the heat that hurt
Para. It was the light. Remember how badly my skin was affected after I
climbed beyond the sky? Undiluted starlight is deadly. We should add that to
the information on the plates."
"I still don't see the
point."
"It's this. We've got three
or four Noc down below. They were shielded from the light, and so must be
alive. If we concentrate them in the diatom galleys, the dumb diatoms will
think it's still daylight and will go on working. Or we can concentrate them
up along the spine of the ship, and keep the algae putting out oxygen. So the
question is: which do we need more, oxygen or power? Or can we split the
difference?"
Shar actually grinned. "A
brilliant piece of thinking. We'll make a Shar of you yet, Lavon. No, I'd say
that we can't split the difference. There's something about daylight, some
quality, that the light Noc emits doesn't have. You and I can't
detect it, but the green plants can, and without it they don't make oxygen. So
we'll have to settle for the diatomsfor power."
Lavon brought the vessel away
from the rocky lee of the cliff, out onto the smoother sand. All trace of
direct light was gone now, although there was still a soft, general glow on
the sky.
"Now, then," Shar said
thoughtfully, "I would guess that there's water over there in the canyon,
if we can reach it. I'll go below and arrange"
Lavon gasped, "What's the
matter?"
Silently, Lavon pointed, his
heart pounding.
The entire dome of indigo above
them was spangled with tiny, incredibly brilliant lights. There were hundreds
of them, and more and more were becoming visible as the darkness deepened. And
far away, over the ultimate edge of the rocks, was a dim red globe, crescented
with ghostly silver. Near the zenith was another such body, much smaller, and
silvered all over ...
Under the two moons of Hydrot,
and under the eternal stars, the two-inch wooden spaceship and its microscopic
cargo toiled down the slope toward the drying little rivulet.
V
The ship rested on the bottom of
the canyon for the refit of the night. The great square doors were thrown open
to admit the raw, irradiated, life-giving water from outsideand the wriggling
bacteria which were fresh food.
No other creatures approached
them, either with curiosity or with predatory intent, while they slept, though
Lavon had posted guards at the doors. Evidently, even up here on the very floor
of space, highly organized creatures were quiescent at night.
But when the first flush of light
filtered through the water, trouble threatened.
First of all, there was the
bug-eyed monster. The thing was green and had two snapping claws, either one of
which could have broken the ship in two like a spyrogyra straw. Its eyes were
black and globular, on the ends of short columns, and its long feelers were as
thick as a plantbole. It passed in a kicking fury of motion, however, never
noticing the ship at all.
"Is thata sample of the
kind of life we can expect in the next world?" Lavon whispered. Nobody
answered, for the very good reason that nobody knew.
After a while, Lavon risked
moving the ship forward against the current, which was slow but heavy. Enormous
writhing worms whipped past them. One struck the hull a heavy blow, then
thrashed on obliviously.
"They don't notice us,"
Shar said. "We're too small, Lavon, the ancients warned us of the
immensity of space, but even when you see it, it's impossible to grasp. And all
those starscan they mean what I think they mean? It's beyond thought, beyond
belief!"
"The bottom's sloping,"
Lavon said, looking ahead intently. "The walls of the canyon are
retreating, and the water's becoming rather silty. Let the stars wait, Shar;
we're coming toward the entrance of our new world."
Shar subsided moodily. His vision
of space had disturbed him, perhaps seriously. He took little notice of the
great thing that was happening, but instead huddled worriedly over his own
expanding speculations. Lavon felt the old gap between their two minds widening
once more.
Now the bottom was tilting upward
again. Lavon had no experience with delta-formation, for no rivulets
left his own world, and the phenomenon worried him. But his worries were swept
away in wonder as the ship topped the rise and nosed over.
Ahead, the bottom sloped away
again, indefinitely, into glimmering depths. A proper sky was over them once
more, and Lavon could see small rafts of plankton floating placidly beneath it.
Almost at once, too, he saw several of the smaller kinds of protos, a few of
which were already approaching the ship
Then the girl came darting out of
the depths, her features distorted with terror. At first she did not see the
ship at all. She came twisting and turning lithely through the water, obviously
hoping only to throw herself over the ridge of the delta and into the savage
streamlet beyond.
Lavon was stunned. Not that there
were men herehe had hoped for thatbut at the girl's single-minded flight
toward suicide.
"What"
Then a dim buzzing began to grow
in his ears, and he understood.
"Shar! Than! Tanol!" he
bawled. "Break out crossbows and spears! Knock out all the windows!"
He lifted a foot and kicked through the big port in front of him. Some-one
thrust a crossbow into his hand.
"Eh? What's happening?"
Shar blurted.
"Rotifers!"
The cry went though the ship like
a galvanic shock. The rotifers back in Lavon's own world were virtually
extinct, but everyone knew thoroughly the grim history of the long battle man
and proto had waged against them.
The girl spotted the ship and
paused, stricken by despair at the sight of the new monster. She drifted with
her own momentum, her eyes alternately fixed hypnotically upon the ship and
glancing back over her shoulder, toward the buzzing snarled louder and louder
in the dimness.
"Don't stop!" Lavon
shouted. "This way, this way! We're friends! We'll help!"
Three great semi-transparent
trumpets of smooth flesh bored over the rise, the many thick cilia of their
coronas whirring greedily. Dicransthe most predacious of the entire tribe of
Eaters. They were quarreling thickly among themselves as they moved, with the
few blurred, pre-symbolic noises which made up their "language."
Carefully, Lavon wound the
crossbow, brought it to his shoulder, and fired. The bolt sang away through the
water. It lost momentum rapidly, and was caught by a stray current which brought
it closer to the girl than to the Eater at which Lavon had aimed.
He bit his lip, lowered the
weapon, wound it up again. It did not pay to underestimate the range; he would
have to wait until he could fire with effect. Another bolt, cutting through the
water from a side port, made him issue orders to cease firing.
The sudden irruption of the
rotifers decided the girl. The motionless wooden monster was strange to her and
had not yet menaced herbut she must have known what it would be like to have
three Dicrans over her, each trying to grab away from the other the biggest
share. She threw herself toward the big port. The Eaters screamed with fury and
greed and bored after her.
She probably would not have made
it, had not the dull vision of the lead Dicran made out the wooden shape of the
ship at the last instant. It backed off, buzzing, and the other two sheered
away to avoid colliding with it. After that they had another argument, though
they could hardly have formulated what it was that they were fighting about.
They were incapable of saying anything much more complicated than the
equivalent of "Yaah," "Drop dead," and "You're
another."
While they were still snarling at
each other, Lavon pierced the nearest one all the way through with an arablast
bolt. It disintegrated promptlyrotifers are delicately organized creatures
despite their ferocityand the remaining two were at once involved in a lethal
battle over the remains.
"Than, take a party out and
spear me those two Eaters while they're still fighting," Lavon ordered.
"Don't forget to destroy their eggs, too. I can see that this world needs
a little taming."
The girl shot through the port
and brought up against the far wall of the cabin, flailing in terror. Lavon
tried to approach her, but from somewhere she produced a flake of
stonewort chipped to a nasty point. He sat down on the stool before his control
board and waited while she took in the cabin, Lavon, Shar, the pilot, the
senescent Para.
At last she said:
"Areyouthe gods from beyond the sky?"
"We're from beyond the sky,
all right," Lavon said. "But we're not gods. We're human beings, like
yourself. Are there many humans here?"
The girl seemed to assess the
situation very rapidly, savage though she was. Lavon had the odd and
impossible impression that he should recognize her. She tucked the knife back
into her matted hairah, Lavon thought, that's a trick I may need to
rememberand shook her head.
"We are few. The Eaters are
everywhere. Soon they will have the last of us."
Her fatalism was so complete that
she actually did not seem to care.
"And you've never cooperated
against them? Or asked the protos to help?"
"The protos?" She
shrugged. "They are as helpless as we are against the Eaters. We have no
weapons which kill at a distance, like yours. And it is too late now for such
weapons to do any good. We are too few, the Eaters too many."
Lavon shook his head
emphatically. "You've had one weapon that counts all along. Against it,
numbers mean nothing. We'll show you how we've used it. You may be able to use
it even better than we did, once you've given it a try."
The girl shrugged again. "We
have dreamed of such a weapon now and then, but never found it. I do not think
that what you say is true. What is this weapon?"
"Brains," Lavon said.
"Not just one brain, but brains. Working together. Cooperation."
"Lavon speaks the
truth," a weak voice said from the deck.
The Para stirred feebly. The girl
watched it with wide eyes. The sound of the Para using human speech seemed to
impress her more than the ship or anything else it contained.
"The Eaters can be
conquered," the thin, buzzing voice said. "The protos will help, as
they helped in the world from which we came. They fought this flight through
space, and deprived Man of his records; but Man made the trip without the
records. The protos will never oppose men again. I have already spoken to the
protos of this world and have told them what Man can dream, Man can do, whether
the protos wish it or not.
"Shar, your metal records
are with you. They were hidden in the ship. My brothers will lead you to them.
'This organism dies now. It dies
in confidence of knowledge, as an intelligent creature dies. Man has taught us
this. There is nothing that knowledge . . . cannot do. With it, men . . . have
crossed . . . have crossed space . . .
The voice whispered away. The
shining slipper did not change, but something about it was gone. Lavon looked
at the girl; their eyes met.
"We have crossed
space," Lavon repeated softly. Shar's voice came to him across a great
distance. The young-old man was whispering: But have we?"
"As far as I'm concerned,
yes," said Lavon.
THE GADGET HAD A GHOST
BY MURRAY LEINSTER
THIS was Istanbul, and the sounds
of the citymotor-cars and clumping donkeys, the nasal cries of peddlers and
the distant roar of a jet-plane somewhere over the citycame muted through the
windows of Coghlanłs flat. It was already late dusk, and Coghlan had just
gotten back from the American College, where he taught physics. He relaxed in
his chair and waited. He was to meet Laurie later, at the Hotel Petra on the
improbably-named Grande Rue de Petra, and hadnłt too much time to spare; but he
was intrigued by the unexpected guests he had found waiting for him when he
arrived. Duval, the Frenchman, haggard and frantic with impatience; Lieutenant
Ghalil, calm and patient and impressive in the uniform of the Istanbul Police
Department. Ghalil had introduced himself with perfect courtesy and explained
that he had come with M. Duval to ask for information which only Mr. Coghlan,
of the American College, could possibly give.
They were now in Coghlanłs
sitting-room. They held the iced drinks which were formal hospitality. Coghlan
waited.
“I am afraid," said Lieutenant
Ghalil, wryly, “that you will think us mad, Mr. Coghlan."
Duval drained his glass and said
bitterly, “Surely I am mad! It cannot be otherwise!"
Coghlan raised sandy eyebrows at
them. The Turkish lieutenant of police shrugged. “I think that what we wish to
ask, Mr. Coghlan, is: Have you, by any chance, been visiting the thirteenth century?"
Coghlan smiled politely. Duval
made an impatient gesture. “Pardon, M. Coghlan! I apologize for our seeming
insanity. But that is truly a serious question!"
This time Coghlan grinned. “Then
the answerłs ęNo.ł Not lately. You evidently are aware that I teach physics at
the College. My course turns out graduates who can make electrons jump through
hoops, you might say, and the better students can snoop into the private lives
of neutrons. But fourth-dimension stuffyou refer to time-travel I believeis
out of my line."
Lieutenant Ghalil sighed. He began
to unwrap the bulky parcel that sat on his lap. A book appeared. It was large,
more than four inches thick, and its pages were sheepskin. Its cover was heavy,
ancient leatherso old that it was friableand inset in it were deeply-carved
ivory medallions. Coghlan recognized the style. They were Byzantine
ivory-carvings, somewhat battered, done in the manner of the days before
Byzantium became successively Constantinople and Stamboul and Istanbul.
“An early copy," observed Ghalil,
“of a book called the Alexiad, by the Princess Anna Commena, from the
thirteenth century I mentioned. Will you be so good as to look, Mr. Coghlan?"
He opened the volume very
carefully and handed it to Coghlan. The thick, yellowed pages were covered with
those graceless Greek characters whichwithout capitals or divisions between
words or any punctuation or paragraphingwere the text of books when they had
just ceased to be written on long strips and rolled up on sticks. Coghlan regarded
it curiously.
“Do you by any chance read
Byzantine Greek?" asked the Turk hopefully.
Coghlan shook his head. The police
lieutenant looked depressed. He began to turn pages, while Coghlan held the
book. The very first page stood up stiffly. There was brown, crackled adhesive
around its edge, evidence that at some time it had been glued to the cover and
lately had been freed. The top half of the formerly hidden sheet was now
covered by a blank letterhead of the Istanbul Police Department clipped in
place by modern metal paperclips. On the uncovered part of the page, the bottom
half, there were five brownish smudges that somehow looked familiar. Four in a
row, and a larger one beneath them. Lieutenant Ghalil offered a pocket
magnifying-glass.
“Will you examine?" he asked.
Coghlan looked. After a moment he
raised his head.
“TheyÅ‚re fingerprints," he agreed.
“What of it?"
Duval stood up and abruptly began
to pace up and down the room, as if filled with frantic impatience. Lieutenant
Ghalil drew a deep breath.
“I am about to say the absurd," he
said ruefully. “M. Duval came upon this book in the Bibliotheque National in
Paris. It has been owned by the library for more than a hundred years. Before,
it was owned by the Comptes de Huisse, who in the sixteenth century were the
patrons of a man known as Nostradamus. But the book itself is of the thirteenth
century. Written and bound in Byzantium. In the Bibliotheque National, M. Duval
observed that a leaf was glued tightly. He loosened it. He found those
fingerprints andother writing."
Coghlan said, “Most interesting,"
thinking that he should be leaving for his dinner engagement with Laurie and
her father.
“Of course," said the police
officer, “M. Duval suspected a hoax. He had the ink examined chemically, then
spectroscopically. But there could be no doubt. The fingerprints were placed
there when the book was new. I repeat, there can be no doubt!"
Coghlan had no inkling of what was
to come. He said, puzzledly:
“Fingerprinting is pretty modem
stuff. So I suppose itłs remarkable to find prints so old. But"
Duval, pacing up and down the
room, uttered a stifled exclamation. He stopped by Coghlanłs desk. He played
feverishly with a wooden-handled Kurdish dagger that Coghlan used as a
letter-opener, his eyes a little wild.
Lieutenant Ghalil said resignedly:
“The fingerprints are not
remarkable, Mr. Coghlan. They are impossible. I assure you that, considering their
age alone, they are quite impossible! And that is so small, so trivial an impossibility
compared to the rest! You see, Mr. Coghlan, those fingerprints are yours!"
While Coghlan sat, staring rather
intently at nothing at all, the Turkish lieutenant of police brought out a
small fingerprint pad, the kind used in up-to-date police departments. No need
for ink. One presses onełs fingers on the pad and the prints develop of
themselves.
“If I may show you"
Coghlan let him roll the tips of
his fingers on the glossy top sheet of the pad. It was a familiar enough
process. Coghlan had had his fingerprints taken when he got his passport for
Turkey, and again when he registered as a resident-alien with the Istanbul
Police Department. The Turk offered the magnifying glass again. Coghlan studied
the thumbprint he had just made. After a momentłs hesitation, he compared it
with the thumbprint on the sheepskin. He jumped visibly. He checked the other
prints, one by one, with increasing care and incredulity.
Presently he said in the tone of
one who does not believe his own words: “Theythey do seem to be alike! Except
for"
“Yes," said Lieutenant Ghalil.
“The thumbprint on the sheepskin shows a scar that your thumb does not now
have. But still it is your fingerprintthat and all the others. It is both
philosophically and mathematically impossible for two sets of fingerprints to
match unless they come from the same hand!"
“These do," observed Coghlan.
Duval muttered unhappily to
himself. He put down the Kurdish knife and paced again. Ghalil shrugged.
“M. Duval observed the prints," he
explained, “quite three months agothe prints and the writing. It took him some
time to be convinced that the matter was not a hoax. He wrote to the Istanbul
Police to ask if their records showed a Thomas Coghlan residing at 750 Fatima.
Two months ago!"
Coghlan jumped again. “WhereÅ‚d he
get that address?"
“You will see," said the Turk. “I
repeat that this was two months ago! I replied that you were registered, but
not at that address. He wrote again, forwarding a photograph of part of that
sheepskin page and asking agitatedly if those were your fingerprints. I
replied that they were, save for the scar on the thumb. And I added, with
lively curiosity, that two days previously you had removed to 750 Fatimathe
address M. Duval mentioned a month previously."
“Unfortunately," said Coghlan,
“that just couldnÅ‚t happen. I didnÅ‚t know the address myself, until a week
before I moved."
“I am aware that it could not
happen," said Ghalil painedly. “My point is that it did."
“YouÅ‚re saying," objected Coghlan,
“that somebody had information three weeks before it existed!"
Ghalil made a wry face. “That is a
masterpiece of understatement"
“It is madness!" said Duval
hoarsely. “It is lunacy! Ce nÅ‚est pas logique! Be so kind, M. Coghlan,
as to regard the rest of the page!"
Coghlan pulled off the clips that
held the police-department letterhead over the top of the parchment page, and
immediately wondered if his hair was really standing on end. There was writing
there. He saw words in faded, unbelievably ancient ink. It was modern English
script. The handwriting was as familiar to Coghlan as his own
Which it was. It said!
See Thomas Coghlan, 750 Fatima,
Istanbul.
Professor, President, so what?
Gadget at 80 Hosain, second
floor, back room.
Make sure of Mannard. To be
killed.
Underneath, his fingerprints
remained visible.
Coghlan stared at the sheet. He
found his glass and gulped at it. On more mature consideration, he drained it.
The situation seemed to call for something of the sort.
There was silence in the room,
save for the drowsy sounds of the night outside. They were not all drowsy, at
that. There were voices, and somewhere a radio emitted that nasal masculine
howling which to the Turkish ear is music. Uninhibited taxicabs, an
unidentifiable jingling, an intonation of speech, all made the sound that of
Istanbul and no other place on earth. Moreover, they were the sounds of
Istanbul at nightfall.
Duval was still. Ghalil looked at
Coghlan and was silent. And Coghlan stared at the sheet of ancient parchment.
He faced the completely
inexplicable, and he had to accept it. His name and present addressno puzzle,
if Ghalil simply lied. The line about Lauriełs father, Mannard, implied that he
was in danger of some sort; but it didnłt mean much because of its vagueness.
The line referring to another address, 80 Hosain, and a “gadget" was wholly
without any meaning at all. But the line about “professor, president"that hit
hard.
It was what Coghlan told himself
whenever he thought of Laurie. He was a mere instructor in physics. As such, it
would not be a good idea for him to ask Laurie to marry him. In time he might
become a professor. Even then it would not be a good idea to ask the daughter
of an umpty-millionaire to marry him. In more time, with the breaks, he might
become a college presidentthe odds were astronomically against it, but it
could happen. Then what? Hełd last in that high estate until a college board
of trustees decided that somebody else might be better at begging for money.
All in all, then, too darned few prospects to justify his ever asking Laurie to
marry himonly an instructor, with a professorship the likely peak of his
career, and a presidency of a college something almost unimaginable. So, when
Coghlan thought of Laurie, he said sourly to himself, “Professor, president, so
what?" And was reminded not to yield to any inclination to be romantic.
But he had not said that four-word
phrase to anybody on earth. He was the only human being to whom it would mean
anything at all. It was absolute proof that he, Thomas Coghlan, had written
those words. But he hadnłt.
He swallowed.
“ThatÅ‚s my handwriting," he said
carefully, “and I have to suppose that I wrote it. But I have no memory of doing
so. Iłll be much obliged if youłll tell me what this is all about."
Duval burst into frantic speech.
“That is what I have come to
demand of you, M. Coghlan! I have been a sane man! I have been a student of the
Byzantine empire and its history! I am an authority upon it! But this modern
English, written when there was no modern English? Arabic numerals, when Arabic
numerals of that form were unknown? House-numbers when they did not exist, and
the city of Istanbul when there was no city of that name on Earth? I could not
rest! M. Coghlan, I demand of youwhat is the meaning of this?"
Coghlan looked again at the faded
brown writing on the parchment. Duval abruptly collapsed, buried his face in
his hands. Ghalil carefully crushed out his cigarette. He waited.
Coghlan stood up with a certain
deliberation.
“I think we can do with another
drink."
He gathered up the glasses and
left the room, but he did not find that his mind grew any clearer. He found
himself wishing that Duval and Ghalil had never been born, to bring a puzzle
like this into his life. He hadnłt written that messagebut nobody else could
have. And it was written.
It suddenly occurred to him that
he had no idea what the message referred to, or what he should do about it.
He went back into the living-room
with the refilled glasses. Duval still sat with his head in his hands. Ghalil
had another cigarette going, was regarding its ash with an expression of acute
discomfort. Coghlan put down the drinks.
“I donÅ‚t see how anyone else could
have written that message," he observed, “but I donÅ‚t remember writing it
myself, and IÅ‚ve no idea what it means. Since you brought it, you must have
some idea."
“No," said Ghalil. “My first
question was the only sane one I can ask. Have you been traveling in the thirteenth
century? I gather that you have not. I even feel that you have no plans of the
sort."
“At least no plans," agreed
Coghlan, with irony. “I know of nowhere I am less likely to visit."
Ghalil waved his cigarette, and
the ash fell off.
“As a police officer, there is a
mention of someone to be killed; possibly murdered. That makes it my affair. As
a student of philosophy it is surely my affair! In both police work and in philosophy
it is sometimes necessary to assume the absurd, in order to reason toward the
sensible. I would like to do so."
“By all means!" said Coghlan
dryly.
“At the moment, then," said
Ghalil, with a second wave of his cigarette, “you have as yet no anticipation
of any attempt to murder Mr. Mannard. You have no scar upon your thumb, nor any
expectation of one. And the existence oflet us saya ęgadgetł at 80 Hosain is
not in your memory. Right?"
“Quite right," admitted Coghlan.
“Now if you are to acquire the
scar," observed Ghalil, “you will makeor have made, I must addthose
fingerprints at some time in the future, when you will know of danger to Mr.
Mannard, and of a gadget at 80 Hosain. This“
“Ce nÅ‚est pas logique!"
protested Duval bitterly.
“But it is logic," said Ghalil
calmly. “The only flaw is that it is not common sense. Logically, then, one
concludes that at some time in the future, Mr. Coghlan will know these things
and will wish to inform himself, in what is now the present, of them. He will
wishperhaps next weekto inform himself today that there is danger to Mr.
Mannard and that there is something of significance at 80 Hosain, on the second
floor in the back room. So he will do so. And this memorandum on the fly-leaf
of this very ancient book will be the method by which he informs himself."
Coghlan said, “But you donÅ‚t
believe that!"
“I do not admit that I believe
it," said Ghalil with a smile. “But I think it would be wise to visit 80
Hosain. I cannot think of anything else to do!"
“Why not tell Mannard about all
this?" asked Coghlan dryly.
“He would think me insane," said
the Turk, just as dryly. “And with reason. In fact, I suspect it myself."
“IÅ‚ll tell him," said Coghlan,
“for what itÅ‚s worth. IÅ‚m having dinner with him and with his daughter tonight.
It will make small talk at least." He looked at his watch. “I really should be
leaving now."
Lieutenant Ghalil rose politely.
Duval took his head from his hands and stood up also, looking more haggard now
than at the beginning of the talk. Something occurred to Coghlan.
“Tell me," he said curiously, “M.
Duval, when you first found this book, what made you loosen a glued-down page?"
Duval spread out his hands. Ghalil
turned back the cover again, and put the fly-leaf flat. On what had been the
visible side there was a note, a gloss, of five or six lines. It was in an
informal sort of Greek lettering, and unintelligible to Coghlan. But, judging
by its placement, it was a memo by some previous owner of the book, rather than
any contribution of the copyist.
“My translator and M. Duval
agree," observed Ghalil. “They say it says, Ä™This book has traveled to the
frigid Beyond and returned, bearing writing of the adepts who ask news of
Appolonius.Å‚ I do not know what that means, nor did M. Duval, but he searched
for other writings. When he saw a page glued down, he loosened itand you know
what has resulted."
Coghlan said vexedly, “I wouldnÅ‚t
know what an adept is, and I can hardly guess what a frigid beyond is, or a
warm one either. But I do know an Appolonius. I think hełs a Greek, but he
calls himself a Neoplatonist as if that were a nationality, and says he hails
from somewhere in Arabia. Hełs trying to get Mannard to finance some sort of
political shenanigan. But he wouldnłt be referred to. Not seven centuries
ago!"
“You were," said Ghalil. “And Mr.
Mannard. And 80 Hosain. I think M. Duval and myself will investigate that
address and see if it solves the mystery or deepens it."
Duval suddenly shook his head.
“No," he said with a sort of
pathetic violence. “This affair is not possible! To think of it invites madness!
Mr. Coghlan, let us thrust all this from our minds! Let us abandon it! I ask
your pardon for my intrusion. I had hoped to find an explanation which could be
believed. I abandon the hope and the attempt. I shall go back to Paris and deny
to myself that any of this has ever taken place!"
Coghlan did not believe him, said
nothing.
“I hope," said Ghalil mildly,
“that you may reconsider." He moved toward the door with the Frenchman in tow.
“To abandon all inquiry at this stage would be suicidal!"
Coghlan said:
“Suicidal?"
“For one," admitted Ghalil,
ruefully, “I should die of curiosity!"
He waved his hand and went out,
pushing Duval. And Coghlan began to dress for his dinner with Laurie and her
father at the Hotel Petra. But as he dressed, his forehead continually creased
into a scowl of somehow angry puzzlement.
II
All the taxicabs of Istanbul are
driven by escaped maniacs whom the Turkish police inexplicably leave at large.
The cab in which Coghlan drove toward the Hotel Petra was driven by a man with
very dark skin and very white teeth and a conviction that the fate of every
pedestrian was determined by Allah and he did not have to worry about them. His
cab was equipped with an unusually full-throated horn, and fortunately he
seemed to love the sound of it. So Coghlan rode madly through narrow streets in
which foot-passengers seemed constantly to be recoiling in horror from the
cab-horn, and thereby escaping annihilation by the cab.
The cab passed howling through
preposterously narrow lanes. It turned corners on two wheels with less than
inches to spare. It rushed roaring upon knots of people who dissolved with
incredible agility before its approach, and it plunged into alleys like
tunnels, and it emerged into the wider streets of the more modern part of town
with pungent Turkish curses hanging upon it like garlands.
Coghlan did not notice. Once he
was alone, suspicions sprang up luxuriantly. But he could no more justify them
than he could accept the situation his visitors had presented. The two had not
asked for money or hinted at it. Coghlan didnłt have any money, anyhow, for
them to be scheming to get. The only man a swindling scheme could be aimed at
was Mannard. Mannard had money. Hełs made a fortune building dams, docks,
railroads and power installations in remote parts of the world. But he was
hardly a likely mark for a profitable hoax, even if his name was mentioned in
that memorandum so impossibly in Coghlanłs handwriting. He was one of the major
benefactors of the college in which Coghlan taught. He had at least one other
major philanthropy in view right now. Hełd be amused. But there was Laurie, of
course. She was a point where he could be vulnerable, be hit hard.
Decidedly Mannard had to be told
about it.
The cab rushed hooting down the
wide expanse of the Grande Rue de Petra. It made a U-turn. It peeled its way
between a sedate limousine and a ferocious Turkish Army jeep, swerved precariously
around a family group frozen in mid-pavement, barely grazed a parked
convertible, and came to a squealing stop precisely before the canopy of the
Hotel Petra. Its chauffeur beamed at Coghlan and happily demanded six times the
legal fare for the journey.
Coghlan beckoned to the hotel Commissionaire.
He put twice the legal fare in the manÅ‚s hand, said, “Pay him and keep the
change," and went into the hotel. His action was a form of American
efficiency. It saved money and argument. The discussion was already reaching
the shouting stage as he entered the hotelłs large and impressive lobby.
Laurie and her father were waiting
for him. Laurie was a good deal better-looking than he tried to believe, so he
muttered, “Professor, president, so what?" as he shook hands. It was very
difficult to avoid being in love with Laurie, but he worked at it.
“IÅ‚m late," he told them. “Two of
the weirdest characters you ever saw turned up with absolutely the weirdest
story you ever heard. I had to listen to it. It had me flipped."
A gleaming white shirt-front moved
into view. A beaming smile caressed him. The short broad person who called
himself Appolonius the Greathe came almost up to Coghlanłs shoulder and
outweighed him by forty poundscordially extended a short and pudgy arm and a
round fat hand. Coghlan noticed that Appoloniusł expensive wrist-watch
noticeably made a dent in the fatness of his wrist.
“Surely," said Appolonius
reproachfully, “you found no one stranger than myself!"
Coghlan shook hands as briefly as
possible. Appolonius the Great was an illusionista theatrical magicianwho was
taking leave from a season he described as remarkable in the European capitals
west of the Iron Curtain. His specialty, Coghlan understood, was sawing a
woman in half before his various audiences, and then producing her unharmed
afterward. He said proudly that when he had bisected the woman, the two halves
of her body were carried off at opposite sides of the stage. This, he allowed
it to be understood, was something nobody else could do with any hope of
reintegrating her afterward.
“You know Appolonius," grunted
Mannard. “LetÅ‚s go to dinner."
He led the way toward the
dining-room. Laurie took Coghlanłs arm. She looked up at him and smiled.
“I was afraid youÅ‚d turned against
me, Tommy," she said. “I was practising a look of pretty despair to use if you
didnłt turn up."
Coghlan looked down at her and
hardened his heart. On two previous occasions hełd resolutely broken
appointments when hełd have seen Laurie, because he liked her too much and
didnłt want her to find it out. But he was afraid shełd guessed it anyway.
“Good thing I had this date," he
told her. “My visitors had me dizzy. Come to think of it, IÅ‚m going to ask
Appolonius how they did their stunt. Itłs in his line, more or less."
The headwaiter bowed the party to
a table. There were only the four of them at dinner, and there was the gleam of
silver and glass and the sound of voices, with a string orchestra valiantly
trying to make a strictly Near-Eastern version of the Rhapsody in Blue
sound like American swing. They didnłt make it, but at least it wasnłt loud.
Coghlan waited for the hors
dłoeuvres, his face unconsciously growing gloomy. Appolonius the Great was
lifting his wine-glass. The deeply-indented wristwatch annoyed Coghlan. Its
sweep second-hand irritated him unreasonably. Appolonius was saying blandly:
“I think it is time for me to
reveal my great good fortune! I offer a toast to the Neoplatonist Autonomous
Republic-to-be! Some think it a lie, and some a swindle and me the would-be
swindler. But drink to its reality!"
He drank. Then he beamed more
widely still.
“I have secured financing for the
bribes I need to pay," he explained. All his chins radiated cheer. “I may not
reveal who has decided to enrich some scoundrelly politicians in order to aid
my people, but I am very happy. For myself and my people!"
“ThatÅ‚s fine!" said Mannard.
“I shall no longer annoy you for a
contribution," Appolonius assured him. “Is it not a relief?"
Mannard chuckled. Appolonius the
Great was almost openly a fake; certainly he told about his “people" with the
air of one who does not expect anybody to take him seriously. The story was
that somewhere in Arabia there was a group of small, obscure villages in which
the doctrines of Neoplatonism survived as a religion. They were maintained by a
caste of philosopher-priests who kept the population bemused by magic, and
Appolonius claimed to have been one of the hierarchy and to be astonishing all
Europe with the trickery which was the mainstay of the cult. It sounded like
the sort of publicity an over-imaginative press-agent might have contrived. A
tradition of centuries of the development and worship of the art of
hocus-pocus was not too credible. And now, it seemed, Appolonius was claiming
that somebody had put up money to bribe some Arab government and secure safety
for the villagers in revealing their existence and at-least-eccentric religion.
“IÅ‚d some visitors today," said
Coghlan, “who may have been using some of your Neoplatonistic magic." He turned
to Mannard. “By the way, sir, they told me that I am probably going to murder
you."
Mannard looked up amusedly. He was
a big man, deeply tanned, and looked capable of looking after himself. He said:
“Knife, bullet, or poison, Tommy?
Or will you use a cyclotron? How was that?"
Coghlan explained. The story of
his interview with the harassed Duval and the skeptical Ghalil sounded even
more absurd than before, as he told it.
Mannard listened. The hors
dłoeuvres came. The soup. Coghlan told the story very carefully, and was the
more annoyed as he found himself trying to explain how impossible it was that
it could be a fake. Yet he didnłt mention that one line which had most disturbed
him.
Mannard chuckled once or twice as
CoghlanÅ‚s story unfolded. “Clever!" he said when Coghlan finished. “How do you
suppose they did it, and what do they want?"
Appolonius the Great wiped his
mouth and topmost chin.
“I do not like it," he said
seriously. “I do not like it at all. Oh, the book and the fingerprints and the
writing . . . one can do such things. I
remember that once, in Madrid, Ibut no matter! They are amateurs, and
therefore they may be dangerous folk."
Laurie said, “I think TommyÅ‚d have
seen through anything crude. And I donłt think he told quite all the story.
Iłve known him a long time. Therełs something that still bothers him."
Coghlan flushed. Laurie could read
his mind uncannily.
“There was," he admitted, “a line
that I didnłt tell. It mentioned something that would mean nothing to anyone
but myselfand IÅ‚ve never mentioned it to anyone."
Appolonius sighed. “Ah, how often
have I not read someonełs inmost thoughts! Everyone believes his own thoughts
quite unique! But still, I do not like this!"
Laurie leaned close to Coghlan.
She said, under her breath, “Was the thing you didnÅ‚t tellabout me?"
Coghlan looked at her
uncomfortably, and nodded. “Nice!" said Laurie, and smiled mischievously at
him. Appolonius suddenly made a gesture. He lifted a goblet with water in it.
He held it up at the level of their eyes.
“I show you the principle of
magic," he said firmly. “Here is a glass, containing water only. You see it
contains nothing else!"
Mannard looked at it warily. The
water was perfectly clear. Appolonius swept it around the table at eye-level.
“You see! Now, Mr. Coghlan,
enclose the goblet with your hands. Surround the bowl. You, at least, are not a
confederate! Now . . .
The fat little man looked tensely
at the glass held in Coghlanłs cupped hands. Coghlan felt like a fool.
“Abracadabra 750 Fatima Miss Mannard is very
beautiful!" he said in a theatrical voice. Then he added placidly, “Any other
words would have done as well. Put down the glass, Mr. Coghlan, and look at
it."
Coghlan put down the goblet and
took his hands away. There was a gold-piece in the goblet. It was an antiquea
ten-dirhem piece of the Turkish Empire.
“I could not build up the
illusion," said Appolonius, “but it was deceptive, was it not?"
“HowÅ‚d you do it?" asked Mannard
interestedly.
“At eye-level," said Appolonius,
“you cannot see the bottom of a goblet filled with water. Refraction prevents
it. I dropped in the coin and held it at the level of your eyes. So long as it
was held high, it seemed empty. That is all."
Mannard grunted.
“It is the principle which
counts!" said Appolonius. “I did something of which you knew nothing. You
deceived yourselves, because you thought I was getting ready to do a trick. I
had already done it. That is the secret of magic."
He fished out the gold-piece and
put it in his vest pocket, and Coghlan thought sourly that this trick was not
quite as convincing as his own handwriting, his own fingerprints and most
private thoughts, written down over seven centuries ago.
“Hm .
. . I think IÅ‚ll mention your visitors to the police," said Mannard.
“IÅ‚m mentioned. I may be involved. ItÅ‚s too elaborate to be a practical joke,
and therełs that mention of somebody getting killed. I know some fairly high
Turkish officials ... youłll talk to anyone
they send you?"
“Naturally." Coghlan felt that he
should be relieved, but he was not. Then something else occurred to him.
“By the way," he said to
Appolonius, “youÅ‚re in on this, too. ThereÅ‚s a memorandum that says the
ęadeptsł were inquiring for you!"
He quoted, as well as he was able,
the memo on the back of the page containing his fingerprints. The fat man
listened, frowning.
“This," he said firmly, “I very
much do not like! It is not good for my professional reputation to be linked
with tricksters. It is very much not good!"
Astonishingly, he looked pale. It
could be anger, but he was definitely paler than he had been. Laurie said
briskly:
“You said something about a
gadget, Tommy. At80 Hosain, you said?"
Coghlan nodded. “Yes. Duval and
Lieutenant Ghalil said they were going to make inquiries theme."
“After dinner," suggested Laurie,
“we could take the car and go look at the outside, anyhow? I donÅ‚t think Father
has anything planned. It would be interesting"
“Not a bad thought," said Mannard.
“ItÅ‚s a pleasant night. WeÅ‚ll all go."
Laurie smiled ruefully at Coghlan.
And Coghlan resolutely assured himself he was pleasedit was much better for
him not to be anywhere with Laurie, alone. But he was not cheered in the least.
Mannard pushed back his chair.
“ItÅ‚s irritating!" he grunted. “I
canłt figure out what theyłre driving at! By all means, letłs go look at that
infernal house!"
They went up to Mannardłs suite on
the third floor of the Petra, and he telephoned and ordered the car hełd rented
during his stay in Istanbul. Laurie put a scarf over her head. Somehow even
that looked good on her, as Coghlan realized depressedly.
Appolonius the Great had blandly
assumed an invitation and continued to talk about his political enterprise of
bribery. He believed, he said, that there might be some ancient manuscripts
turned up when enlightenment swept over the furtive villages of his people.
Coghlan gathered that he claimed as many as two or three thousand
fellow-countrymen.
The car was reported as ready.
“I shall walk down the stairs!"
announced Appolonius, with a wave of his pudgy hand. “I feel somehow grand and
dignified, now that someone has given me money for my people. I do not think
that anyone can feel dignified in a lift."
Mannard grunted. They moved toward
the wide stairs, Appolonius in the lead.
The lights went out, everywhere.
Immediately there was a gasp and a crashing sound. Mannardłs voice swore
furiously, halfway down the flight of curving steps. A moment ago he had been
at the top landing.
The lights came on again. Mannard
came storming up the steps. He glared about him, breathing hard. He was the
very opposite of the typical millionaire just then. He looked hardboiled,
athletic, spoiling for a fight.
“My dear friend!" gasped
Appolonius. “What happened?"
“Somebody tried to throw me
downstairs!" growled Mannard balefully. “They grabbed my foot and heaved! If
Iłd gone the way I was thrownif I hadnłt handled myself rightIłd have gone
over the stair-rail and broken my blasted neck!"
He glared about him. But there
were only the four of them in sight. Mannard peered each way along the hotel
corridors. He fumed. But there was literally nobody around who could have done
it.
“Oh, maybe I slipped," he said
irritably, “but it didnÅ‚t feel like that! Dammit Oh, thereÅ‚s no harm done!"
He went down the stairs again,
scowling. The lights stayed on. The others followed. Laurie said shakily:
“That was odd, wasnÅ‚t it?"
“Very," said Coghlan. “If you
remember, I said IÅ‚d been told that IÅ‚d probably murder him."
“But you were right by me!" said
Laurie quickly.
“Not so close I couldnÅ‚t have done
it," said Coghlan. “I sort of wish it hadnÅ‚t happened."
They reached the lower floor of
the hotel, Mannard still bristling. Appolonius walked with a waddling, swaying
grace. To Coghlan he looked somehow like pictures of the Agha Khan. He beamed
as he walked. He was very impressive. And hełd been thinking as Coghlan had
thought, for in the lobby he turned and said blandly:
“You said something about a
prophecy that you might murder Mr. Mannard. Be careful, Mr. Coghlan! Be
careful!"
He twinkled at the two who
followed him, and resumed his splendid progress toward the car that waited
outside.
It was dark in the back of the
car. Laurie settled down beside Coghlan. He was distinctly aware of her
nearness. But he frowned uneasily as the car rolled away. His own handwriting
in the book from ancient days had said, “Make sure of Mannard. To be killed."
And Mannard had just had a good chance of a serious accident. . . Coghlan felt uncomfortably that something
significant had taken place that he should have noticed.
But, he irritably assured himself,
it couldnłt be anything but coincidence.
III
Coghlan breakfasted on coffee
alone, next morning, and he had the dour outlook and depressed spirit that
always followed an evening with Laurie these days. The trouble was, of course,
that he wanted to marry her, and resolutely wouldnłt even consider the
possibility.
He drank his coffee and stared
glumly out into the courtyard below his windows. His apartment was in one of
the older houses of the Galata district, slicked up for modem times. The courtyard
had probably once been a harem garden. Now it was flag-stoned, with a few
spindling shrubs, and the noises of Istanbul were muted when they reached it.
There came brisk footsteps.
Lieutenant Ghalil strode crisply across the courtyard. He vanished. A moment
later, Coghlanłs doorbell rang. He answered it, scowling.
Ghalil grinned as he said, “Good
morning!"
“More mystery?" demanded Coghlan
suspiciously.
“A part of it has been cleared up
in my mind," said Ghalil. “I am much more at ease in my thoughts."
“IÅ‚m having coffee," growled
Coghlan. “IÅ‚ll get you some." He got out another cup and poured it. He had an
odd feeling that Ghalil was regarding him with a new friendliness.
“I have a letter for you," said
the Turk cheerfully.
He passed it over. It was a neatly
typed note, in English, on a letterhead that Coghlan could make out as that of
the Ministry of Policewhich is officially based in Ankara rather than Istanbul,
but unofficially has followed the center of gravity of crime to the older city.
The signature was clear. It was that of a cabinet minister, no less. The note
said that at the request of the American, Mr. Mannard, Lieutenant Ghalil had
been appointed to confer with Mr. Coghlan on a matter which Mr. Coghlan
considered serious. The Minister of Police assured Mr. Coghlan that Lieutenant
Ghalil had the entire confidence of the Ministry, which was sure that he would
be both cooperative and competent.
Coghlan looked up, confused.
“And I thought you the suspicious
character!" said Ghalil. “But you surely did the one thing a suspicious
character would not docall in the police at the beginning. Because you thought
me suspicious!" He chuckled. “Now, if you still have doubts, I can report that
you wish to confer with a person of higher rank. But it will not be easy to get
anyone else to take this matter seriously! Or in quite so amicable a manner, orders
or no, in view of the implied threat to Mr. Mannard and my comparative
assurance that you are innocent so far" he smiled slightly “of any
responsibility for that threat."
Coghlan had been thinking about
that, too. He growled:
“ItÅ‚s ridiculous! IÅ‚d just barely
told Mannard about it last night, when he had an accident and almost got
himself killed, and a third party who was along had the nerve to warn me"
Ghalil tensed. He held up his
hand.
“What was that?"
Coghlan impatiently told of
MannardÅ‚s tripping on the stairs. “A coincidence, obviously," he finished.
Then, placing the defense before any offense: “What else?"
“What else indeed?" agreed Ghalil.
He said abruptly, “What do you think of 80 Hosain? You saw it last night."
Coghlan shrugged his shoulders.
The carload of themMannard, Laurie, Appolonius the Great and Coghlanhad
driven deep into the Galata quarter and found 80 Hosain. It was a grimy,
unbelievably ancient building, empty of all life, on a winding, narrow,
noisome alleyway. When the car found it, there were shabby figures gathered
around, looking curiously at police outside it. Ghalil himself came to ask what
the people in the car wanted. Then the whole party went into the echoing
deserted building and up to the empty back room on the second floor.
Coghlan could see and smell that
room now. The house itself had been unoccupied for a long time. It was so old
that the stone flooring on the ground level had long since worn out and been
replaced by wide, cracked planks now worn out themselves. The stone steps
leading to the second story were rounded in their centers by the footsteps of
past generations. There were smells. There was mustiness. There was squalor and
evidences of neglect continued for a millennium. There were cobwebs and dirt and
every indication of degradation; yet the door-lintels were carved stone from a
time when a workman was an artisan and did the work of an artist.
The back room was empty of
everything but the grime of ages. Plaster had fallen, revealing older plaster
behind it, and on the older plaster there were traces of color as if the walls
had been painted in figures no longer to be made out. And there was one place,
on the western wall, where the plaster was wet. A roughly square spot of a
foot-and-a-half by a foot-and-a-half, about a yard above the floor-level,
glistening with moisture.
In Coghlanłs living-room, with
Ghalil looking interestedly at him, Coghlan frowned.
“There was nothing in the room. It
was empty. There was no ęGadgetł there as Duvalłs book declared."
Ghalil said mildly:
“The book was of the thirteenth
century. Would you expect to find anything in a room after so long a time, so
many lootings, the use of twenty generations?"
“I was guided only by DuvalÅ‚s
book," said Coghlan with some irony.
“You suspect that wet spot on the
wall, eh?"
“I didnÅ‚t understand it," admitted
Coghlan, “and it was peculiar. It was cold."
“Perhaps it is the gadget," said
Ghalil. He said in mild reproof, “After you left, I felt it as you had done. It
was very cold. I thought my hand would be frost-bitten, when I kept it there
for some time. In fact, later I covered the spot with a blanket, and frost
appeared under it!"
Coghlan said impatiently, “Not
without refrigerating apparatus, and thatłs out of the question!"
Ghalil thought that over. “Yet it
did appear."
“Would refrigerating apparatus be
called a gadget?" Coghlan wondered.
The Turk shook his head. “It is
peculiar. I learn that it is traditional that a spot on the plaster in that
room has always been and will always be wet. It has been considered magical,
and has given the place a bad namewhich is one reason the house is empty. The
legend is verifiable for sixty years. Refrigeration was not known in small
units so long ago. Would that coldness be another impossibility of this
affair?"
Coghlan said, “We talk nonsense
all the time!"
Ghalil thought, again. “Could
refrigeration be a lost art of the ancients?" he asked with a faint smile, “and
if so, what has it to do with you and Mr. Mannard and thisAppolonius?"
“There arenÅ‚t any lost arts,"
Coghlan assured him. “In olden times people did things at random, on what they
thought were magical principles. Sometimes they got results. On magical reasoning,
they used digitalis for the heart. It happened to be right, and they kept on. On
magical reasoning, they hammered copper past all sanity. It got hardened, and
they thought it was tempered. There are electroplated objects surviving from a
thousand years and more ago. The Greeks made a steam turbine in the classic
age. Itłs more than likely that they made a magic lantern. But there could be
no science without scientific thinking. They got results by accident, but they
didnłt know what they were doing or what theyłd done. They couldnłt think
technically . . . so there are no lost
arts, only redefinitions. We can do everything the ancients could."
“Can you make a place that will
stay cold for sixty yearslet alone seven hundred?"
“ItÅ‚s an illusion," said Coghlan.
“It must be! YouÅ‚d better ask Appolonius how itÅ‚s done. ThatÅ‚s in his line."
“I would be pleased if you would
examine again that cold place on the wall at 80 Hosain," said Ghalil ruefully.
“If it is an illusion, it is singularly impenetrable!"
“I promised," said Coghlan, “to go
on a picnic today with the Mannards. Theyłre going up along the Sea of Marmora
to look at a piece of ground."
Ghalil raised his eyebrows.
“They plan a home here?"
“A childrenÅ‚s camp," Coghlan
explained with reserve. “MannardÅ‚s a millionaire. HeÅ‚s given a lot of money to
the American College, and itłs been suggested that he do something more. A camp
for slum-children is projected. He may finance it to show what can be done for
childrenłs health by the sort of thing thatłs standard in the United States.
Hełs looking over a site. If he puts up the money, the camp will be handled by
Turkish personnel and the cost and results worked out. If itłs successful, the
Turkish Government or private charities will carry it on and extend it."
“Admirable," said Lieutenant
Ghalil. “One would not like to see such a man murdered."
Coghlan did not comment. Ghalil
rose.
“Butcome and examine this
refrigeration apparatus of ancient days, please! After all, it is undoubtedly
mentioned in a memorandum in your handwriting of seven hundred years ago!
AndMr. Coghlan, will you be careful?"
“Of what?"
“For one, Mr. Mannard." GhalilÅ‚s
expression was wry. “I do not believe in things from the past any more than you
do, but as a philosopher and a policeman I have to face facts even when they
are impossible, and possibilities even when they are insane. There are two
things foretold which disturb me. I hope you will help me to prevent them."
“The murder of Mannard, of course.
But whatłs the other?"
“I should regret that, and I guard
against it," Ghalil told him. But I would be intellectually more disturbed if
you should cut your thumb. A murder would be explicable."
Coghlan grinned. “I wonÅ‚t. ThatÅ‚s
not likely!"
“That is why I dread it. Please
come to 80 Hosain when you can. I am having the room examined microscopicallyand
cleaned in the process. I even have it garrisoned, to prevent any preparation
of illusion."
He waved his hand and went away.
An hour later, Coghlan joined the
excursion which was to inspect a site for a possible childrenłs camp. An
impressive small yacht lay at dock on the shore of the Golden Horn. There was a
vast confusion everywhere. From Italian freighters to cabin-cruisers, from
clumsy barges to lateen-rigged tubs and grimy small two- and three-passenger
rowboatsevery conceivable type of floating thing floated or moved or was
docked all about. The yacht had been loaned as a grand gesture by its owner, so
that Mannard would make a gift of money the yachtłs owner preferred to spend
otherwise.
Laurie looked relieved when
Coghlan turned up. She waved to him as he came aboard.
“News, Tommy! Your friend Duval
telephoned me this morning!"
“What for?"
“He sounded hysterical and
apologetic," Laurie told him, “because heÅ‚d been trying to reach Father, and
couldnłt. He said he could not tell me the details or the source of his
information, but he had certain knowledge that you intended to murder my
father. He nearly collapsed when I said sweetly, ęThank you so much, Młsieur
Duval! So he told us last night!Å‚ “ She
grinned. “It wasnÅ‚t quite the reaction he expected!"
“If he were an honest man,"
Coghlan mused, “thatÅ‚s just exactly what heÅ‚d have donetried to warn your
father. But he couldnłt say why he thought a murder was in the wind, because
thatłs unbelievable. Maybe he is honest. I donłt know."
Appolonius the Great came waddling
down to the dock, in a marvelous yachting costume. He beamed and waved, and the
sunlight gleamed on his wristwatch. A beggar thrust up to him and whined,
holding out a ragged European cap. The beggar cringed and gabbled shrilly. And
Appolonius the Great paused, looked into the extended cap with apparent
stupefaction, and pointed; whereupon the beggar also looked into the cap,
yelped, and fled at the top of his speed, clutching the cap fast. Appolonius
came on, shaking all over with his amusement.
“You say?" he asked amiably as he
reached the yachtÅ‚s deck. “Indeed I cannot resist such jests! He held out his
cap, and I looked, and feigned surpriseand there was a handful of jewels in
the cap! True, they were merely paste and trinketry, but I added a silver coin
to comfort him when he discovers they are worthless."
He waddled forward to greet
Mannard. There was around the yacht that pandemonium which in the Near East
accompanies every public activity. Men swarmed everywhere. Even the yacht
carried a vastly larger crew than seemed necessary, there being at least a
dozen of them on a boat that three American sailors would have navigated
handily. Sailors seemed to fall all over each other in getting ready for
departure.
The party of guests was not large.
There was a professor from the College. A local politico, the owner of the
proposed campsite. A lawyer. The Turkish owner of the yacht glowed visibly as
last-minute baskets of food came aboard. He was not paying for them.
Coghlan and Laurie sat at the very
stern of the yacht when at last it pulled out and went on up the Golden Horn.
There was little privacy, because of the swarming number of the crew, and
Coghlan did not try for greater privacy. He looked at the panorama of the city
which had been the center of civilization for a thousand yearsand now was a
rabbit-warren of narrow streets and questionable occupations. Laurie, beside
him, watched the unfolding view of minarets and domes and the great white
palace which had been the Seraglio, and the soaring pile of Hagia Sophia, and
all the beauty of this place, notorious for its beauty for almost two thousand
years. There was bright sunshine to add to it, and the flickering of
sun-reflections on the water. These things seemed to cast a glamor over
everything. But Laurie looked away from it at Coghlan.
“Tommy," she said, “will you tell
me what was in that mysterious message that you wouldnłt tell last night? You
said it was about me."
“It was nothing important," said
Coghlan. “Shall we go up to the pilot-house and see how the yachtÅ‚s steered?"
She faced him directly, and
smiled.
“Does it occur to you that IÅ‚ve
known you a long time, Tommy, and IÅ‚ve practically studied you, and I can
almost read your mindI hope?"
He moved restlessly.
“When you were ten years old," she
said, “you told me very generously that you would marry me when you grew up.
But you insisted ferociously that I shouldnłt tell anybody!"
He muttered something indistinct
about kids.
“And you took me to your Senior
Prom," she reminded him, “even if I had to make my father leave Bogota two
months early so IÅ‚d be around when it was time for you to pass out the invitation.
And you were the first boy who ever kissed me," she added amiably, “and
untilwelllately you used to write me very nice letters. Youłve paid attention
to me all our lives, Tommy!"
He said:
“Cigarette?"
“No," she said firmly. “IÅ‚m
working up to something."
“No use talking," he said sourly.
“LetÅ‚s join the others."
“Tommy!" she protested. “YouÅ‚re
not nice! And here I am trying to spare you embarrassment!" She grinned at him.
“You wouldnÅ‚t want my father to ask what your intentions are!"
“I havenÅ‚t any," he said grimly.
“If I were only a rich womanÅ‚s husband IÅ‚d despise myself. If I didnÅ‚t, youÅ‚d
despise me! It wouldnłt work out. And I wouldnłt want to be just your first
husband!"
Her eyes grew softer, but she
shook her head reproachfully. “Thenhow about being a brother to me? You ought
to suggest that, if only to be polite."
Coghlan had known her a long, long
time. Her air of comfortable teasing would have fooled people. But Coghlan
felt like a heel.
He muttered under his breath. He
stood up.
“You know damned well I love you!"
he said angrily. “But thatÅ‚s all! I canÅ‚t turn it off, but I can starve it to
death! And therełs no use arguing about it! Youłll be leaving soon. If you
werenłt, I wouldnłt come near you here! Nobody could be crazier about anybody
else than I am about you, but you canłt wear me down. Understand?"
“I wouldnÅ‚t want to break your
spirit, Tommy," said Laurie reasonably. “But IÅ‚m getting desperate!"
Then she smiled. He growled and
strode irritably away. When his back was turned, her smile wavered and broke.
And when he looked back at her a little later she was staring out over the water,
her back to the others on the yacht. Her hands were tightly clenched.
The yacht steamed on up the
Bosphorus. There were the hills on either side, speckled with dwellings which
looked trim and picturesque from the water, but would be completely squalid at
close view. The sky was deepest azure, and this was the scene of many romantic
happenings in years gone by. But the owner of the yacht talked expansively to
Mannard in the thickest of Turkish accents. The professor from the American
College was deep in discussion with the lawyer on the responsibility of the
municipal government for the smell of decaying garbage which made his home
nearly uninhabitable. The owner of the site to be inspected spoke only Turkish.
That left only Appolonius the Great.
Coghlan brought up the subject of
the cryptic and quite incredible message in the Alexiad.
“Ah, it is a mystification," said
Appolonius genially. “It is also, I think, an intended swindle. But Mr. Mannard
has spoken to the police. They will inquire into those persons. It would be unprofessional
for me to interfere!"
Coghlan said shortly:
“Not if itÅ‚s a scheme for a
swindle."
“That," acknowledged Appolonius,
“disturbs me. As you know, I have recently received a large sum from a source
that would surprise you, to bribe my people to freedom. I do not like to be
associated with downright scoundrels! Therefore I stand asidelest it be
considered that I am a scoundrel too!" Coghlan turned away, considering.
This was not a cheerful day for
him. He doggedly would not go back to Laurie. It had cost him a great deal to
make the decision hełd made. He wouldnłt change it. There was no use talking
to her. Thinking about her made him miserable. He tried, for a time, to put his
mind on the matter of 80 Hosain; to imagine some contrivance, possible to the
ancients, which would amount to apparatus to produce cold. In Babylonia the
ancients had known that a shallow tray, laid upon blankets, would radiate heat
away at night and produce a thin layer of ice by morning on a completely
windless and cloudless night. The heat went on out to empty space, and the
blanket kept more heat from rising out of the earth. But Istanbul was hardly a
place of cloudlessness. That wouldnłt work here. The ancients hadnłt understood
it, anyhow. He gave it up.
The yacht drew nearer to the shore
as the Sea of Marmora expanded from the Bosphorus. It tied up to a rickety
wharf, with seemingly innumerable sailors clumsily achieving the landing.
Mannard went ashore to inspect the proposed campsite. Sailors carted ashore
vast numbers of baskets, folding tables, and the other apparatus for an
alfresco luncheon. Coghlan smoked dourly on the yachtłs deck.
Laurie went ashore, and he sat
still, feeling as ridiculous as a sulking child. Presently he wandered across
the wharf and moved about at random while the lunch was spread out. When the exploring
party came back, Coghlan allowed himself to be seated next to Laurie. She
casually ignored their recent discussion and chatted brightly. He sank into
abysmal gloom.
The matter of the proposed
childrenłs camp was discussed at length in at least three languages. Luncheon
progressed, with sailors acting as waiters and bringing hot dishes from the
galley of the yacht. The owner of the land rose and made a florid, perspiring
speech in the fond hope of unloading land he could not use, at a fancy price he
could. The professor from the American College spoke warmly of Mannard, and
threw in a hint or two that his own specialty could use some extra funds. Coghlan
saw clearly that everybody in the world was out to get money from Mannard by
any possible process, and grimly reiterated to himself his own resolution not
to take part in the undignified scramble by trying to marry Laurie.
The sailors brought coffee.
Coghlan drank his while the speechmaking went on. Mannard talked absorbedly to
the lawyer, and to the owner of the land. The childrenłs camp seemed to be
practically assured. That, to Coghlan, was one bright spot in a thumping bleak
day.
He saw Mannard start to drink his
coffee, then feel the cup with his hands and give it to a sailor to be taken
back to the yacht to be replaced with hot coffee. It had gotten cold.
Laurie chatted brightly with
Appolonius. He beamed at her. A sailor came back with Mannardłs cup. He felt
it, as he always did. He lifted it toward his lips.
There was a violent cracking
sound. Echoes rang all about. Voices stopped.
Mannard was staring in
stupefaction at the coffee-cup in his hand. It was broken. It had been smashed
by a bullet. Coffee was spilled everywhere, and Mannard absurdly held the
handle of the cup from which he had been about to drink.
Coghlan was in motion even as he
saw in his mindłs eye the phrase in his own handwriting on a yellowed sheepskin
page:
“Make sure of Mannard. To be
killed."
IV
It was preposterous. Mannard stood
up abruptly, raging, with the smashed handle of the coffee-cup in his hand. He
did not seem to realize that by rising he became an even better target. There
was an instantłs stunned immobility, on the part of everyone but Coghlan. He
plunged forward, toppling the flimsy table in a confusion of smashed china and
scrambled silverware.
“Get down!" snapped Coghlan.
He pushed Lauriełs father back
into his seat. All about was absolute tranquillity save for the white-faced men
who picked themselves up with stiff, frightened movements after Coghlanłs rush
had toppled them. The hillsides were green and silent save for the minor cries
of insects. The water was undisturbed. Some sailors began to run ashore from
the yacht.
“Everybody gather round here!"
commanded Coghlan angrily. “The shot was at Mannard! Get close!"
Laurie was the only one who seemed
to obey. She was white-faced as the rest, but she said:
“IÅ‚m here, Tommy. What do we do?"
“Not you, damn it! Somebody shot
at your father! If we get around him and get him to the yacht, they canłt see
him to shoot again. You get in the center here too!"
He commanded the Turkish-speaking
sailors with violent gestures, and they obeyed his authoritative manner. He
and Laurie and the sailors fairly forced the sputtering, angry Mannard off the
wharf and onto the craft moored at its end. The other members of the
picnic-party were milling into action. The lawyer scuttled aboard. The owner of
the land was even before him. Only Appolonius sat where his chair had toppled,
his face gray and filled with an astounded expression of shock. The professor
from the American College went on board and disappeared entirely. Coghlan went
back and dragged at Appolonius. The fat man scrambled to his feet and went
stiffly out the wharf and on board.
“Somebody who can talk Turkish,"
snapped Coghlan, “tell the sailors to help me hunt for whoever fired that shot!
Hełs had a chance to get away, but we can look for him, anyhow!"
A voice, chattering, said
unintelligible things. Sailors went ashore, Coghlan in the lead. They obeyed
Coghlanłs gestured commands and tramped about with him in the brushwood, hunting
industriously and without visible timidity. But Coghlan fumed. He could not
give detailed commands. He couldnłt be sure they were watching for footprints
or a tiny ejected shell which would tell at least where the would-be murderer
had been.
There were shouts from the yacht.
Coghlan ignored them, searching angrily but with an increasing sensation of
futility. Then Laurie came running ashore.
“Tommy! ItÅ‚s useless! HeÅ‚s gone!
The thing to do is to get back to Istanbul and tell the police!"
Coghlan nodded angrily, wondering again
if the marksman who had missed Mannard might not settle for Laurie. He stood
between her and the shore, and shouted and beckoned to the sailors. He led them
back to the yacht, in a tight circle around Laurie.
The yacht cast off with unseemly
haste. It sped out from the shore and headed back for Istanbul. Mannard sat
angrily in a deck-chair, his eyes hard. He nodded to Coghlan.
“I didnÅ‚t see the point of
protecting me," he admitted grimly, “not at the time. But that crazy business
you were telling me last night did hint at this." Then he said with explosive
irritation: “Dammit, either they meant to kill me without asking for money, or
they donłt care much whether they kill me or not!"
Coghlan nodded. “They might figure
on being reckless with you," he said coldly, “so if you get killed thatÅ‚ll be
all the more reason for Laurie to pay up if something happens. Orthey might
figure that if theyłre reckless enough with you, youłll pay up the more quickly
if they threaten Laurie."
“WhatÅ‚s that?" demanded Mannard
sharply.
“I donÅ‚t know what the scheme is,"
Coghlan told him. “It looks crazy! But though the threat seems directed against
you, the danger may be even greater for Laurie."
Mannard said grimly:
“Yes. ThatÅ‚s something to watch
out for. Thanks."
The yacht ploughed through the
water back toward Istanbul. The sun shone brightly on the narrow blue sea. The
hills on either side seemed to shimmer in the heat. But the atmosphere on the
yacht was far from relaxed. The sailors bore high interest beneath a mask of
discretion, most of them managing to occupy themselves near the Turkish guests,
who huddled together and talked excitedly.
Laurie put her arm in Coghlanłs.
“ThereÅ‚s such a thing as courage,
Tommy," she said, “and such a thing as recklessness. You took chances,
searching on shore. I wouldnłt like you to be killed."
“It could be," he said harshly,
“that the whole idea is to scare one or the other of you so completelyeven if
one of you had to be killedthat youłll be ready to pay hugely at the first
demand for money."
“But how"
He said fiercely: “If you were
kidnapped, for instance! Be carefulhear me? Donłt go anywhere in response to a
note of any kind."
He went impatiently away and paced
up and down, alone, until the yacht docked once more.
Then there was more confusion.
Mannard was intent upon an immediate conference with police. Coghlan and Laurie
went with him to headquarters, in a cab.
Presently, there was some
embarrassment. Mannard could not bring himself to tell so incredible a tale as
that a book seven hundred years old had had a seven-hundred-year-old message in
it which said he was to be killed, and that the shot which had so narrowly
missed him today seemed to be connected with it.
He doggedly told only the facts of
the event itself. No, he had no enemies that he knew of. No, he had not
received any message, himself, that he could consider a threat. He could not
guess what was behind the attempt on his life.
The police were polite and deeply
concerned. They assured him that Lieutenant Ghalil would be notified
immediately. He had been assigned to a matter Mr. Mannard had mentioned before.
As soon as it was possible to reach him.
That affair, inconclusive as it
was, took nearly an hour of time. Mannard fumed, in the cab on the way back to
the hotel.
“GhalilÅ‚s mixed up in this all the
way through!" he said darkly. “It could be on orders, or it could be something
else."
“I know he has orders," said
Coghlan briefly. “And I think I know where heÅ‚ll be. IÅ‚ll hunt him up. Now."
The cab stopped before the Hotel
Petra. Mannard and Laurie got out. Coghlan stayed in. Laurie said:
“Take care of yourself, Tommy.
Please!"
The cab pulled out into traffic
and bounded for 80 Hosain with the mad, glad disregard for all safety rules
which is the lifeblood of Istanbul taxicabs.
80 Hosain, by daylight, was even
less inviting to look upon than it had seemed the night before. The street was
narrow and unbelievably tortuous. It was paved with worn cobbles which sloped
toward its center in the vain hope that rain would wash street-debris away.
Because of its winding, it was never possible to see more than fifty feet
ahead. When the building at last appeared, there was a police-car before it and
a uniformed policeman on guard at the door. His neatness was in marked contrast
to his squalid surroundingsbut even so this section might have been a most
aristocratic quarter in the times of the Byzantine Empire.
Coghlan was admitted without question.
There was already an extensive process of cleaning-up under way. It smelled
much less offensive than before. He went up the stairs and into the back room
which was mentioned in the message he simply must have written, and simply
hadnłt.
Duval sat on a campstool in one
corner, more haggard than before. There were many books on the floor beside
him, and one lay open in his hand. Ghalil smoked reflectively on a windowsill.
The blank stone wall of the next building showed half-a-dozen feet beyond. Only
the grayest and gloomiest of light came in the windows. Ghalil looked up and
seemed pleased when Coghlan entered.
“I hoped you would come after the
boat-trip," he said cordially. “M. Duval and myself are still exchanging
mutual assurances of our lunacy."
“Up in the Sea of Marmora," said
Coghlan curtly, “somebody tried to kill Mannard. Since thatÅ‚s supposedly a part
of this affair, it may be crazy but itłs surely serious! Did Headquarters tell
you about it?"
“There was no need," said Ghalil
mildly. “I was there."
Coghlan stared.
“I have believed Mr. Mannard in
danger from the beginning," Ghalil explained apologetically. “I underestimated
it, to be sure. But after you told me of the affair of last nightwhen even he
believes he trippedI have taken every possible precaution to guard him. So of
course I went on the yacht."
Coghlan said incredulously, “I
didnłt see you!"
“It was stifling below-decks,"
said Ghalil wryly. “But most of the sailors were my men. You must have noticed
that they were not skilled seamen?"
Coghlan found all his ideas
churned up again.
“But"
“He was in no danger from the
bullet," Ghalil assured him. “I was concerned about the luncheon. In Istanbul
when we think of an impending murder we think not only of knives and guns, but
of poison. I took great pains against poison. The cook on the yacht tasted
every item served, and he has a talent for detecting the most minute trace of
the commoner poisons. An odd talent to have, eh?"
“But Mannard was shot at?"
protested Coghlan.
Lieutenant Ghalil nodded. He
puffed tranquilly on his cigarette.
“I am an excellent marksman," he
said modestly. “I watched. At the last possible instantand I am ashamed to say
only by accidentit was discovered that his coffee was poisoned."
Coghlan found suspicion and
bewilderment battling for primacy in his mind.
“You recall," said Ghalil
carefully, “that Mr. Mannard talked absorbedly and at length. When he went to
drink his coffee, he found it cold. He sent his cup to be refilled. I am
disturbed," he interjected vexedly, “because only by accident he is alive! The
cookmy talented manpoured aside the cooled coffee and refilled Mr. Mannardłs
cup. And he has a fondness for tepid coffee, which I find strange. He went to
drink the coffee Mr. Mannard had returnedand something had been added to it.
More might remain in the cup. He told me instantly. There was no time to send a
message. Mr. Mannard already had the cup in his hand. There was need for
spectacular action. And I was watching the dinner-party, prepared to intervene
in case of such need. I am an excellent marksman and there was nothing else to
do, so I shot the cup from his hand."
Coghlan opened his mouth, managed
to close it again. “Youshot the cup . .
. Who tried to poison him?"
Ghalil pulled a small glass bottle
from his pocket. It was unstoppered, but there was a film of tiny crystals in
it as if some liquid had dried.
“This," he observed, “fell from
your pocket as you hunted in the brushwood for the marksman who actually was on
the yacht. One of my men saw it fall and brought it to me. It is poison."
Coghlan looked at the bottle.
“IÅ‚m getting a little bit fed up
with mystification. Do I get arrested?"
“The fingerprints upon it are
smudged," said Ghalil. “But I am familiar with your fingerprints. They are not
yours. It was slipped into your pocketnot fully, therefore it fell out. You do
not get arrested."
“Thank you," said Coghlan with
irony.
His foot pushed aside one of the
books on the floor beside Duval. They were of all sizes and thickness, and all
were modern. Some had the heavy look of German technical books, and one or two
were French. The greater number were in modern Greek.
“M. Duval searches history for
references which might apply to our problem," said the Turk. “I consider this a
very important affair. That, in particular" he pointed to the wet spot on the
wall"seems to me most significant. I am very glad that you came here, with
your special knowledge."
“Why? What do you want me to do?"
“Examine it," said Ghalil.
“Explain it. Let me understand what it means. I have a wholly unreasonable
suspicion I would not like to name, because it has only a logical basis."
“If you can make even a logical
pattern out of this mess," said Coghlan bitterly, “youÅ‚re a better man than I
am. It simply doesnłt make sense!"
Ghalil only looked at him
expectantly. Coghlan went to the wet spot. It was almost exactly square, and
there was no trace of moisture above it or on either side. Some few trickles
dripped down from it, but the real wetness was specifically rectangular.
Coghlan felt the wall about it. Everywhere except in the wet spot the wall had
the normal temperature of a plaster coating. The change of temperature was
exactly what would have been apparent if a square-shaped freezing unit had been
built into the structure. The plaster was rotten from long soaking. Coghlan
took out a pocket-knife and dug carefully into it.
“What rational connection can this
have with that stuff in the book, and with somebody trying to kill Mannard?" he
demanded as he worked.
“No rational connection," admitted
Ghalil. “A logical one. In police work one uses reason oneself, but does not
expect it of events."
An irregularly shaped patch of
wetted plaster cracked and came away. Coghlan looked at it and started.
“Ice!" he said sharply. “There
must be some machinery here!"
The space from which the plaster
had come was white with frost. Coghlan scraped at it. A thin layer of ice,
infinitesimally thin. Then more wet plaster, which was not frozen. Coghlan
frowned. First ice, then no iceand nothing to make the ice where the ice was.
A freezing coil could not work that way. Coldness does not occur in layers or
in thin sheets. It simply does not.
Coghlan dug angrily, stabbing with
the point of the knife. The knife grew very cold. He wrapped his handkerchief
about it and continued to dig. There was wetness and rotted plaster for another
inch. Then the heavy stone wall of the building.
“The devil!" he said angrily. He
stood back and stared at the opening.
There was silence. He had made a
hole through rotted plaster, bind found nothing but a thin layer of ice, and
then more rotted plaster. He looked at it blankly. Then he saw that though the
frost had been cut away, there was a slight mist in the opening he had made. He
blew his breath into the hole. He made an astonished noise.
“When I blew my breath there, it
turned to fog when it went through the place where the plaster layers joined!"
His tone was unbelieving.
“There is refrigeration?" asked Ghalil.
“ThereÅ‚s nothing!" protested
Coghlan. “ThereÅ‚s no possible explanation for a cold space in the middle of
air!"
“Ah!" said the Turk in
satisfaction. “Then we progress! Things which are associated with the same
thing are associated with each other. This associates with the impossibility of
your fingerprints and your handwriting and the threat to Mr. Mannard!"
“IÅ‚d like to know what does this
trick!" said Coghlan, staring at the hole. “The heatÅ‚s absorbed, and thereÅ‚s
nothing to absorb it!"
He unwrapped his handkerchief from
the knife, and scrubbed the cloth at the wall until a corner was set. He poked
the wetted cloth into the hole hełd made. A moment later he pulled it out.
There was a narrow, perfectly straight line of ice across the wetted linen.
“ThereÅ‚s never been a trick like
this before!" he said in amazement. “ItÅ‚s something really new!"
“Or extremely old," said Ghalil
mildly. “Why not?"
“It couldnÅ‚t be!" snapped Coghlan.
“We donÅ‚t know how to do it! You can bet the ancients didnÅ‚t! It couldnÅ‚t be
anything but a force-field of some sort, and therełs no known force-field that
absorbs energy! There just isnłt any! Anyhow, how could they generate a
force-field that was a plane surface?"
He began to dig again, nervously,
at the edge of the wet spot. The plaster was harder here.
Duval said hopelessly, “But what
would such a thing have to do with the history of the Byzantine Empire, and
fingerprints, and M. Mannard"
Coghlan jabbed at the plaster.
There was a sudden, brittle sound
as the knifeblade snapped. The broken end tinkled on the floor.
Coghlan stood frozen, looking down
at his thumb. The breaking blade had cut it. There was dead silence in the
room.
“What is the matter?"
“IÅ‚ve cut my thumb," said Coghlan
briefly.
Ghalil, eyes blank, got up and
started across the room toward him. “I would like to see"
“ItÅ‚s nothing," said Coghlan.
To himself he said firmly that two
and two are four, and things which are equal to the same thing are equal to each
other, and He pressed the edges of the cut together, closed his fist on it,
and put the fist firmly in his pocket.
“This business of the wall," he
said casuallytoo casually “has me bothered. “IÅ‚m going back to my place and
get some stuff to make a couple of tests."
Ghalil said quickly:
“There is a police-car outside. I
will have the driver take you and bring you back."
“Thanks," said Coghlan.
He thought firmly: two and two is
always four, without exception. Five and five is ten. Six and six is twelve . . . There is no such thing as a fingerprint
showing a scar that does not exist, and then that scar being made afterward. . .
They went down the stairs
together. Ghalil gave instructions to the driver. From time to time he glanced
very thoughtfully at Coghlanłs face. Coghlan climbed in the car. It started
off, headed for his home.
He sat still for minutes as the
trim car threaded narrow streets and negotiated sharp corners designed for
donkey-traffic alone. The driver was concerned only with the management of his
car. Coghlan watched him abstractedly. Two and two. . .
He took his hand out of his pocket
and looked at the cut on his thumb very carefully. It was probably the most
remarkable cut in human history. It was shallow, not a serious matter at all, in
itself; but it would leaveCoghlan could not doubta scar exactly like the one
on the print on the sheepskin page which chemical and spectroscopic examination
said was seven-hundred years old.
Coghlan put the impossible hand
back in his pocket. “I donÅ‚t believe it!" he said grimly. “I donÅ‚t believe it!"
V
The driver had evidently been
instructed to wait. ęWhen Coghlan got out of the car he smiled politely, set
his handbrake, and turned off the motor. Coghlan nodded and went into the courtyard
below his windows. He felt a very peculiar dogged anger, and was not at all
certain what he felt it toward.
He headed for the stairway to his
apartment. Across the flagstoned courtyard, a plump figure came disconsolately
out of that stairway. It was Appolonius the Great. He was not twinkling as
usual. He looked desperately worried. But his expression changed at sight of
Coghlan.
“Ah, Mr. Coghlan!" he said
delightedly. “I thought I had missed you!"
Coghlan said politely:
“IÅ‚m glad you didnÅ‚t. But IÅ‚m only
here on an errand"
“I need only a moment," said
Appolonius, beaming. “I have something to say which may be to your advantage."
“Come along," said Coghlan.
He led the way. Appolonius, a few
hours back, had looked as deeply concerned as any man could look. Now he
appeared more nearly normal. But he was still not his usual unctuous self. He
came toiling up the stairs with his customary smile absent as if turned off by
a switch. When Coghlan opened the door for him, however, the smile came back as
if the same switch had been turned again. Coghlan had a sudden startled feeling
that Appolonius might be dangerous.
“Just a moment," he said.
He went into the bath and washed
out the small cut and put antiseptic on it. It was not much deeper than a
scratch, but he wanted to avoid a scar if possible. A scar would mean that the
fingerprint on that seven-hundred-year-old page of sheepskin was authentic; was
actually his. And he was not willing for that to be true. He came back into the
living-room to find Appolonius sitting in a chair on the far side of the room
from the open windows.
“Now IÅ‚m at your service," said
Coghlan. “That was a bad business todayabout Mannard."
Appolonius looked at him steadily,
with a directness and force that was startlingly unlike his usual manner.
“I have information," he said
evenly. “May I show you my information?"
Coghlan waited.
“I am a professional illusionist,"
said Appolonius, that odd force now in his voice. “Deceptions are my
profession. My fame is considerable."
“So IÅ‚ve heard," agreed Coghlan.
“Of course," said Appolonius, “I
do not use all my knowledge of illusion on the stage. Much of it would be lost
upon theatrical audiences." His voice changed, became deliberately sarcastic.
“In my native country there is a superstition of evil spirits. The Magithe
priesthoodthe holders of the traditions and lore ofahNeoplatonism, make use
of this belief. They foster it, by driving away numerous evil spirits. The
process is visible. Suppose I assured you that there was an evil spirit in
this very room, listening to our talk?"
“IÅ‚d be a trifle doubtful," said
Coghlan gently.
“Allow me," said Appolonius
politely, “to demonstrate."
He glanced about the room as if
looking for some indication which only he would see. Then he pointed a pudgy
finger across the room, toward a table near the open windows. His wristwatch
showed itself, indented in his fat wrist. He uttered a series of cryptic
syllables in a round, authoritative voice.
There was a sudden roaring noise.
Smoke rushed up from the table. It formed a ghostly, pear-shaped figure inside
the room.
It hovered a moment, looking alive
and menacing, then darted swiftly out the window. It was singularly convincing.
Coghlan considered. After a moment
he said thoughtfully:
“Last night you explained the
principle of magic. You do something in advance, which I know nothing about.
Then, later, you do something else which seems to produce remarkable results.
And I am supposed to think that what you do later produced the results which
you had arranged earlier."
“That is true. But this particular
demonstration?"
“IÅ‚d guess," suggested Coghlan,
“that you put a little smokesquib on the table thereI hope in an ashtray. It
had a fuse, which you lighted from your cigarette. You did this while I was
bandaging my finger in the other room. You knew how long the fuse would burn.
And you have a sweep-second watch on your wrist. Still, you must have had long
practise timing a conversation to lead up to your effect at just the instant
the fuse will set off the squib."
Appoloniusł eyes grew intent.
Coghlan added:
“And the tableÅ‚s by the window and
therełs a draft going out. It looked like an evil spirit leaping up from my ashtray,
and then flowing out the window and away. Effective!"
“A compliment from you, Mr.
Coghlan," said Appolonius, unsmiling, “is a compliment indeed. But I penetrate
your illusions as readily as you do mine. More readily!"
Coghlan looked at his bandaged
thumb, and then up. “Now, what do you mean by that?"
“I think it would be well to
consider," said Appolonius, harshly, “that I can unmask you at any instant."
“Oh!" said Coghlan, in lively
interest. “You think IÅ‚m in a conspiracy with Duval and Lieutenant Ghalil to
swindle Mannard out of some money?"
“I do," said Appolonius. “I could
explain to Mr. Mannard. Shall I?"
Coghlan found himself amused.
“So you know everything! Tell you
what, Appolonius. If youłll explain the refrigeration business Iłll let you in
on everything else!" He explained carefully: “I mean the refrigeration at 80
Hosain, where we went last night. Elucidate that, and IÅ‚ll tell you everything
I know!"
Appoloniusł eyes wavered. He said
contemptuously:
“I am not to be trapped so
easily! That is a foolish question!"
“Try to answer it!" Coghlan waited
with a dry patience. “You canÅ‚t? My dear Appolonius! You donÅ‚t even know what
Iłm talking about! Youłre a faker, trying to cut in on a swindle by a bluff!
Clear out!"
There were sounds out in the
courtyard. Footsteps. Appolonius looked more menacing still. Coghlan snapped:
“Clear out! You bother me! Get
going!"
He opened the door. There were
footsteps at the bottom of the stairs. Appolonius said nastily:
“I have taken precautions! If
anything should happen to me you would be sorry!"
“IÅ‚d be heart-broken!" said
Coghlan impatiently. “Shoo!" He pushed Appolonius out and closed the door. He
went to the small room in which he kept his private experimental equipment. As
an instructor in physics he worked on a limited budget at the college. He had
his classes build much of the apparatus used, both to save money and because
they would learn more that way. But some things he had to build himselfagain
to save money, and for the plain satisfaction of the job. Now he began to pack
stray items. A couple of thermometers. Batteries and a couple of coils and a
headset that would constitute an induction balance when they were put together.
A gold-leaf electroscope. He got out the large alnico magnet that had made a
good many delicate measurements possible. He was packing a scintillometer when
his doorbell rang.
He answered it, scowling. There
stood Mannard and Laurie, studying the scowl. They came in and Mannard said
genially:
“Our little friend Appolonius is
upset, Tommy. Hełs not himself. Whatłd you do to him?"
“He thinks," said Coghlan, “that
everything thatłs happened in the past thirty hours is part of a scheme to
extort money from youthe scheme operating from the fourth dimension. He demanded
a cut on threat of revealing all. I put him out. Did he expose me as a
scoundrel and a blackmailer?"
Mannard shook his head. Then he
said:
“IÅ‚m taking Laurie home. I
wouldnłt run away myself, but you may be rightshe may be the real target of
this scheme when it gets in good working order. So IÅ‚m taking her away. How
about coming along?" He added bluntly: “You could pick out some real equipment
for the physics laboratory at the college. Itłs needed, and Iłll pay for it."
It was transparent. Coghlan looked
at Laurie. She protested reproachfully:
“ItÅ‚s not me, Tommy! I wouldnÅ‚t
ply you with cyclotrons!"
“If you want to make a gift to the
lab, IÅ‚ll give you a whopping list," said Coghlan. “But thereÅ‚s a gadget over
at 80 Hosain that IÅ‚ve got to work out. It produces a thin layer of cold in
air. I think itłs a force-field of some sort, but itłs a plane surface! Iłve
got to find out what makes it and how it works. Itłs something new in physics!"
Laurie muttered to herself.
Coghlan added:
“GhalilÅ‚s there now, waiting for
mehe and Duval."
“I want to talk to that Lieutenant
Ghalil," said Mannard, grumpily. “The police were going to refer this morningÅ‚s
shooting business to him, but I guess he wasnłt too concerned! He hasnłt tried
to get in touch with me!"
Coghlan opened his mouth and then
closed it. It would hardly be tactful to tell Mannard who had shot the cup out
of his hand. If he heard that news before he got the full story, it might
create a certain indignation. And it was Ghalilłs story to tell. So he said:
“IÅ‚m headed back with this stuff
now. You can pile in the police-car with me and talk to him right away. Hełll
see you get back to the hotel."
Mannard nodded. “LetÅ‚s go."
Coghlan packed his equipment into
a suitcase and headed for the door. As they went out, Laurie caught his arm.
She said breathlessly:
“Tommy! You cut your thumb! Was
itwill it"
“Yes," he told her. “It was in the
place the scar showed, and IÅ‚m afraid it will leave that scar."
She followed him down the stairs,
was silent on the way across the courtyard. Her father went to dismiss the car
that had brought them here. Laurie said in a queer voice:
“That book came from the
thirteenth century, they said. And your fingerprints are in it. And this gadget
youłre talking about . . . could it take
you back to the thirteenth century, Tommy?"
“IÅ‚m not planning to make the
trip," he told her dryly.
“I donÅ‚t want you to go back to
the thirteenth century!" she said fiercely. She was even a little bit pale. “I
know itłs ridiculous. Itłs as impossible as anything could be! But I donłt want
you to go back there! I donłt want to have to think of you asdead for
centuries, and buried in some mouldly old cryptjust a skeleton"
“Stop it!" he said harshly. She
gulped. “I mean it!"
“I wish things were different," he
said bitterly.
Then she grinned, still pale.
“IÅ‚ll wear you down," she
promised. “WonÅ‚t that be nice?" Then her father came back from the other car
and they got into the police-car. It headed back for 80 Hosain.
In the room on the second floor,
Ghalil was painstakingly pulling down plaster. He had not touched the wall on
which the wet spot showed. That remained as Coghlan had left it. But there had
been places on the other walls where bits of plaster had fallen away. Dim
colors showed through. It was becoming clear, from Ghalilłs work, that the
original plaster of the room had been elaborately decorated, with encaustic,
most likelywax colors laid on the wall and melted into the plaster. He had
already uncovered a fragment of what must have been a most spirited mural. It
appeared to deal with nymphs and satyrs, from the irregular space so far
disclosed. Duval was agitatedly examining each new portion of the scene as the
removal of the overlying plaster showed it. But Ghalil stopped his labor when
Coghlan and the others arrived. Hełd met Mannard the night before, of course.
“Ah, Mr. Mannard!" he said
cordially. “We perform archaeological research!"
Mannard bristled at him.
“IÅ‚ve been trying to reach you to
tell you about an attempt on my life today! At Police Headquarters they said
theyłd try to find you. They implied that all my affairs were in your lap!"
Ghalil glanced at Coghlan.
“Your affairs have at least been
on my mind," he admitted. “Did not Mr. Coghlan explain the measures I took?"
“No," said Coghlan dryly. “I
didnłt. Iłm going to work on this refrigeration affair. You tell it."
He went over to the incredible
patch of moisture on the wall. Laurie went with him. Behind them, Ghalilłs
voice droned as Coghlan opened the suitcase of apparatus, began to fit together
the induction balance. Suddenly Mannard said explosively:
“What? You shot the cup out
of my hand?"
Laurie reared up in amazement.
“Go listen," commanded Coghlan.
“IÅ‚m going to work here."
Laurie went away.
Coghlan got busy with the
induction balance. There was, he soon discovered, no metal behind the wet spot
on the wall. Nor above it. Nor below or on either side. There were no wires
running to the place that had stayed cold “since always." There was no metal of
any sort in the wall. Coghlan sweated a little. There could not be a
refrigeration apparatus without metal.
He put the induction balance away.
He stuck a thermometer into the hole hełd made earlier. He moved it carefully
back and forth, watching the mercury shrink. He swallowed when he saw its final
reading. He hooked up the thermocoupleinfinitely thin wires, of different
metals, joined at their tips. He hooked on the microvoltometer. He soon found a
particular spot. It was a very particular spot indeed. The tips of the wires
had to be at an exact depth inside the hole. A hundredth of an inch off made
the microvoltometer sway wildly. He changed a connection to get a grosser
readingmillivolts instead of microvoltsand found that exact depth in the hole
again. He went pale.
Laurie said:
“Tommy, IÅ‚m back."
He turned and said blankly, “A
hundred and ninety millivolts! And itłs below the temperature of dry ice!"
Laurie said wistfully, “I canÅ‚t
even raise the temperature of that, can I, Tommy?"
He didnłt notice. He put down the
thermocouple and brought out the alnico magnet. He wrestled the keeper off its
poles.
“This doesnÅ‚t make sense," he said
absorbedly, “but if it is a field of force . .
.“
He turned again to the wall and
the hole hełd made in it. He put the heavy, intensely strong magnet near the
opening.
The opening clouded. It acquired a
silvery sheen which had the look of metal as the magnet neared it. Coghlan
pulled the magnet away. The look of metal vanished. He put the magnet back, and
the silvery appearance was there again.
He was staring at it, speechless,
when Mannard came over with Ghalil and Duval. Mannard carried the thick,
ancient volume with the battered ivory medallions in its coverand Coghlanłs
seven-hundred-year-old fingerprints on its first page.
“Tommy," said Mannard
uncomfortably, “I donÅ‚t believe this! But put one of your fingerprints
alongside one of these, dammit!"
Ghalil matter-of-factly struck a
match and began to make a deposit of soot on the scraping-tool which hełd used
to pull down plaster. Coghlan ignored them, staring at the hole in the plaster.
“WhatÅ‚s the matter with him?"
demanded Mannard.
“Science," said Laurie, “has
reared its ugly head. Hełs thinking."
Coghlan turned away, lost in
concentrated thought. Ghalil said mildly:
“A finger, please." He took
Coghlanłs hand. He paused, and then deliberately took the bandage off the
thumb. He pressed the thumb against the sooted scraper. Mannard, curious and
uneasy, held up the book. Ghalil pressed the thumb down.
It hurt. Coghlan said: “Wait a
minute! Whatłs this?" as if startled awake.
Ghalil took the book to a window.
He looked. Mannard crowded close. In silence, Ghalil passed over his pocket
magnifying-glass. Mannard looked, exhaustively.
“ThatÅ‚s hard to explain," he said
heavily. “The scar and all..."
Coghlan said:
“All of you, look at this!"
He moved the alnico magnet to and
fro. The silvery film appeared and disappeared. Ghalil looked at it, and at
Coghlanłs face.
“That silvery appearance," said
Coghlan painfully, “will appear under the plaster wherever itÅ‚s cold. I doubt
that this magnet alone will silver the whole space at once, thoughand itłs
twenty times as strong as a steel magnet, at that. Apparently a really powerful
magnetic field is needed to show this up."
The silvery film vanished again
when he pulled back the magnet.
“Now," said Ghalil mildly, “just
what would that be? Awhat you would call a gadget?"
Coghlan swallowed.
“No," he said helplessly. “ThereÅ‚s
a gadget, all right, but it must be back in the thirteenth century. This
iswellI guess youłd call this the gadgetłs ghost."
VI
It grew dark in the room, and
Coghlan finished clearing away the plaster from the wet spot by the light of
police flashlights. As he removed the last layer of plaster, frost appeared. As
it was exposed to view it melted, reluctantly. Then the wall was simply wet
over colorings almost completely obliterated by the centuries of damp. At the
edges of the square space, the wetness vanished. Coghlan dug under its edge.
Plaster only. But there were designs when he cleared plaster away back from the
edge. The wall had been elaborately painted, innumerable years ago.
Duval looked like a man
alternately rapt in enthusiasm at the discovery of artwork which must extend
under all the later plaster of this room, and hysterical as he contemplated the
absolute illogic of the disclosure.
Mannard sat on a camp-chair and
watched. The flashlight beams made an extraordinary picture. One played upon
Coghlan as he worked. Laurie held it for him, and he worked with great care.
“I take it," said Mannard after a
long silence, and still skeptically, “that youÅ‚re saying that this is a sort
of ghost of a gadget that was made in the thirteenth century."
“When," said Ghalil, from a dark
corner, “there were no gadgets."
“No science," corrected Coghlan,
busy at the wall. “They achieved some results by accident. Then they repeated
all the things that had preceded the unexpected result, and never knew or cared
which particular one produced the result they wanted. Tempering swords, for
example."
Duval interposed: “The Byzantine
Empire imported its finer swords."
“Yes," agreed Coghlan. “Religion
wouldnłt let them use the best process for tempering steel."
“Religion?" protested Mannard. “What
did that have to do with tempering swords?"
“Magic," said Coghlan. “The best
temper was achieved by heating a sword white-hot and plunging it into the body
of a slave or a prisoner of war. It was probably discovered when somebody
wanted to take a particularly fancy revenge. But it worked."
“Nonsense!" snapped Mannard.
“Some few cutlers use essentially
the same process now," said Coghlan, absorbed in removing a last bit of
plaster. “ItÅ‚s a combination of salt and nitrogenous quenching. Human blood is
salt. Steel tempers better in salt water than in fresh. The ancients found that
human blood gave a good temper. They didnłt think scientifically and try salt
water. And the steel gets a better surface-hardening still, if itłs quenched
in the presence of nitrogenous matterlike human flesh. Cutlers who use the
process now soak scrap leather in salt water and plunge a white-hot blade in
that. Technically, itłs the same thing as stabbing a slaveand cheaper. But the
ancients didnłt think through to scrap leather and salt water. They stuck to
good old-fashioned magic temperingwhich worked."
He stood back. He brushed plaster
dust off his fingers.
“ThatÅ‚s all we can do without more
apparatus. Now"
He picked up the alnico magnet and
moved it across all the cleared space. An oblong pattern of silveriness
appeared at the nearest part of the wet place to the magnet. It followed the
magnet. It followed the magnet to the edge, and ran abruptly off into
nothingness as the magnet passed an invisible boundary.
“At a guess," said Coghlan
thoughtfully, “this is the ghost, if you want to call it that, of what the
ancients thought was a magic mirrorto look into the future with. Right,
Duval?"
Duval said tensely:
“It is true that all through the
middle ages alchemists wrote of and labored to make magic mirrors, as you say."
“Maybe this one started the
legend," said Coghlan.
“The flashlight batteryÅ‚s getting
weak" Ghalilłs voice from the darkness.
“We need better light and more
apparatus," said Coghlan. “I doubt if we can do any more before morning."
His manner was matter-of-fact, but
inside he felt oddly numb. His thumb stung a little. The cut had been irritated
by plaster dust and by the soot that got into it when Ghalil took a fresh
thumbprint to show Mannard. In the last analysis, hełd cut his thumb
investigating the ghost of a gadget because presently he must write a
memorandum and have it delivered yesterday, which memo would be the cause of
the discovery of the ghost of a
He felt the stirring about him as
the others made ready to leave. He heard Mannard say irritably:
“I donÅ‚t get this! ItÅ‚s
preposterous!"
“Quite so," said Ghalil, “so we
shall have to be very careful. My Moslem ancestors had a saying that the fate
of every man was writ upon his forehead. I hope, Mr. Mannard, that your fate is
not writ upon the sheepskin page I showed you just now."
“But whatÅ‚s it all about?"
demanded Mannard. “WhoÅ‚s back of it? WhatÅ‚s back of it?"
Ghalil sighed, voicing a shrug.
They descended the stairs. The
dark, narrow, twisty street outside looked ominous. Ghalil opened the door of
the waiting police-car. He said to Mannard, in a sort of humorous abandonment
of reason:
“Unfortunately, Mr. Coghlan wasor
has not yet beenvery specific in the memorandum which began this series of events.
He said only" he repeated the last line of Coghlanłs handwriting in the
sheepskin book" Ä™Make sure of Mannard. To be killed.Å‚“ Mannard said bitterly: “ThatÅ‚s specific enough!"
He and Laurie and Coghlan got into
the back of the car. Lieutenant Ghalil climbed into the front seat, beside the
driver. The carłs motor roared as it got the car into motion.
“Your message, when you do write
it, Mr. Coghlan," he said over his shoulder as the car moved toward a bend in
the winding alleyway, “will be purposefully unclear. It is as if you will know
that a clear message would prevent what you will wish to have happened. Thus it
appears that you will write that message to bring about exactly what has
already happened and will continue to happen up to the moment you write it"
Then he snapped an explosive
Turkish word to the driver. The driver jammed on the brakes. The car came to a
screaming stop.
“One moment," said Ghalil
politely.
He got out of the car. He looked
at something in the headlight beams. He touched it very cautiously. He waved
the car back, and whistled shrilly. Men came running from the house they had
just left. Ghalil spoke crisply, in Turkish. They bent over the object on the
cobbles of the lane. The flashlight beams seemed insufficient and they struck
matches. Presently Ghalil and a policeman picked up the thing gingerly and
moved it with exquisite care to the side of the alley. They put it down
against a wall. There Ghalil knelt and examined it again by the light of other
matches.
He got up and brushed off his
hands. He came back to the cam, got in. He spoke to the driver in Turkish and
the car moved on again, more slowly. At the next curve it barely crawled.
“What was that?" demanded Mannard.
Lieutenant Ghalil hesitated.
“I fear it was another attempt
upon your life," he said apologetically. “A bomb. My men did not see it placed
because of the many curves in the street."
For a short while there were only
breathing sounds in the car. The car came to a slightly wider highway and moved
more swiftly. Presently Ghalil went on:
“I was saying, Mr. Mannard, that
when Mr. Coghlan writes the memorandum we showed him yesterday, he will wish
things to happen exactly as they will have happened. For that reason he will
not be explicit in his message. He will not mention rifle-shots or bombs, times
or locales. Knowing this, I trust that you will survive until the affair is
concluded. I am making every effort to bring it about."
Coghlan found his voice. He said
savagely:
“But you canÅ‚t risk lives on crazy
reasoning like that!"
“I am taking every sane
precaution," Ghalil said tiredly. “Among them, I shall ask you to remain at the
Hotel Petra tonight, with my men guarding you as well as Mr. Mannard and Miss
Mannard."
“If thereÅ‚s any risk to her, IÅ‚m
certainly staying!" growled Coghlan.
The car emerged into still wider
streets. There were more people about, now. Here, in the modern section, all
lights were electric. Here were motion-picture theatres, and motor-cars, and
people in wholly European dress instead of the compromises between Eastern and
Western costume to be found in the poorer quarters. The Hotel Petra loomed up,
impressively illuminated.
The police-car stopped before it.
Ghalil got out and looked casually about him. A lounger, nearby, signalled
inconspicuously. Ghalil nodded. The lounger moved away. Ghalil opened the car
door for the others to emerge.
“I impose myself upon you also,"
he said politely. “I shall stay on watch until affairs mature."
They entered the lobby, went
toward the lift, only slightly reassured by bustle and bright lights. Coghlan
said suddenly:
“WhereÅ‚s Duval? HeÅ‚s in this too!"
“He remains at 80 Hosain," said
Ghalil briefly. “Poor man! He is wedded to logic and in love with the past. He
is sorely tempted to a crime of passion! But I have left men with him."
They crowded into the lift. It
rose. There was a man polishing woodwork in the hall outside Mannardłs suite.
He looked like an hotel employee, but nodded to Lieutenant Ghalil.
“One of my men," the Turk said. “All
is well so far. There are other guards."
They went into the suite. Mannard
looked definitely grim. “IÅ‚m going to order something to eat," he told Ghalil.
“ItÅ‚s nearly ten oÅ‚clock, and we all missed dinner. But weÅ‚re going to get this
thing thrashed out! I want some straight talk! If thatłs the truth about
somebody leaving a bomb on the streetand if gadgets have ghosts"
He was in a state of mind in which
consecutive thought was not easy. There were too many inexplicables, too many
tag ends of fact. From Coghlanłs tale of an impossible book with an impossible
messagewhich Mannard had seen nowto a preposterous shot smashing a
coffee-cup to keep him from drinking an incredibly poisoned drink, and to a
physical phenomenon of frost without refrigeration and a look of silvery metal
which was not matter . . .
Mannard was an engineer. He was
hard-headed. He was prepared to face anything which was fact, and worry about
theory afterward. But he was not able to adjust to so many facts at once, each
of them contradicting any reasonable theory. He looked at once irritable and
dogged and a little frightened.
“When I try to think this thing
over, I donÅ‚t believe even what I tell myself!" he said angrily. “Things
happen, and I believe ęem while theyłre happening, but they donłt make any
damned sense afterward!"
He stamped out of the room. They
heard him telephoning an order for dinner for four sent up to the suite at
once. Then he snapped: “Yes, thatÅ‚s all. What? Yes, sheÅ‚s inwho wants her?
Who? Oh. Send him on up."
He came back. “What the hell does
Appolonius want to see you for, Laurie? He was downstairs asking if youłd see
him when I phoned. Hełs coming up." Then he went back to his former subject,
still fuming. “I tell you, thereÅ‚s something wrong about the whole approach to
this business! It seems that somebody is trying to kill me. I donłt know why
they should, but if they really want to it ought to be a simple enough job! It
shouldnłt call for all these trimmings! Nobody would set out to kill somebody
and add in a seven-hundred-year-old book and a forgery of Tommyłs fingerprints
and a gadgetłs ghost and all the rest! Not if a plain, ordinary murder was back
of itor a swindle either! So what in"
The buzzer at the door of the
suite. Coghlan went to answer it.
Appolonius the Great started
visibly when he saw Coghlan. He said with great dignity: “I had a note from
Miss Mannard. She asked me to befriend her in this tragic time"
Mannardłs voice came from behind
Coghlan.
“Dammit, weÅ‚ve got to look for a
simple scheme! A simple purpose! Therełs a mix-up here! Wełre linking things
that just donłt belong together!"
Appolonius gasped.
“That isMr. Mannard!"
“Why not?" said Coghlan.
There was a chattering sound. The
teeth of Appolonius the Great seemed to be its source. He leaned against the
door.
“Pardon! Let me recover myself! I
do not wish to be faint. This isincredible!"
Coghlan waited. The small fat
manłs face was in shadow. He took several deep breaths.
“Ithink I can act naturally now."
Coghlan closed the door behind
him. And Appolonius walked into the sitting room of the suite with his usual
strutting waddlebut his usual beaming smile simply could not jell. He bowed
elaborately to Mannard and to Laurie, with sweat shining on his face. Mannard
said:
“Appolonius, this is Lieutenant
Ghalil of the police. He thinks IÅ‚m in some danger."
Appolonius the Great swallowed. He
said to Mannard:
“I came because I thought you were
dead."
A rather thoughtful silence
followed. Then Lieutenant Ghalil cleared his throat to ask the obvious
questionsand paused, looking exceeding alert, as Appoloniusł pudgy right hand
went into his coat pocket Only an envelope came out. A Hotel Petra envelope.
His fat fingers shaking, Appolonius drew out the single sheet it enclosed and handed
it to Mannard. Mannard read. He flushed, speechless with anger. He handed it
to Ghalil.
Ghalil read, and said slowly:
“But the letter is dated
tomorrow!" He passed it politely to Laurie. “I do not think you wrote this,
Miss Mannard."
He returned his gaze to the
shaken, uneasy, almost trembling figure of that small magician who called
himself Appolonius the Great.
Coghlan moved to be beside Laurie
as she read. Her shoulder touched his. The note said:
“Dear Mr. Appolonius;
You are the only person I know
in Istanbul to ask for help in the tragic circumstances of my fatherłs death.
Will you help me, please?
Laurie Mannard."
“I have heard of post-dated
checks," said Ghalil. “I think that is an American custom. But pre-written
letters
Appolonius seemed to shiver.
“Idid not notice that," he said
unsteadily. “But itwould seem to be like the message of which Mr. Coghlan told
uswith his fingerprints."
“Not quite," said Ghalil, shaking
his head. “No, not quite!"
Mannard said furiously: “WhereÅ‚d
you get this, Appolonius? Itłs a forgery, of course. Iłm not dead yet!"
“I had beenaway from my hotel. I
returned and thatletter awaited me. I came here at once."
“It is dated tomorrow," Ghalil
pointed out. “Which could be an error of timing, or a confusion in time itself.
But I do not think so. Certainly it seems to imply, Mr. Mannard, that you are
to die tonight, or surely tomorrow morning. But on the other hand, Mr. Coghlan
will not write with certainty of your death when he does write in that book. So
there is hope"
“I have no intention of dying
tonight," said Mannard angrily. “No intention at all!"
“Nor," said Lieutenant Ghalil,
“have I any intention of forwarding such a project. But I can think of no
precautions that are not already in force."
Appolonius sat down abruptly, as
if his knees had given way beneath him. His sudden movement drew all eyes.
“Has something occurred to you?"
asked Ghalil mildly.
Appolonius shivered. “Itoccurs to
me" he paused to moisten his lips"to tell of my visit with Mr. Coghlan
today. Iaccused him of mystification.
“He admitted that there was a
conspiracy. Heoffered to admit me to it. II now accuse Mr. Coghlan of
designing to murder Mr. Mannard!"
The lights went out. There was
dead blackness in the room. Instantly there was an impact of body against body.
Then groaning, gasping breaths in the darkness. Men struggled and strained.
There were thumpings. Laurie cried out.
Then Ghalilłs voice panted, as if
his breathing were much impeded:
“Youhappen to be strangling me,
Mr. Coghlan! I think that I amstrangling him! If we can only hold him until
the lightshe is very strong"
The struggle went on in the
darkness on the floor.
VII
There was a frantic scratching of
a pass-key in the door to the suite. Flashlight beams licked in the opening.
Men rushed in, their lights concentrating on the squirming heap of bodies on
the floor. Mannard stood embattled before Laurie, ready to fight all corners.
The men with flashlights rushed
past him, threw themselves upon the struggle.
They had Appolonius the Great on
his feet, still fighting like a maniac, when the lights flashed back into
brightness as silently and unreasonably as they had gone out.
Coghlan stood back, his coat torn,
a deep scratch on his face. Lieutenant Ghalil bent down and began to search the
floor. After a moment he found what he looked for. He straightened with a
crooked Kurdish knife in his hand. He spoke in Turkish to the uniformed police,
against whom fat little Appolonius still struggled in feverish silence. They
marched him out. He still jumped and writhed, like a suitful of fleshy
balloons.
Ghalil held out the knife to
Coghlan.
“Yours?"
Coghlan was panting. “YesI use it
as a letter-opener on my desk. Howłd it get here?"
“I suspect," said Ghalil, “that
Appolonius picked it up when he visited you today."
He began to brush off his uniform.
He still breathed hard.
Mannard said indignantly, “I donÅ‚t
get this! Did Appolonius try to kill me? In Heavenłs name why? What would he
get out of it?"
Ghalil finished the brushing
process. He said with a sigh:
“When M. Duval first brought me
that incredible book, I put routine police inquiries through on everyone who
might be involved. You, Mr. Mannard. Mr. Coghlan. Of course M. Duval himself.
And even Appolonius the Great. The last information about him came only today.
It appears that in Rome, in Madrid, and in Paris he has been the close friend
of three rich men of whom one died in an automobile accident, one apparently of
a heart attack, and one seemed to have committed suicide. It is no coincidence,
I imagine, that each had given Appolonius a large check for his alleged
countrymen only a few days before his death. I think that is the answer, Mr.
Mannard."
“But IÅ‚ve given him no money!"
protested Mannard blankly. “He did say heÅ‚d gotten money, of course, but" and
suddenly he stopped short. “Damnation! A forged check going through the
clearing-house! It had to be deposited while I was alive! And I had to be dead
before it was cleared, or Iłd say it was a forgery! If I was dead, it wouldnłt
be questioned"
“Just so," said Ghalil.
“Unfortunately, the banks have not had time to look through their records. I
expect that information tomorrow."
Laurie put her hand on Coghlanłs
arm. Mannard said abruptly:
“You moved fast, Tommy! You and
the lieutenant together. Howłd you know to jump him when the lights went out?"
“I didnÅ‚t know," admitted Coghlan.
“But I saw him looking at that wristwatch of his, with the second-hand sweeping
around. He showed me a trick today, at my apartment, that depended on his
knowing to a split-second when something was going to happen. I was just
thinking that if hełd been expecting the lights to go out last night, he could
have been triggered to throw you down-stairs. Then the lights went out hereand
I jumped."
“It was desperation," Ghalil
interposed. “He has tried four separate times to assassinate you, Mr. Mannard."
“You said something like that"
“You have been under guard,"
admitted Ghalil, “since the moment M. Duval showed me that book with the
strange record in it. You had rented an automobile. My men found a newly
contrived defect in its muffler, so that deadly carbon-monoxide poured into the
back of it. It was remedied. A bomb was mailed to you, and reached you day
before yesterdaybefore I first spoke to Mr. Coghlan. It was" he smiled
apologetically"intercepted. Today he tried to poison you at the Sea of
Marmora. That failed by means he did not understand or like. Moreover, he was
frightened by the affair of the book. He considered that another conspiracy
existed, competing with his. The mystery of it, and the unexplained failure of
attempts to assassinate you, drove him almost to madness. When even the bomb
failed to blow up my police-car"
“Suppose," said Mannard grimly,
“just suppose you explain that book hocus-pocus you and Duval are trying to put
over!"
“I cannot explain it," said Ghalil
gently. “I do not understand it. But I think Mr. Coghlan proceeds admirably"
The door to the suite buzzed.
Ghalil admitted a waiter carrying a huge tray. The waiter said something in
Turkish and placed the tray on a table. He went out.
“A man was caught in the basement
with a sweep-second wristwatch," said Ghalil. “He had turned off the lights
and turned them on again. He is badly frightened. He will talk."
Laurie looked at Coghlan. Then,
trembling a little, she began to uncover dishes on the tray.
Mannard roared: “But what the
hellłs that book business, and Tommyłs fingerprints, and the stuff on the wall?
Theyłre all part of the same thing!"
“No," said the Turk. “You make the
mistake I did, Mr. Mannard. You assumed that things which are associated with
the same thing are connected with each other. But it is not true. Sometimes
they are merely apparently associatedby chance." Laurie said, “Tommy, Ithink
wełd better eat something."
“But do you mean," demanded
Mannard, “that itÅ‚s not hocus-pocus? Do you expect me to believe that thereÅ‚s a
gadget thatłs got a ghost? Dłyou mean that Tommy Coghlan is going to put his
fingerprints under a memorandum that says Iłm going to be killed? That hełs
going to write it?"
“No," admitted Ghalil. “Still,
that unbelievable message is the reason I set men to guard you three days ago.
It is the reason you are now alive." He looked hungrily at the uncovered
dishes. “I starve," he confessed. “May I?"
Mannard said, “ItÅ‚s too crazy!
Itłd be like a miracle! Confusion in time so therełd be all this mix-up to
save my life? Nonsense! The laws of nature donłt get suspended"
Coghlan said thoughtfully, “When
you think of it, sir, that field of force isnłt a plane surface. Itłs like a
tubethe way a bubble can be stretched out. Thatłs what threw me off. When you
think what a magnetic field does to polarized light"
“Consider me thinking of it,"
growled Mannard. “What of it?"
“I can duplicate that field," said
Coghlan thoughtfully. “ItÅ‚ll take a little puttering around, and I canÅ‚t make a
tube of it, but I can make a field that will absorb energyor heatand yield it
as power. I can make a refrigeration gadget that will absorb heat and yield
power. ItÅ‚ll take some research . . .“
“Sure of that?" snapped Mannard.
Coghlan nodded. He was sure. Hełd
seen something happen. Hełd figured out part of how it happened. Now he could
do things the original makers of the gadget couldnłt do. It was not an
unprecedented event, of course. A spectacle-maker in Holland once put two
lenses together and made a telescope which magnified things but showed them
unhappily upside down. And half a continent away, in Italy, one Galileo Galilei
heard a rumor of the feat and sat up all night thinking it outand next morning
made a telescope so much better than the rumored one that all field-glasses are
made after his design to this day.
“IÅ‚ll back the research," said
Mannard shrewdly. “If youÅ‚ll make a contract with me. IÅ‚ll play fair. ThatÅ‚s
good stuff!"
He looked at his daughter. Her
face was blank. Then her eyes brightened. She smiled at her father. He smiled
back.
She said, “Tommyif you can do
thatoh, donłt you see? Come in the other room for a moment. I want to talk to
you!"
He blinked at her. Then his
shoulders straightened. He took a deep breath, muttered four words, and said,
“Hah!" He grabbed her arm and led her through the door.
Mannard said satisfiedly: “ThatÅ‚s
sense! Refrigeration that yields energy! Power from the tropics! Running
factories from the heat of the Gulf Stream!"
“But," said Ghalil, “does not that
sound as improbable as that a gadget should have a ghost?"
“No," said Mannard firmly. “ThatÅ‚s
science! I donłt understand it, but itłs science! And Laurie wants to marry
him, besides. And anyhow, I know the boy! Hełll manage it!"
The telephone rang. It rang again.
They heard Coghlan answex it. He called:
“Lieutenant! For you!"
Ghalil answered the telephone. He
pointedly did not observe the new, masterful, confident air worn by Coghlan, or
the distinctly radiant expression on Lauriełs face. He talked, in Turkish. He
hung up.
“I go back to 80 Hosain," he said
briefly. “Something has happened. Poor M. Duval grew hysterical. They had to
send for a physician. They do not know what occurredbut there are changes
in the room."
“IÅ‚m coming with you!" said
Coghlan instantly.
Laurie would not be left behind.
Mannard expansively came too. The four of them piled again into the police-car
and headed back for the squalid quarter of the city in which the room with the
gadgetłs ghost was to be found. Laurie sat next to Coghlan, and the atmosphere
about them was markedly rosy. Ghalil watched streets and buildings rush toward
them, the ways grow narrower and darker and the houses seemed to loom above the
racing car. Once he said meditatively:
“That Appolonius thought of
everything! It was so desperately necessary to kill you, Mr. Mannard, that he had
even an excuse for calling on you to murder you, though he expected a
street-bomb to make it unnecessary! It must be time for his forged check to
appear at your bank! That letter was a clever excuse, too. It would throw all
suspicion upon the engineers of the mystery of the ancient book."
Mannard grunted. “WhatÅ‚s happened
where wełre going? What sort of changes in the room?" Then he said
suspiciously:
“No occult stuff?"
“I doubt it very much," said
Ghalil.
There was another car parked in
the narrow lane. The police at the house had gotten a doctor, who was evidently
still in the building.
They went up into the room on the
second floor. There were three policemen here, with a grave, mustachioed
civilian who had the consequential air of the physician in a Europeanor
Asiaticcountry. Duval lay on a canvas cot, evidently provided for the police
who occupied the building now. He slept heavily. His face was ravaged. His
collar was torn open at his throat, as if in a frenzy of agitation when he felt
that madness come upon him. His hands were bandaged. The physician explained at
length to Ghalil, in Turkish. Ghalil then asked questions of the police. There
was a portable electric lantern on the floor, now. It lighted the room
acceptably.
Coghlanłs eyes swept about the
place. Changes? No change except the cot. . . No!
There had been books here beside Duval, on the floor. Ghalil had said they were
histories in which Duval tried to find some reference to the building itself.
There were still a few of those bookshalf a dozen, perhaps, out of three or
four times as many. The rest had vanished.
But in their place were other
things.
Coghlan was staring at them when
Ghalil explained:
“The police heard him making
strange sounds. They came in and he was agitated to incoherence. His hands were
frost-bitten. He held the magnet against the appearance of silver and thrust
books into it, shouting the while. The books he thrust into the silvery film
vanished. He does not speak Turkish, but one of them thought he was shouting at
the wall in Greek. They subdued him and brought a physician. He was so agitated
that the physician gave him an injection to quiet him."
Coghlan said: “Damn!"
He bent over the objects on the
floor. There was an ivory stylus and a clumsy reed pen and an ink-potthe ink
was just beginning to thaw from solid iceand a sheet of parchment with fresh
writing upon it. The writing was the same cursive hand as the memo mentioning
“frigid Beyond" and “adepts" and “Appolonius" in the old, old book with
Coghlanłs fingerprints. There was a leather belt with a beautifully worked
buckle. There was a dagger with an ivory handle. There were three books. All
were quite new, but they were not modern printed books: they were manuscript
books, written in graceless Middle Greek with no spaces between words or
punctuation or paragraphing. In binding and make-up they were exactly like the Alexiad
of seven hundred years ago. Onlythey were spanking new.
Coghlan picked up one of them. It
was the Alexiad. It was an exact duplicate of the one containing his
prints, to the minutest detail of carving in the ivory medallions with which
the leather cover was inset. It was the specifically same volume But it was
seven-hundred years younger And it was bitterly, bitterly cold.
Duval was more than asleep. He was
unconscious. In the physicianłs opinion he had been so near madness that he
had had to be quieted. And he was quieted. Definitely.
Coghlan picked up the alnico
magnet. He moved toward the wall and held the magnet near the wet spot. The
silvery appearance sprang into being. He swept the magnet back and forth. He
said:
“The doctor couldnÅ‚t rouse Duval,
could he? So he could write something for me in Byzantine Greek?"
He added, with a sort of quiet
bitterness. “The thing is shrinkingnaturally!"
It was true. The wet spot was no
longer square. It had drawn in upon itself so that it was now an irregular
oval, a foot across at its longest, perhaps eight inches at its narrowest.
“Give me something solid,"
commanded Coghlan. “A flashlight will do."
Laurie handed him Lieutenant
Ghalilłs flashlight. He turned it onit burned only feeblyand pressed it close
to the silvery surface. He pushed the flashlight into contact. Into the silvery
sheen. Its end disappeared. He pushed it through the silver film into what
should have been solid plaster and stone. But it went. Then he exclaimed
suddenly and jerked his hand away. The flashlight fell throughinto the
plaster. Coghlan rubbed his free hand vigorously on his trouser-leg. His
fingers were numb with cold. The flashlight had been metal, and a good
conductor of frigidity.
“I need Duval awake!" said Coghlan
angrily. “HeÅ‚s the only one who can write that Middle Greekor talk it or
understand it! I need him awake!"
The physician shook his head when
Ghalil relayed the demand. “He required much sedative to quiet him," said
Ghalil. “He cannot be roused. It would take hours, in any case."
“IÅ‚d like to ask them," said
Coghlan bitterly, “what they did to a mirror that would make its surface
produce a ghost of itself. It must have been something utterly silly!"
He paced up and down, clenching
and unclenching his hands. “To make a gadget Duval called a Ä™magic mirrorÅ‚
“his tone was sarcastic"they might try diamond-dust or donkey-dung or a
whalełs eyelashes. And one of them might work! Somebody did get this gadget, by
accident we canłt hope to repeat!"
“Why not?"
“We canÅ‚t think, any more, like
lunatics or barbarians or Byzantine alchemists!" snapped Coghlan. “We just
canłt! Itłs like a telephone! Useless by itself. You have to have two
telephones in two places at the same time. We can see that. To use a thing like
this, you have to have two instruments in the same place at different times!
With telephones you need a connection of wire, joining them. With this gadget
you need a connection of place, joining the times!"
“A singularly convincing fantasy,"
said Ghalil, his eyes admiring. “And just as you can detect the wire between
two telephone instruments"
“You can detect the place where
gadgets are connected in different times! The connection is cold. It condenses
moisture. Heat goes into it and disappears. And I know," said Coghlan
defiantly, “that I am talking nonsense! But I also know how to make a
connection which will create cold, though I havenłt the ghosthah, damn it!of
an idea how to make the instruments it could connect! And making the connection
is as far from making the gadgets as drawing a copper wire is from making a
telephone exchange! All I know is that an alnico magnet will act as one
instrument, so that the connection can exist!"
Mannard growled: “What the hell is
all this? Stick to facts! What happened to Duval?"
“Tomorrow," said Coghlan in angry
calm, “heÅ‚s going to tell us that he heard faint voices through the silvery
film when he played with the magnet. Hełs going to say the voices were talking
in Byzantine Greek. Hełs going to say he tried to rap on the silver stuffit
looked solidto attract their attention. And whatever he rapped with went
through! Hełll say he heard them exclaim, and that he got excited and told them
who he wasmaybe hełll ask them if they were working with Appolonius, because
Appolonius was mentioned on the flyleaf of that bookand offer to swap them
books and information about modern times for what they could tell and give him!
Hełll swear he jammed books throughmostly history-books in modern Greek and
French and they shoved things back. His frost-bitten hands are the evidence
for that! When something comes out of that film or goes into it, it gets cold!
The ęfrigid Beyond Hełll tell us that the ghost of the gadget began to get
smaller as he swappedthe coating or whatever produced the effect would wear
terrifically with use!and he got frantic to learn all he could, and then your policemen
came in and grabbed him, and then he went more frantic because he partly
believed and partly didnłt and couldnłt make them understand. Then the doctor
came and everythingłs messed up!"
“You believe that?" demanded
Mannard.
“I know damned well," raged
Coghlan, “he wouldnÅ‚t have asked them what they did to the mirror to make it
work! And the usable surface is getting smaller every minute, and I canłt slip
a written note through telling them to run-down the process because Duvalłs the
only one here who could ask a simple question for the crazy answer theyłd
give!"
He almost wrung his hands. Laurie
picked up the huge, five-inch-thick book that had startled him before. Mannard
stood four-square, doggedly unbelieving. Ghalil looked at nothing, with bright
eyes, as if savoring a thought which explained much that had puzzled him.
“IÅ‚ll never believe it," said
Mannard doggedly. “Never in a million years! Even if it could happen, why
should it here and now? Whatłs the purposethe real purpose in the nature of
things? To keep me from getting killed? Thatłs all itłs done! Iłm not that
important, for natural laws to be suspended and the one thing that could never
happen again to happen just to keep Appolonius from murdering me!"
Then Ghalil nodded his head. He
looked approvingly at Mannard.
“An honest man!" he said. “I can
answer it, Mr. Mannard. Duval had his history-books here. Some were modern
Greek and some were French. And if the preposterous is true, and Mr. Coghlan
has described the fact, then the man who made this this ęgadgetł back in the
thirteenth century was an alchemist and a scholar who believed implicitly in
magic. When Duval offered to trade books, would he not agree without question
because of his belief in magic? He would have no doubts! What Duval sent him
would seem to him magic. It would seem prophecyin flimsy magic form, less
durable than sheepskinbut magic nonetheless. He could even fumble at the
meaning of the Greek. It would be peculiarbut magic. He could read it as
'perhaps' a modern English-speaking person can read Chaucer. Not clearly, and
fumblingly, but grasping the meaning dimly. And this ancient alchemist would
believe what he read! It would seem to him pure prophecy. And he would be
right!"
Ghalil's expression was triumphant.
"Consider! He would have not
only past history but future history in his hands! He would use the
information! His prophecies would be right! Perhaps he could even grasp a
little of the French! And what happens when superstitious men find that a
soothsayer is invariably right? They guide themselves by him! He would grow
rich! He would grow powerful! His sons would be noblemen, and they would
inherit his secret knowledge of the future! Always they would know what was
next to come in the history of Byzantium andperhaps even elsewhere! And men,
knowing their correctness, would be guided by them! They would make the
prophecies come to pass! Perhaps Nostradamus compiled his rhymes after
spelling through a crumbling book of paper they had no paper in Byzantium or
later in Europe itself and startlingly foretold the facts narrated in a book
our friend Duval sent back to ancient Istanbul!"
Then Ghalil sat down on the foot
of the cot, almost calmly.
"Knowledge of the future, in
a superstitious age, would make the future. This event, Mr. Mannard, did not
come about to save your life, but to direct the history of the world through
the Dark Ages to the coming of today. And that is surely significant enough to
justify what has happened!"
Mannard shook his head.
"You're saying now," he
said flatly, "that if Tommy doesn't write down what you showed me, all
this won't happen because Duval won't find the writing. If he doesn't find the
writing, the books won't go back to the past. All history will be different.
Mygreat-grandfather and yours, maybe, *ill never be born and we won't be here.
No! That's nonsense!"
Coghlan looked at the book in
Laurie's hand. He took it from her. "This is exactly like Duval's
book," he said.
"It is the same book,"
said Ghalil, with confidence. "And I think you know what you will
do."
"I'm not sure," said
Coghlan. He frowned. "I don't know." Laurie said urgently:
"If it isn't nonsense, Tommy,
thenI could not be at all, and you could not be at all . . . we'd never meet
each other, and you wouldn't have that research to doandand"
There was silence. Coghlan looked
around on the floor. He picked up the reed pen. He said, unnecessarily:
"I still don't believe
this."
But he dipped the pen in the
thawing ink of the ink-pot. Laurie steadied the book for him to write. He
wrote:
See Thomas Coghlan, 750 Fatima,
Istanbul.
He looked at her and hesitated.
Then he said:
"There was something I'd say
to myself . . . written down here, it was what made me believe in it enough to
trail along." He wrote:
Professor, president, so what?
Ghalil said mildly: "I am
sure you remember this address." "Yes," said Coghlan seriously.
He wrote:
Gadget at 80 Hosain, second
floor, back room.
Mannard said grimly: "It's
still nonsense!" Coghlan wrote:
Make sure of Mannard. To be
killed.
"That's a slight
exaggeration," he observed slowly, but it's necessary, to make us act as
we did."
He was smudging ink on his fingers
when Ghalil said politely:
“May I help? The professional
touch"
Coghlan let him smear the smudgy
black ink on his fingertips. Ghalil painstakingly rolled the four
finger-prints, the thumb-print below. He said calmly:
“This is uniqueto make a
fingerprint record I will see again when it is seven centuries old! Now what?"
Coghlan picked up the magnet. It
was much brighter than a steel one. It had the shine of aluminum, but it was
heavy. He presented it to the dwindling wet spot on the wall. The wet place
turned silvery. Coghlan thrust the book at the shining surface. It touched. It
went into the silver. It vanished. Coghlan took the magnet away. The wet place
looked, somehow, as if it were about to dry permanently. Duval breathed
stertorously on the canvas cot.
“And now," said Ghalil blandly,
“we do not need to believe it any more. We do not believe it, do we?"
“Of course not!" growled Mannard.
“ItÅ‚s all nonsense!"
Ghalil grinned. He brushed off his
fingers.
“Undoubtedly," he said sedately,
“M. Duval contrived it all. He will never admit it. He will always insist that
one of us contrived it. We will all suspect each other, for always. There will
be no record anywhere except a very discreet report in the archives of the
Istanbul Police Department, which will assign the mystification either to M.
Duval or to Appolonius the Great after he has gone to prison, at least. It is
a singular mystery, is it not?"
He laughed.
A week later, Laurie triumphantly
pointed out to Coghlan that it was demonstrably all nonsense. The cut on his
thumb had healed quite neatly, leaving no scar at all.
Conditionally
Human
By Walter M.
Miller
HE KNEW there
was no use hanging around after breakfast, but he could not bear leaving her
like this. He put on his coat in the kitchen, stood uncertainly in the doorway,
and twisted his hat in his hands. His wife still sat at the table, fingered
the handle of an empty cup, stared fixedly out the window at the kennels behind
the house, and pointedly ignored his small coughings and scrapings. He watched
the set of her jaw for a moment, then cleared his throat.
"Anne?"
"What?"
"I can't
stand seeing you like this."
"Then go
away."
"Can't I
do anything?"
"I told
you what to do."
Her voice was
a monotone, full of hurt. He could neither endure the hurt nor remove it. He
gingerly crossed the room to stand behind her, hoping she'd look up at him and
let her face go soft, maybe even cry a little. But she kept gazing at the window
in accusing silence. He chuckled suddenly and touched her silk-clad shoulder.
The shoulder shivered away. Her dark hair quivered as she shuddered, and her
arms were suddenly locked tightly about her breasts as if she were cold. He
pulled his hand back, and his big pliant face went slack. He gulped forlornly.
"Honeymoon's
over, huh?"
"Ha!"
He backed a
step away, paused again. "Hey, Baby, you knew before you married me,"
he reminded her gently.
"I did
not."
"You
knew I was a District Inspector for the F.B.A. You knew I had charge of a
pound."
"I
didn't know you killed them!" she snapped, whirling.
"I don't
have to kill many," he offered.
"That's
like saying you don't kill them very dead."
"Look,
honey, they're only animals."
"Intelligent
animals!"
"Intelligent
as a human imbecile, maybe."
"A baby
is an imbecile. Would you kill a baby? Of course you would! You do! That's
what they are: babies. I hate you." He withered, groped
desperately for a new approach, tried a semantic tack. "Look,
`intelligence' is a word applicable only to humans. It's the name of a human
function, and . . ."
"And
that makes them human!" she finished. "Murderer!"
"Baby!"
"Don't
call me baby! Call them baby!"
He made a
miserable noise in his throat, backed a few steps toward the door, and beat
down his better judgment to speak again: "Anne, honey, look! Think of the good
things about the job. Sureeverything has its ugly angles. But just think:
we get this house rent-free; I've got my own district with no local bosses to
hound me; I make my own hours; you'll meet lots of people that stop in at the
pound. It's a fine job, honey!"
Her face was
a mask again. She sipped her coffee and seemed to be listening. He blundered
hopefully on.
"And
what can I do about it? I can't help my aptitudes. Placement
Division checked them, sent me to Bio-Authority. Period. Okay, so I don't
have to work where they send me. I could ignore the aptitudes and pick
common labor, but that's all the law allows, and common laborers don't have
families. So I go where they need my aptitudes."
"You've
got aptitudes for killing kids?" she asked sweetly. He groaned, clenched
his eyes closed, shook his head fiercely as if to clear it of a sudden ache.
His voice went desperately patient. "They assigned me to the job because
I like babies. And because I have a degree in biology and an aptitude
for dealing with people. Understand? Destroying unclaimed units is the smallest
part of it. Honey, before the evolvotron, before anybody ever heard of
Anthropos Incorporated, people used to elect animal catchers. Dogcatchers, they
called them. Didn't have mutant dogs, of course. But just think of it that
wayI'm a dog-catcher."
Ice-green
eyes turned slowly to meet his gaze. Her face was delicately cut from cold
marble. One corner of her mouth twitched contempt at him. Her head turned
casually away again to stare out the window toward the kennels again.
He backed to
the door, plucked nervously at a splinter on the woodwork, watched her
hopefully for a moment.
"Well,
gotta go. Work to do."
She looked at
him again as if he were a specimen. "Do you need to be kissed?"
He ripped the
splinter loose, gulped, "See you tonight," and stumbled toward the
front of the house. The honeymoon indeed was done for District Inspector Norris
of the Federal Biological Authority.
Anne heard
his footsteps on the porch, heard the sudden grumble of the kennel-truck's
turbines, choked on a sob and darted for the door, but the truck had backed
into the street, lurched suddenly away with angry acceleration toward the
highway that lay to the east. She stood blinking into the red morning sunlight,
shoulders slumped. Things were wrong with the world, she decided.
A bell rang
somewhere, rang again. She started slightly, shook herself, went to answer the
telephone. A carefully enunciated voice that sounded chubby and professional
called for Inspector Norris. She told it disconsolately that he was gone.
"Gone?
Oh, you mean to work. Heh heh. Can this be the new Mrs. Norris?" The voice
was too hearty and greasy, she thought, muttered affirmatively.
"Ah,
yes. Norris spoke of you, my dear. This is Doctor Georges. I have a very urgent
problem to discuss with your husband. But perhaps I can talk to you."
"You can
probably get him on the highway. There's a phone in the truck." What sort
of urgent problems could doctors discuss with dogcatchers, she wondered.
"Afraid
not, my dear. The inspector doesn't switch on his phone until office hours. I
know him well, you see."
"Can't
you wait?"
"It's
really an emergency, Mrs. Norris. I need an animal from the pounda
Chimp-K-48-3, preferably a five year old."
"I know
nothing about my husband's business," she said stiffly. "You'll have
to talk to him."
"Now see
here, Mrs. Norris, this is an emergency, and I have to have ..."
"What
would you do if I hadn't answered the phone?" she interrupted.
"Why II
would have"
"Then do
it," she snapped, dropped the phone in its cradle, marched angrily away.
The phone began ringing again. She paused to glance back at it with a twinge of
guilt. Emergency, the fat voice had said. But what sort of emergency would involve
a chimp K-48, and what would Georges do with the animal? Butchery, she
suspected, was somehow implied. She let the phone ring. If Norris ever, ever,
ever asked her to share his work in any way, she'd leave him, she told herself.
The truck
whirred slowly along the suburban street that wound among nestled groups of
pastel plasticoid cottages set approximately two to an acre on the lightly
wooded land. With its population legally fixed at three hundred million, most
of the country had become one gigantic suburb, dotted with community centers
and lined with narrow belts of industrial development. There was no open
country now, nor had there been since the days of his grandparents. There was
nowhere that one could feel alone.
He approached
an intersection. A small animal sat on the curb, wrapped in its own bushy tail.
The crown of its oversized head was bald, but its body was covered with
blue-gray fur. A pink tongue licked daintily at small forepaws equipped with
prehensile thumbs. It eyed the truck morosely as Norris drew to a halt and
smiled down out of the window at it.
"Hi,
kitten," he called. "What's your name?"
The Cat-Q-5
stared at him indifferently for a moment, uttered a stuttering high-pitched
wail, then cried: "Kitty Rorry."
"Kitty
Rorry. That's a nice name. Where do you live, Rorry?"
The Cat-Q-5
ignored him.
"Whose
child are you, Rorry? Can you tell me that?"
Rorry
regarded him disgustedly. Norris glanced quickly around. There were no houses
near the intersection, and he feared that the animal might be lost. It blinked
at him, sleepily bored, then resumed its paw-bath. He repeated the questions.
"Mama
kiyi, kiyi Mama," it finally reported.
"That's
right, Mama's kitty. But where's Mama? Do you suppose she ran
away?"
The Cat-Q-5
looked startled. It stuttered for a moment. Its fur crept slowly erect. It
glanced both ways along the street, shot suddenly away at a fast scamper along
the sidewalk. Norris followed it in the truck for two blocks, where it darted
onto a porch and began wailing through the screen: "Mama no run ray! Mama
no run ray!"
He chuckled
and drove on. A couple who failed the genetic requirements, who could have no
children of their own, could get quite attached to a Cat-Q-5, but the cats were
emotionally safer than any of the quasi-human chimp-K models called "neutroids."
The death of a neutroid could strike a family as hard as the death of a child,
while most couples could endure the loss of a cat-Q or a dog-F. A couple with a
genetic "C" rating were permitted to own one neutroid, or two
non-humanized models of daily food intake less than four hundred calories each.
Most psychologists regarded the neutroids as emotional dynamite, and advised
attaching affections to some tail-wagger with a lower love-demand potential.
Norris
suddenly lost his vestigial smile. What about Anne? What outlet would she
choose for her maternal needs?for his own Social Security card was stamped
"Genetic-C"and Anne loved kids. He had been thinking in
terms of the kennel animals, how she might direct her energies toward helping
him take care of them, but now that her hostility was evident . . . well .. .
suppose she wanted a pseudoparty and a neutroid of her own? Of this, he
disapproved.
He shuddered
slightly, fumbled in his pocket, and brought out a slightly battered invitation
card that had come in yesterday's mail:
You are
cordially invited
to attend the pseudoparturition
and ensuing cocktail hour
to celebrate the arrival of
HONEY BLOSSOM
Blessed event
to occur on
Twelveweek's
Sixday of 2063
at 19:30 hours
Reception
Room, Rockabye Hours Clinic
R.s.v.p. Mr.
& Mrs. John Hanley Slade
The
invitation had come late, the party would be tonight. He had meant to call
Slade today and say that he and Anne would probably drop in for cocktails, but
would be unable to get there in time for the delivery. But now that she had
reacted so hostilely to the nastier aspects of his job, perhaps he had better
keep her away from sentimental occasions involving neutroids.
The battered
card reminded him to stop in Sherman III Community Center for his mail. He
turned onto the shopping street that paralleled the great highway and drove
past several blocks of commercial buildings that served the surrounding
suburbs. At the down-ramp he gave the attendant a four-bit bill and sent the truck
down to be parked under the street, then went to the message office. When he
dropped his code-disk in the slot, the feedway under his box number chattered
out a yard of paper tape at him. He scanned it slowly from end to endnote from
Aunt Maye, bill from SynZhamilk Products, letter from Anne's mother. The only
thing of importance was the memo from the chief, a troublesome tidbit that he
had been expecting for days:
Attention
All District Inspectors: Subject: Deviant Neutroid.
You will
immediately begin a systematic and thorough survey of all animals whose serial
numbers fall in the Bermuda-K-99 series for birth dates during weeks 26 to 32
of year 2062. This is in connection with the Delmont Negligency case.
Seize all animals in this category, impound, and run applicable sections of normalcy
tests. Watch for signs of endocrinal deviation and non-standard response
patterns. Delmont has confessed to passing only one non-standard model, but
there may have been others. He disclaims memory of deviant's serial number.
This could be a ruse to bring a stop to investigation when one animal is found.
Be thorough.
If allowed
to reach age-set or adulthood, such a deviant could be dangerous to its owner
or to others. Hold all seized K-99s who exhibit the slightest departure from
standard in the normalcy tests. Forward these to Central Lab. Return standard
models to their owners. Accomplish entire survey project within seven days.
C.
Franklin
"Seven
days!" he hissed irritably, wadded the tape in his pocket, stalked out to
get the truck.
His district
covered two hundred square miles. With a replacement quota of seventy-five
neutroids a week, the district would have probably picked up about forty K-99s
from the Bermuda factory influx during the six-week period last year. Could
he round them up in a week? Doubtful. And there were only eleven empty cages in
the kennel. The other forty-nine were occupied by the previous inspector's
"unclaimed" inventoryawaiting destruction. The
crematorium behind the kennels would have a busy week. Anne would love that.
He was
halfway to Wylo City when the radiophone buzzed on the dashboard. He pulled
into the slow lane and answered quickly, hoping for Anne's voice. A polite
professional purr came instead.
"Inspector
Norris? Doctor Georges."
Norris made a
sour mouth, managed a jovial greeting.
"Are you
extremely busy at the moment?" Georges asked. He paused.
Georges usually wanted a favor for some wealthy patient, or for some wealthy
patient's tail-wagger.
"Extremely,"
he grunted.
"Eh? Oh
well, this won't take long. One of my patientsa Mrs. Sarah Glubbescalled a
while ago and said her baby was sick."
"So?"
"No
baby. I must be getting absent minded, because I forgot she's class C until I
got there."
"I'll
guess," Norris muttered. "Turned out to be a neutroid."
"Of
course, of course."
"Why
tell me?"
"It's
dying. Eighteenth order virus. Naturally, I can't get it admitted to
a hospital."
"Ever
hear of vets?"
"You
don't understand. She insists it's her baby, believes it's her own.
How can I send it to a vet?"
"That's
your worry. Is this an old patient of yours?"
"Why,
yes, I've known Sarah since"
"Since
you presided at her pseudopart?"
"How did
you know?"
"Just
a guess. If you put her through pseudopart, then you deserve all the trouble
you get."
"I
take it you're a prohibitionist."
"Skip
it. What did you want from me?"
"A
replacement neutroid. From the kennel."
"Baloney.
You couldn't fool her. If she's blind, she'd still know the difference."
"I'll
have to take the chance. Listen, Norris, it's pathetic. She knows the disease can
be curedin humanswith hospitalization and expensive treatment that I
can't get for a neutroid. No vet could get the drug either. Scarce. It's
pathetic."
"I'm
crying all over the steering wheel."
The doctor
hesitated. "Sorry, Norris, I thought you were human."
"Not to
the extent of doing quasi-legal favors that won't be appreciated for some rich
neurotic dame and a doc who practices pseudopart."
"One
correction," Georges said stiffly. "Sarah's not rich. She's a
middle-aged widow and couldn't pay for treatment if she could get it."
"Oh"
"Thanks
anyway, Norris."
"Hold
it," he grunted. "What's the chimp's series?" "It's a K-48,
a five-year-old with a three-year age set." Norris thought for a moment.
It was a dirty deal, and it wouldn't work.
"I think
I've got one in the kennel that's fairly close," he offered
doubtfully.
"Good,
good, I'll have Fred go over and"
"Wait,
now. This one'll be spooky, won't know her, and the serial number will be
different."
"I know,
I know," Georges sighed. "But it seems worth a try. An
attack of V-i8 can cause mild amnesia in humans; that might explain why it
won't know her. About the serial number"
"Don't
try changing it," Norris growled.
"How
about obliterating"
"Don't,
and I'll check on it a couple of weeks from now to make damn sure you didn't.
That's a felony, Georges."
"All
right, all right, I'll just have to take the chance that she won't
notice it. When can I pick it up?"
"Call my
wife in fifteen minutes. I'll speak to her first."
"Uh, yes
. . . Mrs. Norris. Uh, very well, thanks, Inspector." Georges hung up
quickly.
Norris lit a
cigaret, steeled himself, called Anne. Her voice was dull, depressed, but no
longer angry.
"All
right, Terry," she said tonelessly. "I'll go out to the kennel and
get the one in cage thirty-one, and give it to Georges when he comes."
"Thanks,
babe."
He heard her
mutter, "And then I'll go take a bath," just before the circuit
clicked off.
He flipped
off the auto-driver, took control of the truck, slipped into the fast lane and
drove furiously toward Wylo City and the district wholesale offices of Anthropos
Incorporated to begin tracing down the suspected Bermuda K-99s in accordance
with Franklin's memo. He would have to check through all incoming model files
for the six week period, go over the present inventory, then run down the
Bermuda serial numbers in a mountain of invoices covering a thirty-week
period, find the pet shops and retail dealers that had taken the doubtful
models, and finally survey the retail dealers to trace the models to their
present owners. With cooperation from wholesaler and dealers, he might get it
down to the retail level by mid-afternoon, but getting the models away from
their owners would be the nasty part of the job. He was feeling pretty nasty
himself, he decided. The spat with Anne, the distasteful thoughts associated with
Slade's pseudoparty, the gnawing remorse about collaborating with Dr. Georges
in a doubtful maneuver to pacify one Sarah Glubbes, a grim week's work ahead,
plus his usual charge of suppressed resentment toward Chief Franklinit all
added up to a mood that could turn either black or vicious, depending on
circumstance.
If some
doting Mama gave him trouble about impounding her darling tail-wagger, he was,
he decided, in the right kind of mood to get a warrant and turn the job over to
the sheriff.
The gasping
neutroid lay on the examining table under the glaring light. The torso quivered
and twitched as muscles contracted spasmodically, but the short legs were
already limp and paralyzed, allowing the chubby man in the white coat to lift
them easily by the ankles and retrieve the rectal thermometer. The neutroid
wheezed and chattered plaintively as the nurse drew the blanket across its
small body again.
"A
hundred and nine," grunted the chubby man, his voice muffled by the gauze
mask. His eyes probed the nurse's eyes for a moment. He jerked his head toward
the door. "She still out there?"
The nurse
nodded.
The doctor
stared absently at the thermometer stem for a moment, looked up again, spoke
quietly. "Get a hyponecrofine." She turned toward the sterilizer, paused
briefly. "Three c.c.s?" she asked.
"Twelve,"
he corrected.
Their eyes
locked with his for several seconds; then she nodded and went to the
sterilizer.
"May I
leave first?" she asked tonelessly while filling the syringe.
"Certainly."
"What'll
I say to Mrs. Glubbes?" She crossed to the table again and handed him the
hypo.
"Nothing.
Use the back way. Go tell Fred to run over to the kennels and pick up the
substitute. I've called Mrs. Norris. Oh yeah, and tell Fred to stop in here
first. I'll have something for him to take out."
The nurse
glanced down at the squirming, whimpering newt, shivered slightly, and left the
room. When the door closed, Georges bent over the table with the hypo. When the
door opened again, Georges looked up to see his son looking in.
"Take
this along," he grunted, and handed Fred the bundle wrapped in newspapers.
"What'll
I do with it?" the youth asked.
"Chuck
it in Norris's incinerator."
Fred glanced
at the empty examining table and nodded indifferently. "Can Miss Laskell
come back now?" he asked in going.
"Tell
her yeah. And hurry with that other neut."
"Sure,
Pop. See you later."
The nurse
looked in uncertainly before entering.
"Get
cleaned up," he told her. "And go sit with Mrs. Glubbes."
"What'll
I say?"
"The
`baby' will recover. She can take it home late this afternoon if she
gets some rest first."
"What're
you going to do?about the substitute."
"Give
it a shot to put it to sleep, give her some codeine to feed it."
"Why?"
"So
it'll be too groggy for a few days to even notice her, so it'll get addicted
and attached to her because she gives it the coedine."
"The
serial number?"
"I'll
put the tattooed foot in a cast. V-18 paralysisyou know."
"Smart,"
she muttered, but there was no approval in her voice.
When she had
changed clothes in the anteroom, she unlocked the door to the office, but
paused before passing on into the reception room. The door was ajar, and she
gazed through the crack at the woman who sat on the sofa.
Sarah Glubbes
was gray and gaunt and rigid as stone. She sat with her hands clenched in her
lap, her wide empty eyesdull blue spots on yellowed marble orbsstaring
ceilingward while the colorless lips of a knife-slash mouth moved tautly in
earnest prayer. The nurse's throat felt tight. She rubbed it for a moment.
After all, the thing was only an animal.
She
straightened her shoulders, put on a cheerful smile, and marched on into the
reception room. The yellowed orbs snapped demandingly toward her.
"Everything's
all right, Mrs. Glubbes," she began.
"Finished,"
Norris grunted at three o'clock that afternoon.
"Thirty-six
K-99s," murmured the Anthropos file-clerk, gazing over Norris's shoulder
at the clip-board with the list of doubtful neuts and the dealers to whom they
had been sent. "Lots of owners may be hard to locate."
"Yeah.
Thanks, Andy, and you too, Mabel."
The girl
smiled and handed him a slip of paper. "Here's a list of owners for
thirteen of them. I called the two local shops for you. Most of them live here
close."
He glanced at
the names, felt tension gathering in his stomach. It wasn't going to be easy.
What could he say to them?
Howdy,
Ma'am, excuse me, but I've come to take your little boy away to jail ... Oh,
yes ma'am, he'll have a place to stayin a little steel cage with a forkful of
straw, and he'll get vitaminized mush every day. What's that? His sleepy-time
stories and his pink honey-crumbles? Sorry, ma'am, your little boy is only a
mutated chimpanzee, you know, and not really human at all.
"That'll
go over great," he grumbled, staring absently at the window.
"Beg
pardon, sir?" answered the clerk.
"Nothing,
Andy, nothing." He thanked them again and strode out into the late
afternoon sunlight. Still a couple of hours working time left, and plenty of
things to do. Checking with the other retail dealers would be the least
unpleasant task, but there was no use saving the worst until last. He glanced
at the list Mabel had given him, checked it for the nearest address, then
squared his shoulders and headed for the kennel truck.
Anne met him
at the door when he came home at six. He stood on the porch for a moment,
smiling at her weakly. The smile was not returned.
"Doctor
Georges' boy came," she told him. "He signed for the"
She stopped
to stare at him, then opened the screen, reached up quickly to brush light
fingertips over his cheek.
"Terry!
Those welts! What happenedget scratched by a cat-Q?"
"No, by
a human-F," he grumbled, and stepped past her into the hall; Anne
followed, eyeing him curiously while he reached for the phone and dialed.
"Who're
you calling?" she asked.
"Society's
Watchdog," he answered as the receiver buzzed in his ear.
"Your
eye, Terryit's all puffy. Will it turn black?"
"Maybe."
"Did the
human-F do that too?"
"Uh-uh.
Human-Mname of Pete Klusky ...
The phone
croaked at him suddenly. "This is the record-voice of Sheriff Yates.
I'll be out from five to seven. If it's urgent, call your constable."
He hung up
briefly, then irritably dialed the locator service. "Mnemonic
register, trail calls, and official locations," grated a mechanical
voice. "Your business, please."
"This is
T. Norris, Sherman-9-4566-78B, Official rating B, Priority B, code
XT-88-U-Bio. Get Sheriff Yates for me." "Nature of the
call?"
"Offish
biz."
"I
shall record the call."
He waited.
The robot found Yates on the first probability-trial attemptin the local
pool-hall.
"I'm
getting to hate that infernal gadget," Yates snapped. "Acts like it's
got me psyched. Whattaya want, Norris?"
"Cooperation.
I'm mailing you three letters charging three Wylo citizens with resisting a
federal officialnamely meand charging one of them with assault. I tried to
pick up their neutroids for a pound inspection, and"
Yates
bellowed lusty laughter in his ear.
"Not
funny," he growled. "I've got to get those
neutroids. It's connected with the Delmont case."
Yates stopped
laughing. "Oh? Well . . . I'll take care of it."
"Rush
order, Sheriff. Can you get the warrants tonight and pick up the animals in the
morning?"
"Easy on
those warrants, boy. Judge Charleman can't be bothered just any time. I can get
the newts to you by noon, I guess, provided we don't have to get a helicopter
posse to chase down the mothers."
"Well,
okaybut listenI want the charges dropped if they cooperate with you. And
don't shake the warrants at them unless you have to. Just get those newts,
that's all I want."
"Okay,
boy. Give me the dope."
Norris read
him the names and addresses of the three unwilling owners, and a precise
account of what happened in each case. As soon as he hung up, Anne muttered "Sit
still," perched on his knees, and began stroking chilly ointment across
his burning cheek. He watched her cool eyes flicker from his cheek to his own
eyes and down again. She was no longer angry, but only gloomy and withdrawn
from him. He touched her arm. She seemed not to notice it.
"Hard
day, Terry?"
"Slightly.
I picked up nine newts out of thirteen, anyhow. They're in the truck now."
"Good
thing you didn't get them all. There are only twelve empty cages."
"Twelve?oh,
Georges picked one up, didn't he?"
"And
sent a package," she said, eyeing him soberly.
"Package?
Where is it?"
"In the
crematorium. The boy took it back there." He swallowed a tight spot in his
throat, said nothing.
"Oh, and
darlingMrs. Slade called. Why didn't you tell me we're going out
tonight?"
"Goingout?"
It sounded a little weak.
"Well,
she said she hadn't heard from you. I couldn't very well say no, so I told her I'd
be there, at least."
"You?"
"Oh, I
didn't say about you, Terry. I said you'd like to go, but you might have to
work. I'll go alone if you don't want to."
He stared at
her with a puzzled frown. "You want to go to the psuedoparty?"
"Not
particularly. But I've never been to one. I'm just curious."
He nodded
slowly, felt grim inside. She finished with the ointment, patted his cheek,
managed a cheerful smile.
"Come
on, Terry. Let's go unload your nine neutroids." He stared at her dumbly.
"Let's
forget about this morning, Terry."
He nodded.
She averted her face suddenly, and her lip quivered. "II know you've got
a job that's got to be" She swallowed hard and turned away.
"See you out in the kennels," she choked gaily, then
hurried down the hall toward the door. Norris scratched his chin unhappily as
he watched her go.
After a
moment, he dialed the mnemonic register again. "Keep a line on this
number," he ordered after identifying himself. "If Yates or Franklin
calls, ring continuously until I can get in to answer. Otherwise, just memorize
the call."
"Instructions
acknowledged," answered the circuitry.
He went out
to the kennels to help Anne unload the neutroids.
A sprawling
concrete barn housed the cages, and the barn was sectioned into three large
rooms, one housing the fragile, humanoid chimpanzee-mutants, and another for
the lesser breeds such as cat-Qs, dog-Fs, dwarf bears, and foot-high lambs that
never matured into sheep. The third room contained a small gas chamber, with a
conveyor belt leading from it to the crematorium. He usually kept the third
room locked, but he noticed in passing that it was open. Evidently Anne had
found the keys in order to let Fred Georges dump his package.
A Noah's Ark
Chorus greeted him as he passed through the animal room, to be replaced by the
mindless chatter of the doll-like neutroids as soon as he entered the air
conditioned neutroidsection. Dozens of blazing blond heads began dancing about
their cages. Their bodies thwacked against the wire mesh as they leaped about
their compartments with monkey-grace, in recognition of their feeder and
keeper.
Their human
appearance was broken only by two distinct features: short beaverlike tails
decorated with fluffy curls of fur and an erect thatch of scalp hair that grew
up into a bright candle-flame. Otherwise, they appeared completely human, with
baby-pink skin, quick little smiles, and cherubic faces. They were sexually
neuter and never grew beyond a predetermined age-set which varied for each
series. Age-sets were available from one to ten years, human equivalent. Once a
neutroid reached its age-set, it remained at this stage of retarded development
until death.
"They
must be getting to know you pretty well," Anne said as she came from
behind a section of cages. "A big loud welcome for Pappa, huh?"
He frowned
slightly as he glanced around the gloomy room and sniffed the animal odors.
"That's funny. They don't usually get this excited."
She grinned.
"Big confession: it started when I came in."
He shot her a
quick suspicious glance, then walked slowly along a row of cages, peering
inside. He stopped suddenly be-side a three year old K-76 to stare.
"Apple
cores!"
He turned
slowly to face his wife, trying to swallow a sudden spurt of anger.
"Well?"
he demanded.
Anne
reddened. "I felt sorry for them, eating that goo from the mechanical
feeders. So I drove down to Sherman III and bought six dozen cooking
apples."
"That
was a mistake."
She frowned
irritably. "We can afford it."
"That's
not the point. There's a reason for mechanical feedings."
"Oh?
What is it?"
He hesitated,
knowing she wouldn't like the answer. But she was already stiffening.
"Let me
guess," she said coldly. "If you feed them yourself they get to love
you. Right?"
"Uh,
yeah. They even attach some affection to me because they know that right after
I come in, the feeders get turned on."
"I see.
And if they love you, you might get queasy about running them through Room 3's
production line, eh?"
"That's
about the size of it," he admitted.
"Okay,
Terry, I feed them apples, you run your production line," she announced
firmly. "I can't see anything contradictory about that, can
you?"
Her eyes told
him that he had damn well better see something contradictory about it, whether
he admitted it or not.
"Planning
to get real chummy with them, are you?" he inquired stiffly.
"Planning
to dispose of any soon?" she countered.
"Honeymoon's
off again, eh?"
She shook her
head slowly, came toward him a little. "I hope not, TerryI hope
not." She stopped again. They watched each other doubtfully amid the
chatter of the neutroids.
After a time,
he turned and walked to the truck, pulled out the snare-pole and began fishing
for the squealing, squeaking doll-things that bounded about like frightened
monkeys in the truck's wire mesh cage. They were one-family pets, always
frightened of strangers, and these in the truck remembered him only as the
villain who had dragged them away from Mamma into a terrifying world of
whirling scenery and roaring traffic.
They worked
for a time without talking; then Anne asked casually: "What's the Delmont
case, Terry?"
"Huh?
What makes you ask?"
"I heard
you mention it on the phone. Anything to do with a black eye and a scratched
face?"
He nodded
sourly. "Indirectly. It's a long story. Wellyou know about the
evolvotron."
"Only
that Anthropos Incorporated uses it to induce mutations."
"It's
sort of a sub-atomic surgical instrumentfor doing `plastic surgery' to
reproductive cellsHere! Grab this chimp! Got him by the leg."
"Oop!
Got him. . . . Go ahead, Terry."
"Using
an evolvotron on the gene-structure of an ovum is likeplaying microscopic
billiardswith protons and deuterons and alpha particles for cue-balls. The
operator takes the living ovum, mounts it in the device, gets a tremendously
magnified image of it with the slow-neutrino shadowscope, compares the image
with a gene-map, starts gouging out submolecular tidbits with single-particle
shots. He juggles them around, hammers chunks in where nothing was before,
plugs up gaps, makes new gaps. Catch?"
She looked
thoughtful, nodded. "Catch. And the Lord Man made neutroid from the slime
of an ape," she murmured.
"Heh?
Here, catch this critter! Snare's choking him!"
"Okaycome
to Mamma . . . Well, go on--tell me about Delmont."
"Delmont
was a green evolvotron operator. Takes years of training, months of practice."
"Practice?"
"It's an
art more than a science. Speed's the thing. You've got to perform the whole
operation from start to finish in a few seconds. Ovum dies if you take too long."
"About
Delmont"
"Got
through training and practice tryouts okay. Good rating, in fact. But he was
just one of those people that blow up when rehearsals stop and the act begins.
He spoiled over a hundred ova the first week. That's to be expected. One success
out of ten tries is a good average. But he didn't get any successes."
"Why
didn't they fire him?"
"Threatened
to. Guess he got hysterical. Anyhow, he reported one success the next day. It
was faked. The ovum had a couple of flawssomething wrong in the nervous system's
determinants, and in the endocrinal setup. Not a standard neutroid ovum. He
passed it on to the incubators to get a credit, knowing it wouldn't
be caught until after birth."
"It
wasn't caught at all?"
"Heh. He
was afraid it might not be caught. So he suppressed the testosterone
flow to its incubator so that it would belater on."
"Why
that?"
"All the
neutroids are potential females, you know. But male hormone is pumped to the
foetus as it develops. Keeps female sexuality from developing, results in a
neuter. He decided that the inspectors would surely catch a female, and that
would be blamed on a malfunction of the incubator, not on him."
"So?"
Norris
shrugged. "So inspectors are human. So maybe a guy came on the job with a
hangover and missed a trick or two. Besides, they all look female.
Anyhow, she didn't get caught."
"How did
they ever find out Delmont did it?"
"He got
caught last monthtrying it again. Confessed to doing it once before. No
telling how many times he really did it."
Norris held
up the final kicking, squealing, tassel-haired doll from the back of the
kennel-truck. He grinned down at Anne.
"Now
take this little yeep, for instance. Might be a potential she. Might also be a
potential murderer. All these kiddos from the truck came from the
machines in the section where Delmont worked last year when he passed that
fake. Can't have non-standard models on the loose. Can't have sexed models
eitherthen they'd breed, get out of hand. The evolvotron could be shut down
any time it became necessary, and when that generation of mutants died off . .
. " He shrugged.
Anne caught
the struggling baby-creature in her arms. It struggled and tried to bite, but
subsided a little when she disentangled it from the snare.
"Kkr-r-reeee!"
it cooed nervously. "Kree Kkr-r-reeee!"
"You
tell him you're no murderer," she purred to it.
He watched
disapprovingly while she fondled it. One code he had accepted: steer clear of
emotional attachments. It was eight months old and looked like a child of two
yearsa year short of its age-set. And it was designed to be as affectionate as
a human child.
"Put it
in the cage, Anne," he said quietly.
She looked up
and shook her head.
"It
belongs to somebody else. Suppose it transfers its fixation to you? You'd be
robbing its owners. They can't love many people at once."
She snorted,
but installed the thing in its cage.
"Anne"
Norris hesitated, knowing that it was a bad time to approach the subject, but
thinking about Slade's pseudoparty tonight, and wondering why she
had accepted.
"What,
Terry?"
He leaned on
the snare pole and watched her. "Do you want one of them for yourself? I
can sign an unclaimed one over to you. Wouldn't cost anything."
She stared at
him evenly for a moment, glanced down at her feet, paced slowly to the window
to stand hugging her arms and looking out into the twilight.
"With a
pseudoparty, Terry?"
He swallowed
a lump of anxiety, found his voice. "Whatever you want."
"I hear
the phone ringing in the house."
He waited.
"It
stopped," she said after a moment.
"Well,
babe?"
"Whatever
I want, Terry?" She turned slowly to lean back against a patch of gray
light and look at him.
He nodded.
"Whatever you want."
"I want
your child."
He stiffened
with hurt, stared at her open-mouthed. "I want your child."
He thrust his
hand slowly in his hip pocket.
"Oh,
don't reach for your social security card. I don't care if it's got `Genetic
triple-Z' on it. I want your child."
"Uncle
Federal says `no,' babe."
"To hell
with Uncle Federal! They can't send a human through your Room 3! Not yet,
anyhow! If it's born, the world's stuck with it!"
"And the
parents are forcibly separated, reduced to common-labor status. Remember?"
She stamped
her foot and whirled to the window again. "Damn the whole hellish
world!" she snarled.
Norris sighed
heavily. He was sorry she felt that way. She was probably right in feeling that
way, but he was still sorry. Righteous anger, frustrated, was no less searing
a psychic acid than the unrighteous sort, nor did a stomach pause to weigh the
moral worth of the wrath that drenched it before giving birth to an ulcer.
"Hey,
babe, if we're going to the Slade affair"
She nodded
grimly and turned to walk with him toward the house. At least it was better
having her direct her anger at the world rather than at him, he thought.
The expectant
mother played three games of badminton before sundown, then went inside to
shower and dress before the guests arrived. Her face was wreathed in a merry
smile as she trotted downstairs in a fresh smock, her neck still pink from the
hot water, her wake fragrant with faint perfume. There was no apparent need for
the smock, nor was there any pregnant caution in the way she threw her arms
around John's neck and kicked her heels up behind.
"Darling!"
she chirped. "There'll be plenty of milk. I never believed in
bottle-feeding. Isn't it wonderful?"
"Great.
The injections are working, I guess."
She looked
around. "It's a lovely resort-hospital. I'm glad you didn't pick Angel's
Haven."
"So am
I," he grunted. "We'll have the reception room all to ourselves
tonight."
"What
time is it?"
"Seven
ten. Oh, the doe called to say he'd be a few minutes late. He was busy all day
with a sick baby."
She licked
her lips and glanced aside uneasily. "Class A couple?"
"No,
doll. Class Cand a widow."
"Oh."
She brightened again, watched his face teasingly. "Will you pace and
chain-smoke while I'm in delivery?"
He snorted
amusement. "Hey, it's not as if you were really . . " He stopped amid
a fit of coughing.
"Not as
if I really what?"
His mouth
opened and closed. He stammered helplessly. "Not as if I were really
what?" she demanded, eyes beginning to brim.
"Listen,
darling, I didn't mean . . ."
A nurse came
clicking across the floor. "Mrs. Slade, it's time for your first
injection. Doctor Georges just called. Will you come with me please?"
"Not as
if I what, John?" she insisted, ignoring the nurse. "Nothing, doll,
nothing"
"Mrs.
Slade"
"All
right, nurse, I'm coming." She tossed her husband a hurt glance, walked
away dabbing at her eyes.
"Expectant
dames is always cranky," sympathized an attendant who sat on a bench
nearby. "Take it easy. She won't be so touchy after it comes."
John Hanley
Slade shot an irritable glare at the eavesdropper, saw a friendly comedian-face
grinning at him, returned the grin uneasily, and went over to sit down.
"Your
first?"
John Hanley
nodded, stroked nervously at his thin hair. "I see 'em come, I see 'em go.
It's always the same." "Whattaya mean?" John grunted.
"Same
expressions, same worries, same attitudes, same conversation, same questions.
The guy always makes some remark about how it' not really having a baby,
and the dame always gets sore. Happens every time."
"It's
all pretty routine for you, eh?" he muttered stiffly.
The attendant
nodded. He watched the expectant father for several seconds, then grunted:
"Go ahead, ask me." "Ask you what?"
"If I
think all this is silly. They always do."
John stared
at the attendant irritably. "Well?"
"Do I
think it's silly? No, I don't."
"Fine.
That's settled, then."
"No, I
don't think it's silly, because for a dame ain't satisfied if she plunks down
the dough, buys a newt, and lets it go at that. There's something missing
between bedroom and baby."
"That
so?"
John's
sarcastic tone was apparently lost on the man. "It's so," he
announced. "Physiological changethat's what's missing. For a newt to
really take the place of a baby, the mother's got to go through the whole build-up.
Doc gives her injections, she craves pickles and mangoes. More injections for
morning sickness. More injections, she gets chubby. And finally the shots to
bring milk, labor, and false delivery. So then she gets the newt, and
everything's right with the world."
"Mmmph."
"Ask me
something else," the attendant offered.
John looked
around helplessly, spied an elderly woman near the entrance. She had just
entered, and stood looking around as if lost or confused. He did not recognize
her, but he got up quickly.
"Excuse
me, chum. Probably one of my guests."
"Sure,
sure. I gotta get on the job anyhow."
The woman
turned to stare at him as he crossed the floor to meet her. Perhaps one of
Mary's friends, he thought. There were at least a dozen people coming that he
hadn't met. But his welcoming smile faded slightly as he approached her. She
wore a shabby dress, her hair was disheveled in a gray tangle, her matchstick
legs were without make-up, and there were fierce red lines around her eyelids.
She stared at him with wide wild eyesdull orbs of dirty marble with tiny blue
patches for pupils. And her mouth was a thin slash between gaunt leathery
cheeks.
"Areare
you here for the party?" he asked doubtfully.
She seemed
not to hear him, but continued to stare at or through him. Her mouth made words
out of a quivering hiss of a voice. "I'm looking for him."
"Who?"
"The
doctor."
He decided
from her voice that she had laryngitis. "Doctor Georges? He'll be here
soon, but he'll be busy tonight. Couldn't you consult another physician?"
The woman
fumbled in her bag and brought out a small parcel to display. "I want to
give him this," she hissed.
"I
could"
"I want
to give it to him myself," she interrupted.
Two guests
that he recognized came through the entrance. He glanced toward them nervously,
returned their grins, glanced indecisively back at the haggard woman.
"I'll
wait," she croaked, turned her back, and marched to the nearest chair
where she perched like a sick crow, eyes glued to the door.
John Hanley
Slade felt suddenly chilly. He shrugged it off and went to greet the
Willinghams, who were the first arrivals.
Anne Norris,
with her husband in tow, zig-zagged her way through a throng of chattering guests
toward the hostess, who now occupied a wheel-chair near the entrance to the
delivery room. They were a few minutes late, but the party had not yet actually
begun.
"Why
don't you go join the father's sweating circle?" Anne called
over her shoulder. "The men are all over with John."
Norris
glanced at the group that had gathered under a cloud of cigar smoke over by the
portable bar. John Slade stood at the focus of it and looked persecuted.
"Job's
counselors," Terry grunted.
A hand
reached out from a nearby conversation-group and caught his arm.
"Norris," coughed a gruff voice.
He glanced
around. "OhChief Franklin. Hello!"
Anne released
his hand and said "See you later," then wound her way out
of sight in the milling herd.
Franklin
separated himself from the small congregation and glanced down coolly at his
district inspector. He was a tall man, with shoulders hunched up close to his
head, long spindly legs, a face that was exceedingly wide across the cheekbones
but narrow at the jaw. Black eyes gazed from under heavy brows, and his unruly
black hair was badly cut. His family tree had a few Cherokee Indians among its
branches, Norris had heard, and they were frequently on the warpath.
Franklin
gulped his drink casually and handed the glass to a passing attendant.
"Thought you'd be working tonight, Norris," he said.
"I got
trapped into coming, Chief," he replied amiably. "How're you doing
with the Delmont pickup?"
"Nearly
finished with record-tracing. I took a break today and picked up nine of
them."
"Mmmph. I
wondered why you plastipainted that right eye." Franklin
rolled back his head and laughed loudly toward the ceiling. "Newt's mamma
tossed the crockery at you, did she?"
"Her
husband," he corrected a little stiffly.
"Wellget
them in a hurry, Norris. If the newt's owner knows it's a deviant, he might
hear we're after something and hide it somewhere. I want them rounded up
quickly."
"Expect
to find the one?"
Franklin
nodded grimly. "It's somewhere in this part of the countryor was. It
narrows down to about six or eight districts. Yours has a good chance of being
it. If I had my way, we'd destroy every Bermuda K-99 that came out
during that period. That way, we'd be surein case Delmont faked
more than one."
"Be
pretty tough on dames like Mary," Norris reminded him, glancing toward
Mrs. Slade.
"Yeah,
yeah, five hundred Rachels blubbering for their children, and all on my neck.
I'd almost rather let the deviant get away than have to put up with the
screaming mommies."
"The burdens
of office, Chief. Bear up under the brickbats. Herod did."
Franklin
glowered at him suspiciously, noticed Norris's bland expression, muttered
"eh heh heh," and glanced around the room.
"Who's
presiding over the whelping tonight?" Norris asked.
"Local
doctor. Georges. You ought to know him."
Terry's
eyebrows went up. He nodded.
"He's
already here. Saw him come in the doctor's entrance a few minutes ago. He's
probably getting ready. Well, Norris . . . if you'll excuse me ..."
Norris
wandered toward the bar. He had been to several pseudoparties before. There
was nothing to it, really. After the guests had gathered, the medics rolled the
mother into delivery, and everyone paced restlessly and talked in hushed voices
while she reenacted the age-old drama of Birthin a way that was only mildly
uncomfortable and did nothing to aggravate the population problem. Then, when
they rolled her out againfatigued and emotionally spentthe nurse brought out
a newly purchased neutroid, only a few days out of the incubator, and presented
it to the mother. When the oohs and awws were finished, the mother went home
with her child to rest, and the father whooped it up with the guests. Norris
hoped to get away early. He had things to do before dawn.
"Who's
that hag by the door?" a guest grunted in his ear.
Norris
glanced incuriously at the thin-lipped woman who sat stiffly with her hands in
her lap, not gazing at the guests but looking through and beyond them. He shook
his head and moved on to shake hands with his host.
"Glad
you came, Norris!" Slade said with a grin, then leaned closer. "Your
presence could be embarrassing at a time like this, though."
"How's
that?"
"You
should have brought your net and snare-pole, Norris," said a
man at Slade's elbow. "Then when they bring the baby out, go charging
across the room yelling "That's it! That's the one I'm after!' "
The men
laughed heartily. Norris grinned weakly and started away.
"Hey,
Slade," a voice called. "They're coming after Mary." Norris
stood aside to let John hurry toward his wife. Most of the crowd stopped
milling about to watch Dr. Georges, a nurse, and an attendant coming from a
rear door to take charge of Mary.
"Stop!
Stop right there!"
The voice
came from near the front entrance. It was a choked and hoarse gasp of sound,
not loud, but somehow penetrating enough to command the room. Norris glanced
aside during the sudden lull to see the thin-lipped woman threading her way
through the crowd, and the crowd folded back to clear a way. The farther she
walked, the quieter the room, and Norris suddenly realized that somehow the
center of the room was almost clear of people so that he could see Mary and
John and the medics standing near the delivery room door. They had turned to
stare at the intruder. Georges' mouth fell open slightly. He spoke
in a low voice, but the room was suddenly silent enough so that Norris could
hear.
"Why,
Sarahwhat're you doing here?"
The woman
stopped six feet away from him. She pulled out a small parcel and reached it toward
him. "This is for you," she croaked.
When Georges
did not advance to take it, she threw it at his feet. "Open it!" she
commanded.
Norris
expected him to snort and tell the attendants to toss the nutty old dame out.
Instead, he stooped, very slowly, keeping his eyes on the woman, and picked up
the bundle.
"Unwrap
it!" she hissed when he paused.
His hands
fumbled with it, but his eyes never left her face. The package came open.
Georges glanced down. He dropped it quickly to the floor.
"An
amputated"
Chubby mouth
gaping, he stared at the gaunt woman. "My Primrose had a black cowlick in
her tail!"
The doctor
swallowed and continued to stare.
"Where
is my Primrose?"
The woman had
her hand in her purse. The doctor retreated a step.
"Where
is my baby?"
"Really,
Sarah, there was nothing to do but"
Her hand
brought a heavy automatic out of the purse. It wavered and moved uncertainly,
too weighty for her scrawny wrist and arm. The room was suddenly a scramble and
a babble.
"You
killed my baby!"
"The
first shot ricocheted from the ceiling and shattered a window," said the
television announcer. "The second shot went into the wall. The third shot
struck Doctor Georges in the back of the head as he ran toward the delivery
room door. He died instantly. Mrs. Glubbes fled from the room before any of
the guests could stop her, and a dragnet is now combing..."
Norris
shuddered and looked away from the television screen that revealed the present
state of the reception room where they had been not more than two hours ago. He
turned off the set, nervously lit a cigaret, and glanced at Anne who sat
staring at nothing on the other end of the sofa.
"How
do you feel?" he murmured.
She looked at
him dumbly, shook her head. Norris got up, paced to the magazine rack, thumbed
idly through its contents, glanced back at her nervously, walked to the window,
stood smoking and staring toward the street for a time, moved to the piano,
glanced back at her nervously again, tried to play a few bars of Beethoven's
Fifth with one finger, hit a foul note after the opening ta-ta-ta-taaaahh,
grunted a curse, banged a crashing discord with his fist, and leaned forward
with a sigh to press his forehead against the music rack and close his eyes.
"Don't
blame yourself, Terry," she said softly.
"If
I hadn't let him have that impounded newt, it wouldn't have
happened."
She thought
that over briefly. "And if my maternal grandfather hadn't lied to his wife
back in 2013, I would never have been born."
"Why
not?"
"Because
if he'd told her the truth, she'd have up and left him, and Mother wouldn't
have been born."
"Oh.
Nevertheless"
"Nevertheless
nothing!" She shook herself out of the blue mood. "You come here,
Terry Norris!"
He came, and
there was comfort in holding her. She was prepared to blame the world all
right, but he was in the world, and a part of it, and so was she. And there was
no sharing of guilt, but only the whole weight of it on the shoulders of each
of them. He thought of the Delmont case, and the way Franklin talked casually
of slaughtering five hundred K-99s just to be sure, and how he continued to
hate Franklin's guts for no apparent reason. Franklin was not a pleasant
fellow, to be sure, but he had done nothing to Norris personally. He wondered
if he hated what Franklin represented, but directed the hate at Franklin's
person because he, Norris, represented it too. Franklin, however, liked the
world as he found it, and was glad to help keep it that way.
If I think
something's wrong with the set-up, but keep on being a part of it, then the
wrongness is not part mine, he thought, it's all mine, because I bought
it.
"It's
hard to decide," he murmured.
"What's
that, Terry?"
"Whether
it's all wrong, dead wrongor whether it's the best that can be done under the
circumstances."
"Whatever
are you talking about?"
He shook
himself and yawned. "About going to bed," he grunted.
They went to
bed at midnight. At one o'clock, he became certain she was asleep. He lay in
darkness for a time, listening to her even breathing. Then he sat up and eased
himself out of bed. There was work to be done. He tiptoed quietly out of the
bedroom, carrying his shoes and his trousers. He dressed in the kitchen by the
glow of a cigaret ember and stole quietly out into the chilly night. A
half-moon hung low in a misty sky, and the wind was sharp out of the north. He
walked quietly toward the kennels. There were only three empty cages. He needed
twenty-seven to accommodate the doubtful K-99s that were to be picked up during
the next few days. There was work to be done.
He went into
the neutroid room and flicked a switch. A few sleepy chatters greeted the
light.
One at a time
he awoke twenty-four of the older creatures and carried them to a large
glass-walled compartment. These were the long-time residents; they knew him
well, and they came willingly, snuggling sleepily against his chest. He
whistled tunelessly while he worked, began carrying them by the tails, two in
each hand, to speed the chore.
'When he had
gotten them in the glass chamber, he sealed the door and turned on the gas.
Then he switched off the lights, locked up for the night again, and walked back
toward the house through the crisp grass. The conveyor belt from the chamber
to the crematorium would finish the job unaided.
Norris felt
suddenly ill. He sank down on the back steps and laid his head on his arms
across his knees. His eyes burned, but thought of tears made him sicker. When
the low chug of the crematorium's igniter coughed quietly from the
kennels, he staggered hurriedly away from the steps to retch.
She was
waiting for him in the bedroom. She sat on the window-seat, her small figure
silhouetted against the paleness of the moonlit yard.
She was
staring silently out at the dull red tongue of exhaust gas from the crematorium
chimney when he tiptoed down the hall and paused in the doorway. She looked
around. Dead silence between them, then:
"Out for
a walk, eh, Terry?"
A resumption
of the dead silence. He backed quietly away without speaking. He went to the
parlor and lay down on the couch.
After a time,
he heard her puttering around in the kitchen, and saw a light. A little later,
he opened his eyes to see her dark shadow over him, surrounded by an aura of
negligee. She sat down on the edge of the couch and offered him a glass.
"Drink
it. Make your stomach rest easy."
"Alcoholic?"
"Yeah."
He tasted it:
milk, egg yolk, honey, and rum.
"No
arsenic?"
She shook her
head. He drank it quickly, lay back with a grunt, took her hand. They were
silent for a time.
"II
guess every new wife thinks her husband's flawlessfor a while," she
murmured absently. "Sillyhow it's such a shock to find out the obvious:
that he's no different from the other bull humans of the tribe."
Norris
stiffened, rolled his face quickly away from her. After a moment, her hand
crept out to touch his cheek lightly. Her cool fingertips traced a soft line up
and along his temple.
"It's
all right, Terry," she whispered.
He kept his
face averted. Her fingers stroked for a moment more, as if she were feeling
something new and different in the familiar texture of his hair. Then she arose
and padded quietly back to the bedroom.
Norris lay
awake until dawn, knowing that it would never be all right Terry, nor all right
Worldnever, as long as the prohibiting, the creating, the killing, the
mockery, the falsification of birth, death, and life continued.
Dawn
inherited the night mist, gathered it into clouds, and made a gloomy gray
morning of it.
Anne was
still asleep when he left for work. He backed out the kennel-truck, meaning to
get the rest of the Bermuda K-99s as quickly as possible so that he could begin
running the normalcy tests and get the whole thing over with. The night's guilt
was still with him as he drove away, a sticky dew that refused to depart with
morning. Why should he have to kill the things? Why couldn't Franklin
arrange for a central slaughter house for destroying neutroids that had been
deserted, or whose owners could not be located, or that found themselves
unclaimed for any other reason? But Franklin would purple at the notion. It was
only a routine part of the job. Why shouldn't it be routine? Why
were neutroids manufactured anyhow? Obviously, because they were disposablean
important feature which human babies unfortunately lacked. When the market
became glutted with humans, the merchandise could not be dumped in the sea.
Anthropos'
mutant pets fulfilled a basic biological need of Manof all life, for that
matterthe need to have young, or a reasonable facsimile, and care for them.
Neutroids kept humanity satisfied with the restricted birth rate, and if it
were not satisfied, it would breed itself into famine, epidemic, and possibly
extinction. With the population held constant at five billions, the Federation
could insure a decent living-standard for everyone. And as long as birth must
be restricted, why not restrict it logically and limit it to genetic
desirables?
Why not?
Norris felt no answer, but he was acutely aware of the "genetic C" on
his social security card.
The world was
a better place, wasn't it? Great strides since the last century. Science had
made life easier to live and harder to lose. The populace thoughtlessly
responded by pouring forth a flood of babies and doddering old codgers to
clutter the earth and make things tougher again by eating and not producing;
but again science increased the individual's chances to survive and augmented
his motives for doing soand again the populace responded with fecundity and
long white beards, making more trouble for science again. So it had continued
until it became obvious that progress wasn't headed toward "the Good
Life" but toward more lives to continue the same old meager life as
always. What could be done? Impede science? Unthinkable! Chuck the old codgers
into the sea? Advance the retirement age to ninety and work them to death? The
old codgers still had the suffrage, and plenty of time to go to the polls.
The unborn,
however, were not permitted to vote.
Man's
technology had created little for the individual. Man used his technology to
lengthen his life and sweeten it, but something had to be subtracted somewhere.
The lives of the unborn were added unto the years of the aged. A son of Terry
Norris might easily live till 100, but he would have damn little chance of
being born to do it.
Neutroids filled
the cradles. Neutroids never ate much, nor grew up to eat more or be on the
unemployment roles. Neutroids could be bashed with a shovel and buried in the
back yard when hard times came. Neutroids could satisfy a woman's
longing for something small and lovable, but they never got in the economic
way.
It was no
good thinking about it, he decided. It was a Way Of Doing Things, and most
people accepted it, and if it sometimes yielded heartache and horrors such as
had occurred at Slade's pseudoparty, it was still an Accepted Way,
and he couldn't change it, even if he knew what to do about it. He
was already adjusted to the world-as-it-was, a world that loved the artificial
mutants as children, looked the other way when crematorium flames licked in the
night. He had been brought up in such a world, and it was only when emotion
conflicted with the grim necessity of his job that he thought to question the
world. And Anne? Eventually, he supposed, she would have her pseudo-party,
cuddle a neutroid, forget about romantic notions like having a kid of her own.
At noon he
brought home another dozen K-99s and installed them in the cages. Two reluctant
mothers had put up a howl, but he departed without protest and left seizure of
the animals to the local authorities. Yates had already delivered the three
from yesterday.
"What,
no more scratches, bruises, broken bones?" Anne asked at lunch.
He smiled
mechanically. "If Mamma puts up a squawk, I go. Quietly."
"Learned
your lesson yesterday?"
"Mmm!
One dame pulled a fast one on me though. I think. Told her what I wanted. She
started moaning, but she let me in. I got her newt, started out with it. She
wanted a receipt. So, I took the newt's serial number off the check list, made
out the receipt. She took one look and squealed `That's not Chichi's
number!' and grabbed for her tail-wagger. I looked at its foot-tattoo.
Sure
enoughwrong number. Had to leave it. A K-99 all right, but not even from
Bermuda Plant."
"I
thought they were all registered."
"They
are, babe. Wires get crossed sometimes. I told her she had the wrong newt, and
she started boiling. Got the sales receipt and showed it to me. Number checked
with the newt's. Something's fouled up somewhere."
"Where'd
she get it?"
"O'Reilley's
pet shopover in Sherman II. Right place, wrong serial number."
"Anything
to worry about, Terry?"
"Well,
I've got to track down that doubtful Bermuda model."
"Oh."
"Andwell--"
He frowned out the window at the kennels. "Ever think what'd
happen if somebody started a black market in neutroids?"
They finished
the meal in silence. Apparently there was going to be no further mention of
last-night's mass-disposal, nor any rehash of the nightmare at Slade's party.
He was thankful.
The
afternoon's work yielded seven more Bermuda neutroids for the pound. Except for
the missing newt that was involved in the confusion of serial numbers, the rest
of them would have to be collected by Yates or his deputies, armed with
warrants. The groans and the tears of the owners left him in a gloomy mood, but
the pickup phase of the operation was nearly finished. The normalcy tests,
however, would consume the rest of the week and leave little time for sleeping
and eating. If Delmont's falsification proved extensive, it might be necessary
to deliver several of the animals to central lab for dissection and complete
analysis, thus bringing the murderous wrath of the owners upon his head. He
had a hunch about why bio-inspectors were frequently shifted from one territory
to another.
On the way
home, he stopped in Sherman II to check with the dealer about the confusion of
serial numbers. Sherman II was the largest of the Sherman communities, covering
fifty blocks of commercial buildings. He parked in the outskirts and took a side-walk
escalator toward O'Reilley's address. He had spoken to O'Reilley on the phone,
but had not yet visited the dealer's shop.
It lay on a
dingy side street that was reminiscent of centuries past, a street of small
bars and bowling alleys and cigar stores. There was even a shop with three gold
balls above the entrance, but the place was now an antique store. A light mist
was falling when he stepped off the escalator and stood in front of the pet
shop. A sign hung out over the sidewalk, announcing:
J. "DOGGY"
O'REILLEY
PETS FOR SALE
DUMB BLONDES AND GOLDFISH
MUTANTS FOR THE CHILDLESS
BUY A BUNDLE OF JOY
He frowned at
the sign for a moment, then wandered through the entrance into a warm and
gloomy shop, wrinkling his nose at the strong musk of animal odors. O'Reilley's
was no shining example of cleanliness.
Somewhere a
puppy was yapping, and a parrot croaked the lyrics of A Chimp To Call My Owntheme
song of a soap opera about a lady evolvotron operator, Norris recalled.
He paused
briefly by a tank of silk-draped goldfish. The shop had a customer. An elderly
lady haggled with the wizened manager over the price of a half-grown
second-hand dog-F. She shook her last dog's death certificate under his nose
and demanded a guarantee of the dog's alleged F-5 intelligence. The old man
offered to swear on a Bible that the dog was more knowledgeable than some
humans, but he demurred when asked to swear by his ledger.
The dog was
lamenting, "Don' sell me, Dadda, don' sell me," and punctuating the
pleas with mournful train-whistle howls.
Norris smiled
quietly. The non-human pets were brighter than the neutroids. A K-108 could
speak a dozen words, but a K-99 never got farther than "mamma,"
"pappa," and "cookie." Anthropos
feared making quasi-humans too intelligent, lest sentimentalists proclaim them
really human.
He wandered
on toward the rear of the building, pausing briefly by the cash register to
inspect O'Reilley's license which hung in a dusty frame on the wall behind the
counter: "James Fallon O'Reilley . . . authorized
dealer in mutant animals ... all non-predatory mammals including chimpanzee-K
series . . . license expires 15W 3D 2063Y . . ."
Expiration
date approaching, he noticed, but otherwise okay. He headed for a bank of
neutroid cages along the opposite wall, but O'Reilley minced across the floor
to meet him. The elderly lady was leaving. O'Reilley's face wore a v-shaped
smirk on a loose-skinned face, and his bald head bobbled professionally.
"And a
good afternoon to ye, sir. What'll it be this foine drizzlin' afternoon? A
dwarf kangaroo perhaps, or a" He paused to adjust his spectacles as
Norris flashed a badge and presented his card. O'Reilley's smile
waned. "Inspector Norris it is," he muttered at the card,
then looked up. "What'd they do with the last 'un, flay him alive?"
"My
predecessor was transferred to the Montreal area."
"And I
thought that I spoke to him only yesterday!"
"On the
phone? That was me, O'Reilley. About the rundown on the K-99
sales."
"I gave
it to you properly, did I not?" the oldster demanded.
"You
gave it to me. Maybe properly."
O'Reilley
seemed to puff up slightly and glower. "Meaning?"
"There's
a mix-up in serial numbers on one of them. May not be your mistake."
"No
mistakes, no mistakes."
"Okay,
we'll see." Norris glanced at his list. "Let's check this number
againK-99-LJZ-35i."
"It's
nearly closing time," the oldster protested. "Come back some other
day, Norris."
"Sorry,
this one's rush. It'll only take a minute. Where's your book?"
The oldster
began to quiver angrily. "Are you suggestin', sir, that I
falsely"
"No,"
he growled, "I'm suggesting that there was a mistake. Maybe my mistake,
maybe yours, maybe Anthropos, maybe the owners. I've got to find out, that's
all. Let's have the book."
"What
kind of a mistake? I gave you the owner's name!"
"She
has a different newt."
"Can I
help it if she traded with somebody?"
"She
didn't. She bought it here. I saw the receipt." Norris was
beginning to become impatient, tried to suppress it.
"Then'she
traded with one of my other customers!" O'Reilley insisted.
Norris
snorted irritably. "You got two customers named Adelia Schultz?Come on,
pop, let's look at the duplicate receipt. Now."
"Doubt
if it's still around," O'Reilley grumbled, refusing to budge.
Norris
suddenly erupted. He turned away angrily and began pacing briskly around the
shop, looking under cages, inspecting fixtures, probing into feeding troughs
with a pencil, looking into feed bags, examining a dog-F's wiry coat.
"Here
there! What do you think you're doing?" the owner demanded.
Norris began
barking off check-points in a loud voice. "Dirty cat-cage . . . inadequate
ventilation . . . food trough not clean . . . no water in the newt cages
..."
"I water
them twice a day!" O'Reilley raged.
". . .
mouldy rabbit-meal . . . no signs of disinfectant ... What kind of a
disease-trap are you running here?"
He came back
to face O'Reilley who stood trembling with rage and cursing him with his eyes.
"Not to
mention that sign outside," Norris added casually. "`Dumb blondes'
they outlawed that one the year Kleyton got sent up for using hormones on
K-108s, trying to grow himself a harem. Well?"
"Doubt
if it's still around," O'Reilley repeated.
"Look,
pop!" Norris snapped. "You're required to keep sales receipts until
they're microfilmed. There hasn't been a micro-filming for over a year."
"Get out
of my shop!"
"If I
go, you won't have a shop after tomorrow."
"Are you
threatening me?"
"Yeah."
For a moment,
Norris thought the old man would attack him. But O'Reilley spat a
sudden curse, scurried toward the counter, grabbed a fat book from beneath the
cash register, then hurried away toward the stairs at the rear of the shop.
"Hey,
pop! Where you going?"
"Get me
glasses!"
"You're
wearing your glasses!" Norris started after him. "New ones. Can't see
through them." O'Reilley bounded up-stairs.
"Leave
the book here and I'll check it!"
Norris
stopped with his foot on the bottom step. O'Reilley slammed the door at the
head of the stairs, locked it behind him. Grumbling suspiciously, the inspector
went back to the counter to wait.
Five minutes
passed. The door opened. O'Reilley came downstairs, looking less
angry but decidedly nervous. He slammed the book on the counter, riffled its
pages, found a place, muttered "Here it is, see for yourself," and
held it at a difficult angle.
"Give it
here."
O'Reilley
reluctantly released it, began babbling about bureaucracy and tin-horn
inspectors who acted like dictators and inspection codes that prescribed and
circumscribed and prohibited. Norris ignored him and stared at the duplicate
receipt.
"Adelia
Schultz . . . received Chimpanzee-K-99-LJZ-35i on..."
It was the
number on the list from Anthropos. It was the number of the animal he wanted
for normalcy tests. But it was not the number of Mrs. Schultz's neutroid, nor
was it the number written on Mrs. Schultz's copy of this very same invoice.
O'Reilley was
still babbling at him. Norris held the book up to his eye, took aim at the
bright doorway across the surface of the page. O'Reilley stopped babbling.
"Rub
marks," the inspector grunted. "Scrape marks on the paper."
O'Reilley's
breathing sounded asthmatic. Norris lowered the book.
"Nice
erasure jobfor a carbon copy. Do it while you were upstairs?"
O'Reilley
said nothing. Norris took a scrap of paper, folded his handkerchief over the
point of his pocketknife blade, used the point to clean out the eraser dust
from between the receipts, emptied the dust on the paper, folded it and put it
in his pocket.
"Evidence."
O'Reilley
said nothing.
Norris tore
out the erased receipt, pocketed it, put on his hat and started for the door.
"See you
in court, O'Reilley."
"Wait!"
He turned.
"OkayI'm waiting."
"Let's
go sit down first," the deflated oldster muttered weakly.
"Sure."
They walked
up the flight of stairs and entered a dingy parlor. He glanced around, sniffed
at the smell of cabbage boiling and sweaty bedclothing. An orange-haired
neutroid lay sleeping on a dirty rug in the corner. Norris stared down at it
curiously. O'Reilley made a whining sound and slumped into a chair, his breath
coming in little whiffs that suggested inward sobbing. Norris gazed at him
expressionlessly for a moment, then went to kneel beside the newt.
"K-99-LJZ-35i,"
he read aloud, peering at the sole of the tattooed foot. The newt stirred in
its sleep at the sound of a strange voice. When Norris looked at O'Reilley
again, the old man was staring at his feet, his forehead supported by a
leathery old hand that shielded his eyes.
"Lots of
good explanations, O'Reilley?"
"Ye've
seen what ye've seen; now do what ye must. I'll say nothing to ye."
"Look,
O'Reilley, the newt is what I'm after. So I found it. I don't know what else
I've found, but juggling serial numbers is a serious offense. If you've got a
story, you better tell it. Otherwise, you'll be telling it behind bars. I'm
willing to listen here and now. You'd better grab the chance."
O'Reilley
sighed, looked at the sleeping newt in the corner. "What'll ye do with
her?"
"The
newt? Take her in."
O'Reilley sat
in gloomy silence while he thought things over. "We were
class-B, me and the missus," he mumbled suddenly, "allowed
a child of our own if we could have 'un. Fancy that, eh? Ugly old coot like
meclass-B."
"So?"
"The
government said we could have a child, but Nature said we couldn't."
"Tough."
"But
since we were class B, we weren't entitled to own a newt. See?"
"Yeah.
Where's your wife?"
"With
the saints, let's hope."
Norris
wondered what sort of sob-story this was getting to be. The oldster went on
quietly, all the while staring at the sleeping figure in the corner.
"Couldn't
have a kid, couldn't own a newt eitherso we opened the pet shop. It wasn't
like havin' yer own, though. Missus always blubbered when I sold a newt she'd
got to feeling like a mother to. Never swiped one, thoughnot till Peony came
along. Last year this Bermuda shipment come in, and I sold most of 'em pretty
quick, but Peony here was puny. People ęfraid she'd not last long. Couldn't
sell her. Kept her around so long that we both loved her. Missus died last
year. `Don't let anybody take Peony,' she kept saying afore she passed on. I
promised I wouldn't. So I switched 'em around and moved her up here."
"That
all?"
O'Reilley
hesitated, then nodded.
"Ever
done this before?"
O'Reilley
shook his head.
There was a
long silence while Norris stared at the child-thing. "Your license could
be revoked," he said absently.
"I know."
He ground his
fist thoughtfully in his palm, thought it over some more. If O'Reilley told the
truth, he couldn't live with himself if he reported the old man . .
. unless it wasn't the whole truth.
"I want to
take your books home with me tonight."
"Help
yourself."
"I'm
going to make a complete check, investigate you from stem to stern."
He watched
O'Reilley closely. The oldster was unaffected. He seemed
concernedgrief-strickenonly by the thought of losing the neutroid.
"If
plucking a newt out of stock to keep you company was the only thing you did,
O'Reilley, I won't report you."
O'Reilley
was not consoled. He continued to gaze hungrily at the little being on the rug.
"And if
the newt turns out not to be a deviant," he added gently, "I'll send
it back. We'll have to attach a correction to that invoice, of course, and you'll
just have to take your chances about somebody wanting to buy it, but . . .
" He paused. O'Reilley was staring at him strangely.
"And if she
is a deviant, Mr. Norris?"
He started to
reply, hesitated.
"Is she,
O'Reilley?"
The oldster
said nothing. His face tightened slowly. His shoulders shook slightly, and his
squinted eyes were brimming. He choked.
"I
see."
O'Reilley
shook himself, produced a red bandana, dabbed at his eyes, blew his nose
loudly, regathered his composure. "How do you know she's deviant?"
O'Reilley
gave him a bitter glance, chuckled hoarsely, shuffled across the room and sat
on the floor beside the sleeping newt. He patted a small bare shoulder.
"Peony?
. . . Peony-girl . . . Wake up, me child, wake up."
Its fluffy
tail twitched for a moment. It sat up, rubbed its eyes, and yawned. There was a
lazy casualness about its movements that caused Norris to lean closer to stare.
Neutroids usually moved in bounces and jerks and scrambles. This one stretched,
arched its back, and smiledlike a two year old with soft brown eyes. It
glanced at Norris. The eyes went wider for a moment, then it studiously ignored
him.
"Shall I
play bouncey, Daddy?" it piped.
Norris sucked
in a long slow breath and sat frozen.
"No need
to, Peony." O'Reilley glanced at the inspector.
"Bouncey's a game we play for visitors," he explained. "Making
believe we're a neutroid."
The inspector
could find nothing to say.
Peony licked
her lips. "Wanna glass of water, Daddy."
O'Reilley
nodded and hobbled away to the kitchen, leaving the man and the neutroid to
stare at each other in silence. She was quite a deviant. Even a fully age-set K-108
could not have spoken the two sentences that he had heard, and Peony was still
a long way from age-set, and a K-99 at that.
O'Reilley
came back with the water. She drank it greedily, holding the glass herself
while she peered up at the old man. "Daddy's eyes all wet," she
observed.
O'Reilley
began trembling again. "Never mind, child. You go get your coat."
"Whyyyy?"
"You're
going for a ride with Mr. Norris."
She whirled
to stare hostilely at the stunned visitor. "I don't want to!"
The old man
choked out a sob and flung himself down to seize her in his arms and hug her
against his chest. He tearfully uttered a spasmodic babble of reassurances that
would have frightened even a human child.
The deviant
neutroid began to cry. Standard neutroids never cried; they whimpered and
yeeped. Norris felt weak inside. Slowly, the old man lifted his head to peer at
the inspector, blinking away tears. He began loosening Peony from the embrace.
Suddenly he put her down and stood up.
"Take
her quickly," he hissed, and strode away to the kitchen. He slammed the
door behind him. The latch clicked.
Peony
scampered to the door and began beating on it with tiny fists. "Daddy . .
. Daddy!!! Open 'a door!" she wailed.
Norris licked
his lips and swallowed a dry place. Still he did not budge from the sofa, his
gaze fastened on the child-thing. Disjointed phrases tumbled through his mind .
. . what Man hath wrought . . . out of the slime of an ape . . . fat legs and
baby fists and a brain to know . . . and the State spoke to Job out of a
whirlwind, saying .. .
"Take
her!" came a roaring bellow from the kitchen. "Take her before
I lose me wits and kill ye!"
Norris got
unsteadily to his feet and advanced toward the frightened child-thing. He
carried her, kicking and squealing, out into the early evening. By the time he
turned into his own driveway, she had subsided a little, but she was still
crying.
He saw Anne
coming down from the porch to meet him. She was staring at the neutroid who sat
on the front seat beside him, while seven of its siblings chattered from their
cages in the rear of the truck. She said nothing, only stared through the
window at the small tear-stained face.
"Home .
. . I want to go home!" it whined.
Norris lifted
the newt and handed it to his wife. "Take it inside. Keep your mouth shut
about it. I'll be in as soon as I chuck the others in their cages."
She seemed
not to notice his curtness as she cradled the being in her arms and walked
away. The truck lurched on to the kennels.
He thought
the whole thing over while he worked. When he was finished, he went back in the
house and stopped in the hall to call Chief Franklin. It was the only thing to
do: get it over with as quickly as possible. The operator said, "His
office fails to answer. No taped readback. Shall I give you the locator?"
Anne came
into the hall and stood glaring at him, her arms clenched across her bosom, one
foot tapping the floor angrily. Peony stood behind her, no longer crying, and
peering at him curiously around Anne's skirt.
"Are you
doing what I think you're doing, Terry?"
He gulped.
"Cancel the call," he told the operator. "It'll wait till
tomorrow." He dropped the phone hard and sank down in the
straight chair. It was the only thing to do: delay it as long as he could.
"We'd
better have a little talk," she said.
"Maybe
we'd better," he admitted.
They went
into the living room. Peony's world had evidently been restricted to the pet
shop, and she seemed awed by the clean, neat house, no longer frightened, and
curious enough about her surroundings to forget to cry for O'Reilley. She sat
in the center of the rug, occasionally twitching her tail as she blinked around
at the furniture and the two humans who sat in it.
"The
deviant?"
"A
deviant."
"Just
what are you going to do?"
He squirmed.
"You know what I'm supposed to do."
"What
you were going to do in the hall?"
"Franklin's
bound to find out anyway."
"How?"
"Do you
imagine that Franklin would trust anybody?"
"So?"
"So,
he's probably already got a list of all serial numbers from the District
Anthropos Wholesalers. As a double check on us. And we'd better deliver."
"I see.
That leaves you in a pinch, doesn't it?"
"Not if
I do what I'm supposed to."
"By
whose law?"
He tugged
nervously at his collar, stared at the child-thing who was gazing at him
fixedly. "Heh heh," he said weakly, waggled a finger at it, held out
his hands invitingly. The child-thing inched away nervously.
"Don't
evade, Terry."
"I wanna
go home . . . I want Dadda."
"I gotta
think. Gotta have time to think."
"Listen,
Terry, you know what calling Franklin would be? It would be M, U, R, D, E,
R."
"She's
just a newt."
"She?"
"Probably.
Have to examine her to make sure."
"Great.
Intelligent, capable of reproduction. Just great."
"Well,
what they do with her after I'm finished with the normalcy tests is none of my
affair."
"It's
not? Look at me, Terry . . . No, not with that patiently suffering. . .
. Terry!"
He stopped doing
it and sat with his head in his hands, staring at the patterns in the rug,
working his toes anxiously. "Thinkgotta think."
"While
you're thinking, I'll feed the child," she said crisply. "Come on,
Peony."
"How'd
you know her name?"
"She told
me, naturally."
"Oh."
He sat trying grimly to concentrate, but the house was infused with Anne-ness,
and it influenced him. After a while, he got up and went out to the kennels
where he could think objectively. But that was wrong too. The kennels were
full of Franklin and the system he represented. Finally he went out into the
back yard and lay on the cool grass to stare up at the twilight sky. The
problem shaped up quite formidably. Either he turned her over to Franklin to be
studied and ultimately destroyed, or he didn't. If he didn't, he was guilty of
Delmont's crime. Either he lost Anne and maybe something of himself, or his job
and maybe his freedom.
A big silence
filled the house during dinner. Only Peony spoke, demanding at irregular
intervals to be taken home. Each time the child-thing spoke, Anne looked at
him, and each time she looked at him, her eyes said "See?"until
finally he slammed down his fork and marched out to the porch to sulk in the
gloom. He heard their voices faintly from the kitchen.
"You've
got a good appetite, Peony."
"I like
Dadda's cooking better."
"Well,
maybe mine'll do for awhile."
"I wanna
go home."
"I
knowbut I think your dadda wants you to stay with us for awhile."
"I don't
want to."
"Why
don't you like it here?"
"I want
Dadda."
"Well
maybe we can call him on the phone, eh?"
"Phone?"
"After
you get some sleep."
The
child-thing whimpered, began to cry. He heard Anne walking with it, murmuring
softly. When he had heard as much as he could take, he trotted down the steps
and went for a long walk in the night, stalking slowly along cracked sidewalks
beneath overhanging trees, past houses and scattered lights of the suburbs.
Suburbs hadn't changed much in a century, only grown more extensive. Some
things underwent drastic revision with the passing years, other thingslike
walking sticks and garden hoes and carving knives and telephones and
bicyclesstayed pretty much as they were. Why change something that worked well
as it was? Why bother the established system?
He eyed the
lighted windows through the hedges as he wandered past. Fluorescent lights,
not much different than those of a century ago. But once they had been
campfires, the fires of shivering hunters in the forest, when man was young and
the world was sparsely planted with his seed. Now the world was choked with his
riotous growth, glittering with his lights and his flashing signs, full of the
sound of his engines and the roar of his rockets. He had inherited it and
filled itfilled it too full, perhaps.
There was no
escaping from the past. The last century had glutted the Earth with its
children and grandchildren, had strained the Earth's capacity to feed, and the
limit had been reached. It had to be guarded. There was no escape into space,
either. Man's rockets had touched two planets, but they were sorry worlds, and
even if he made them better, Earth could beget childrenif allowedfaster than
ships could haul them away. The only choice: increase the death rate, or
decrease the birth rateor, as a dismal third possibilitydo nothing, and let
Nature wield the scythe as she had once done in India and China. But
letting-Nature-do-it was not in the nature of Man, for he could always do it
better. If his choice robbed his wife of a biological need, then he would build
her a disposable baby to pacify her. He would give it a tail and only half a
mind, so that she would not confuse it with her own occasional children.
Peony,
however, was a grim mistake. The mistake had to be quickly corrected before
anyone noticed.
What was he,
Norris, going to do about it, if anything? Defy the world? Outwit the world?
The world was made in the shape of Franklin, and it snickered at him out of the
shadows. He turned and walked back home.
Anne was
rocking on the porch with Peony in her arms when he came up the sidewalk. The
small creature dozed fitfully, muttered in its sleep.
"How old
is she, Terry?" Anne asked.
"About
nine months, or about two years, depending on what you mean."
"Born
nine months ago?"
"Mmmh.
But two years by the development scale, human equivalent. Newts would be fully
mature at nine or ten, if they didn't stop at an age-set. Fast maturation."
"But
she's brighter than most two year olds."
"Maybe."
"You've
heard her talk."
"You
can't make degree-comparisons between two species, Anne. Not easily anyhow.
`Bright'?signifying I.Q.?by what yardstick."
"Brightsignifying
on-the-ballby my yardstick. And if you turn her over to Franklin, I'll leave
you."
"Car
coming," he grunted tonelessly. "Get in the house. It's slowing
down."
Anne slipped
out of her chair and hurried inside. Norris lingered only a moment, then
followed. The headlights paused in front of a house down the block, then inched
ahead. He watched from deep in the hall.
"Shall I
take her out to the kennels right quick?" Anne called tensely.
"Stick
where you are," he muttered, and a moment later regretted it.
The headlights stopped in front. The beam of a powerful flashlight played over
the porch, found the house-number, winked out. The driver cut the engine.
Norris strode to the living room.
"Play
bouncey!" he growled at Peony.
"Don't
want to," she grumbled back.
"There's
a man coming, and you'd better play bouncey if you ever want to see your Dadda
again!" he hissed.
Peony yeeped
and backed away from him, whimpering. "Terry! What're you
talking about? You should be ashamed!"
"Shut
up. . . . Peony, play bouncey."
Peony
chattered and leaped to the back of the sofa with monkey-like grace.
"She's
frightened! She's acting like a common newt!" "That's
bouncey," he grunted. "That's good."
The car door
slammed. Norris went to put on the porch light and watch the visitor come up
the stepsa husky, bald gentleman in a black suit and Roman collar. He blinked
and shook his head. Clergyman? The fellow must have the wrong house.
"Good
evening."
"Uhyeah."
"I'm
Father Mulreany. Norris residence?" The priest had a slight
brogue; it stirred a vague hunch in Norris' mind, but failed to clear it.
"I'm
Norris. What's up?"
"Uh,
well, one of my parishionersI think you've met him"
"Countryman
of yours?"
"Mmm."
"O'Reilley?"
"Yes."
"What'd
he do, hang himself?"
"Nothing
that bad. May I come in?"
"I doubt
it. What do you want?"
"Information."
"Personal
or official?"
The priest
paused, studied Norris's silhouette through the screen. He seemed not taken
aback by the inspector's brusqueness, perhaps accepting it as normal in an era
that had little regard for the cloth.
"O'Reilley's
in bad shape, Inspector," Mulreany said quietly. "I don't know
whether to call a doctor, a psychiatrist, or a cop." Norris stiffened.
"A cop?"
"May
I come in?"
Norris
hesitated, feeling a vague hostility, and a less vague suspicion. He opened the
screen, let the priest in, led him to the living room. Anne muttered
half-politely, excused herself, snatched Peony, and headed for the rear of the
house. The priest's eyes followed the neutroid intently.
"So
O'Reilley did something?"
"Mmm."
"What's
it to you?"
Mulreany
frowned. "In addition to things you wouldn't understandhe was my
sister's husband."
Norris waved
him into a chair. "Okay, so?"
"He
called me tonight. He was loaded. Just a senseless babble, but I knew something
was wrong. So I went over to the shop." Mulreany stopped to light a cigaret
and frown at the floor. He looked up suddenly. "You see him today?"
Norris could
think of no reason not to admit it. He nodded irritably.
Mulreany
leaned forward curiously. "Was he sober?"
"Yeah."
"Sane?"
"How
should I know?"
"Did he
impress you as the sort of man who would suddenly decide to take a joint of
pipe and a meat cleaver and mass-slaughter about sixty helpless animals?"
Norris felt
slightly dazed. He sank back, shaking his head and blinking. There was a long
silence. Mulreany was watching him carefully.
"I can't
help you," Norris muttered. "I've got nothing to say."
"Look, Inspector, forget this, will you?" He touched his collar.
Norris shook his head, managed a sour smile. "I can't help you."
"All
right," Mulreany sighed, starting to his feet. "I'm just trying to
find out if what he says . . ."
"Men
talking about Dadda?" came a piping voice from the kitchen.
Mulreany shot
a quick glance toward it. ". . . is true," he finished softly.
There was a
sudden hush. He could hear Anne whispering in the kitchen, saw her steal a
glance through the door. "So it is true," Mulreany
murmured.
Face frozen,
Norris came to his feet. "Anne," he called in a bitter
voice. "Bouncey's off."
She came in
carrying Peony and looking murderous. "Why did you ask him in?" she
demanded in a hiss.
Mulreany
stared at the small creature. Anne stared at the priest.
"It's
poison to you, isn't it!" she snapped, then held Peony up toward him.
"Here! Look at your enemy. Offends your humanocentrism, doesn't
she?"
"Not at
all," he said rather wistfully.
"You
condemn them."
He shook his
head. "Not them. Only what they're used for by
society." He looked at Norris, a bit puzzled. "I'd better
leave."
"Maybe
not. Better spill it. What do you want?"
"I told
you. O'Reilley went berserk, made a butcher shop out of his place. When I got
there, he was babbling about a talking neutroid'his baby'said you took it to
the pound to destroy it. Threatened to kill you. I got a friend to stay with
him, came over to see if I could find out what it's all about."
"The
newt's a deviant. You've heard of the Delmont case?"
"Rumors."
"She's
it."
"I
see." Mulreany looked glum, grim, gloomy. "Nothing more I need to
know I guess. Well"
Norris
grabbed his arm as he turned. "Sit a spell," he grunted ominously.
The priest
looked puzzled, let himself be guided back to the chair. Norris stood looking
down at him.
"What's
the matter with Dadda?" Peony chirped. "I wanna go see Dadda."
"Well?"
Norris growled. "What about her?"
"I don't
understand."
"You
people are down on Anthropos, aren't you?"
Mulreany kept
patience with an effort. "To make nitroglycerin for curing heart trouble
is good, to make it for blowing open safes is bad. The stuff itself is morally
neutral. The same goes for mutant animals. As pets, okay; as replacements for
humans, no."
"Yeah,
but you'd just as soon see them dead, eh?"
Mulreany
hesitated. "I admit a personal dislike for them."
"This
one?"
"What
about her?"
"Better
dead, eh?"
"You
couldn't admit she might be human?"
"Don't
know her that well. Human? How do you meanbiologically? Obviously not.
Theologically? Why should you care?"
"I'm
interested in your particular attitude, buster."
Mulreany
gazed at him, gathering a glower. "I'm a little doubtful about my status
here," he growled. "I came for information; the roles got switched
somewhere. Okay, Norris, but I'm sick of neo-pagan innocents like you. Now sit
down, or show me the door."
Norris sat
down slowly.
The priest
watched the small neutroid for a moment before speaking. "She's alive,
performs the function of living, is evidently aware. Lifea kind of
functioning. A specific lifean in-variant kind of functioningwith
sameness-of-self about it. Invariance of functioninga principle. Self, soul,
call it what you like. Whatever's alive has it." He paused to watch Norris
doubtfully.
Norris nodded
curtly. "Go on."
"Doesn't
have to be anything immortal about it. Not unless she were known to be human.
Or intelligent."
"You
heard her," Anne snapped.
"I've
heard metal boxes speak with great wisdom," Mulreany said sourly.
"And if I were a Hottentot, a vocalizing computer would . . ."
"Skip
the analogies. Go on."
"What's
intelligence? A function of Man, immortal. What's Man? An
intelligent immortal creature, capable of choice."
"Quit
talking in circles."
"That's
the point. I can'tnot where Peony's concerned. What do you want to know? If I
think she's equal to Man? Give me all the intelligence test results, and all the
data you can getI still couldn't decide."
"Whattaya
need? Mystic writings in the sky?"
"Precisely."
"I feel
a bush being beat about," Anne said suddenly. "Is this guy going to
make things tough, or isn't he?"
Mulreany
looked puzzled again.
"To the
point, then," Norris said. "Would you applaud if she gets the gasser?"
"Hardly."
"If you
had it to decide for yourself"
"What?
Whether to destroy her or not?" Mulreany snorted irritably.
"Not if there was the least doubt in my mind about her. She's a shadow in
the brush. Maybe it's ten to one that the shadow's a bear and not a manbut on
the one chance, don't shoot, son, don't shoot."
"You
think the authorities have a right to kill her, maybe?" Anne asked.
"Who,
him?" Mulreany jerked his head toward Norris.
"Well,
say him."
"I'd
have to think about it. But I don't think so."
"Why?
The government made her. Why can't it un-make her?"
"Made
her? Did it now?"
"Delmont
did," Norris corrected.
"Did he
now?" said Mulreany.
"Why
not?" Anne snorted.
"I, the
State, am Big Fertility," Norris said sourly; then baiting
Mulreany:
"Thou shalt accept no phallus but the evolvotron." Mulreany reddened,
slapped his knee, and chortled. The Norrises exchanged puzzled glances.
"I feel
an affinity," Anne murmured suspiciously.
Norris came
slowly to his feet. "If you talk to anybody about Peony, you may be
responsible for her death."
"I don't
quite see"
"You
don't need to."
Mulreany
shrugged.
"Tell
O'Reilley the same."
Mulreany
nodded. "You've got my word."
"Your
which?"
"Sorry,
I forgot. Ancient usage. I won't mention Peony. I'll see that O'Reilley
doesn't."
Norris led
him to the door. The priest was obviously suppressing large quantities of
curiosity, but contained it well. On the steps, he paused to look back, wearing
a curious smirk.
"It just
occurred to meif the child is `human' in the broad sense, she's rather
superior to you and I."
"Why?"
"Hasn't
picked an apple yet."Norris shrugged slightly.
"And
Inspectorif Delmonte made herask yourself: Just what was it that he `made'?"
He nodded quickly. "Goodnight."
"What do
you make of him?" Anne hissed nervously.
"Backworldsman.
Can't say."
"Fool,
why'd you bring him in?"
"I'm no
good at conspiracies."
"Then
you will do it?"
"What?"
"Hide
her, or something."
He stared at
her doubtfully. "The only thing I can hope to do is falsify the test
reports and send her back to O'Reilley as a standard model."
"That's
better than nothing."
"And
then spend the rest of our days waiting for it to be uncovered,"
he added grimly.
"You've
got to, Terry."
Maybe, he
thought, maybe.
If he gave
her back to O'Reilley, there was a good chance she'd be discovered when the
auditor came to microfilm the records and check inventory. He certainly couldn't
keep her himself not with other Bio-agents wandering in and out every few
days. She could not be hidden.
He sat down
for a smoke and watched Anne tiptoe to the sofa with the sleeping Peony. It
would be easy to obey the law, turn her over to Franklin, and tell Anne that he
had done something else with her, something like ...
He shuddered
and chopped the thought off short. She glanced at him curiously.
"I don't
like the way you're looking at me," she muttered. "You
imagine things."
"Uh-uh.
Listen to me, Terry, if you let that baby . . ."
"I'm
sick of your ifs!" he barked. "If I hear another goddam
threat of your leaving if, then to hell with it, you can leave any time!"
"Terry!"
She puzzled
in his direction for a moment, then slowly wandered out, still puzzling. He
sank lower in the chair, brooding. Then it hit him. It wasn't Anne that worried
him; it was a piece of himself. It was a piece of himself that threatened to
go, and if he let Peony be packed off to Central Lab, it would go, and
thereafter he would not be able to stomach anything, even himself.
The morning
news from the Scriber was carefully folded be-side his plate when he came to
the table for breakfast. It was so deliberately folded that he bothered to
notice the advertisement in the center of the displayed portion.
"You lay
this out for my benefit?" he asked.
"Not
particularly," she said casually.
He read it
with a suspicious frown:
BIOLOGISTS WANTED
by
ANTHROPOS INCORPORATED
for
Evolvotron Operators
Incubator Tenders
Nursery Supervisors
Laboratory Personnel
in
NEW ATLANTA PLANT
Call or write:
Personnel Manager
ANTHROPOS INCORPORATED
Atlanta, Georgia
Note: Secure Labor Department
release from present job before applying.
"What's
this supposed to mean to me?" he demanded.
"Nothing
in particular. Why? Does it mean something to you?"
He brushed
the paper aside and decided to ignore the subtlety, if any. She picked it up,
glanced at it as if she had not seen it before. "New jobs, new places to
live," she murmured.
After
breakfast, he went down to police headquarters to sign a statement concerning
the motive in Doctor Georges' murder. Sarah Glubbes had been stashed away in a
psychopathic ward, according to Chief Miler, and would probably stay awhile.
"Funny
thing, Norris," the cop said. "What people won't
do over a newt! You know, it's a wonder you don't get your head blown off. I
don't covet your job."
"Good."
He signed the paper and glanced at Miler coolly. "Must take an
iron gut, huh, Norris?"
"Sure.
Just a matter of adaptation."
"Guess
so." Miler patted his paunch and yawned. "How you coming on this
Delmont business? Picked up any deviants yet?"
Norris
pitched the fountain pen on the desk, splattering ink. "What
made you ask that?" he said stiffly.
"Nothing
made me. I did it myself. Touchy today?"
"Maybe."
Miler
shrugged. "Something made you jump when I said `deviants.' "
"Nothing
made me. I"
"Ya, ya,
sure, but"
"Save it
for a suspect, Fat." He stalked out of the office, leaving Miler tapping
his pencil and gazing curiously after him. A phone rang somewhere behind him.
He hurried onangry with himself for jumpiness and for indecisiveness. He had
to make a choice, and make it soon. It was the lack of a choice that left him
jumpy, susceptible to a jolt from either side.
"Norris
. . . Hey, Norris . . ."
Miler's
voice. He whirled to see the cop trotting down the steps behind him, his pudgy
face glistening in the morning sun. "Your wife's on the phone,
Norris. Says it's urgent."
When he got
back to the office, he heard the faint, "Hello, hello!" coming
from the receiver on the desk, caught it up quickly.
"Anne?
What's wrong?"
Her voice was
low and strained beneath a cheerful overnote. "Nothing's wrong, darling.
We have a visitor. Come right home. Chief Franklin's here."
It knocked
the breath out of him. He felt himself going white. He glanced at Chief Miler,
sitting calmly nearby.
"Can you
tell me about it now?" he asked her.
"Not
very well. Please hurry home. He wants to talk to you about the K-99s."
"Have
the two of them met?"
"Yes,
they have." She paused, as if waiting for him to speak, then said,
"Oh, that! Bouncey, honeyremember bouncey?"
"Good,
I'll be right home." He hung up and started out.
"Troubles?"
the chief called after him.
"Just a
sick newt, if it's any of your business," he called back.
Franklin's
helicopter was parked in the empty lot next door when Norris drove up in front
of the house. The departmental chief heard the truck and came out on the porch
to watch his agent walk up the path. His bulky body was loosely draped in gray
tweeds, and his hawk face was a dark solemn mask. He greeted Norris with a
slow, almost sarcastic nod.
"I see
you don't read your mail. If you'd looked at it, you'd have known I
was coming. I wrote you yesterday. "
"Sorry,
Chief, I didn't have a chance to stop by the message office this morning."
Franklin
grunted. "Then you don't know why I'm here?"
"No,
sir."
"Let's
sit out on the porch," Franklin said, and perched his bony frame on the
railing. "We've got to get busy on these Bermuda-K-99s, Norris. How many
have you got?"
"Thirty-four,
I think."
"I
counted thirty-five."
"Maybe
you're right. II'm not sure."
"Found
any deviants yet?"
"UhI
haven't run any tests yet, sir."
Franklin's
voice went sharp. "Do you need a test to know when a neutroid is talking a
blue streak?"
"What do
you mean?"
"Just
this. We've found at least a dozen of Delmont's units that have mental ages
that correspond to their physical age. What's more, they're
functioning females, and they have normal pituitaries. Know what that
means?"
"They
won't take an age-set then," Norris said. "They'll grow to
adulthood."
"And
have children."
Norris frowned.
"How can they have children? There aren't any males."
"No?
Guess what we found in one of Delmont's incubators."
"Not
a"
"Yeah.
And it's probably not the first. This business about padding his quota is
baloney! Hell, man, he was going to start his own black market! He finally
admitted it, after twenty-hours' questioning without a letup. He was going to
raise them, Norris. He was stealing them right out of the incubators before an
inspector ever saw them. The K-99sthe numbered onesare just the ones he
couldn't get back. Lord knows how many males he's got hidden away
someplace!"
"What're
you going to do?"
"Do!
What do you think we'll do? Smash the whole scheme, that's
what! Find the deviants and kill them. We've got enough now for lab
work."
Norris felt
sick. He looked away. "I suppose you'll want me to handle the destruction,
then."
Franklin gave
him a suspicious glance. "Yes, but why do you ask? You have found
one, haven't you?"
"Yes,
sir," he admitted.
A moan came
from the doorway. Norris looked up to see his wife's white face
staring at him in horror, just before she turned and fled into the house.
Franklin's bony head lifted.
"I
see," he said. "We have a fixation on our deviant. Very well, Norris,
I'll take care of it myself. Where is it?"
"In the
house, sir. My wife's bedroom."
"Get
it."
Norris went
glumly in the house. The bedroom door was locked.
"Honey,"
he called softly. There was no answer. He knocked gently.
A key turned
in the lock, and his wife stood facing him. Her eyes were weeping ice.
"Stay
back!" she said. He could see Peony behind her, sitting in the center of
the floor and looking mystified.
Then he saw
his own service revolver in her trembling hand. "Look, honeyit's me."
She shook her
head. "No, it's not you. It's a man that wants to kill a little girl. Stay
back."
"You'd
shoot, wouldn't you?" he asked softly.
"Try to
come in and find out," she invited.
"Let me
have Peony."
She laughed,
her eyes bright with hate. "I wonder where Terry went. I guess he died. Or
adapted. I guess I'm a widow now. Stay back, Mister, or I'll kill you."
Norris
smiled. "Okay, I'll stay back. But the gun isn't loaded."
She tried to
slam the door; he caught it with his foot. She struck at him with the pistol,
but he dragged it out of her hand. He pushed her aside and held her against the
wall while she clawed at his arm.
"Stop
it!" he said. "Nothing will happen to Peony, I promise you!" He
glanced back at the child-thing, who had begun to cry. Anne subsided a little,
staring at him angrily.
"There's
no other way out, honey. Just trust me. She'll be all right."
Breathing
quickly, Anne stood aside and watched him. "Okay, Terry. But if you're
lyingtell me, is it murder to kill a man to protect a child?"
Norris lifted
Peony in his arms. Her wailing ceased, but her tail switched nervously.
"In
whose law book?" he asked his wife. "I was wondering the same
thing." Norris started toward the door. "By the wayfind my
instruments while I'm outside, will you?"
"The
dissecting instruments?" she gasped. "If you intend"
"Let's
call them surgical instruments, shall we? And get them sterilized."
He went on
outside, carrying the child. Franklin was waiting for him in the kennel
doorway.
"Was
that Mrs. Norris I heard screaming?"
Norris
nodded. "Let's get this over with. I don't stomach it so well." He
let his eyes rest unhappily on the top of Peony's head.
Franklin
grinned at her and took a bit of candy out of his pocket. She refused it and
snuggled closer to Norris.
"When
can I go home?" she piped. "I want Daddy."
Franklin
straightened, watching her with amusement. "You're going home in a few
minutes, little newt. Just a few minutes."
They went
into the kennels together, and Franklin headed straight for the third room. He
seemed to be enjoying the situation. Norris hating him silently, stopped at a
workbench and pulled on a pair of gloves. Then he called after Franklin.
"Chief,
since you're in there, check the outlet pressure while I turn on the main line,
will you?"
Franklin
nodded assent. He stood outside the gas-chamber, watching the dials on the
door. Norris could see his back while he twisted the main-line valve.
"Pressure's
up!" Franklin called.
"Okay.
Leave the hatch ajar so it won't lock, and crack the intake valves. Read it
again."
"Got a
mask for me?"
Norris
laughed. "If you're scared, there's one on the
shelf. But just open the hatch, take a reading, and close it. There's no
danger."
Franklin
frowned at him and cracked the intakes. Norris quietly closed the main valve
again.
"Drops
to zero!" Franklin called.
"Leave
it open, then. Smell anything?"
"No. I'm
turning it off, Norris." He twisted the intakes. Simultaneously, Norris
opened the main line.
"Pressure's
up again!"
Norris
dropped his wrench and walked back to the chamber, leaving Peony perched on the
workbench.
"Trouble
with the intakes," he said gruffly. "It's happened before. Mind
getting your hands dirty with me, Chief?"
Franklin
frowned irritably. "Let's hurry this up, Norris. I've got five
territories to visit."
"Okay,
but we'd better put on our masks." He climbed a metal ladder to the top of
the chamber, leaned over to inspect the intakes. On his way down, he shouldered
a light-bulb over the door, shattering it. Franklin cursed and stepped back,
brushing glass fragments from his head and shoulders.
"Good
thing the light was off," he snapped.
Norris handed
him the gasmask and put on his own. "The main switch is off," he
said. He opened the intakes again. This time the dials fell to normal open-line
pressure. "Well, lookit's okay," he called through the mask.
"You sure it was zero before?"
"Of
course I'm sure!" came the muffled reply.
"Leave
it on for a minute. 'We'll see. I'll go get the newt. Don't let the door close,
sir. It'll start the automatics and we can't get it open for half an
hour."
"I know,
Norris. Hurry up."
Norris left
him standing just outside the chamber, propping the door open with his foot. A
faint wind was coming through the opening. It should reach an explosive mixture
quickly with the hatch ajar.
He stepped
into the next room, waited a moment, and jerked the switch. The roar was
deafening as the exposed tungsten filament flared and detonated the escaping
anesthetic vapor. Norris went to cut off the main line. Peony was crying
plaintively. He moved to the door and glanced at the smouldering remains of
Franklin.
Feeling no
emotion whatever, Norris left the kennels, carrying the sobbing child under one
arm. His wife stared at him without understanding.
"Here,
hold Peony while I call the police," he said.
"Police?
What's happened?"
He dialed
quickly. "Chief Miler? This is Norris. Get over here quick. My gas chamber
explodedkilled Chief Agent Franklin. Man, it's awful! Hurry."
He hung up
and went back to the kennels. He selected a normal Bermuda-K-99 and coldly
killed it with a wrench. "You'll serve for a deviant," he said, and
left it lying in the middle of the floor.
Then he went
back to the house, mixed a sleeping capsule in a glass of water, and forced
Peony to drink it.
"So
she'll be out when the cops come," he explained to Anne. She stamped her
foot. "Will you tell me what's happened?"
"You
heard me on the phone. Franklin accidentally died. That's all you have to
know."
He carried
Peony out and locked her in a cage. She was too sleepy to protest, and she was
dozing when the police came.
Chief Miler
strode about the three rooms like a man looking for a burglar at midnight. He
nudged the body of the neutroid with his foot. "What's this, Norris?"
"The
deviant we were about to destroy. I finished her with a wrench."
"I
thought you said there weren't any deviants."
"As far
as the public's concerned, there aren't. I couldn't see that it was any of your
business. It still isn't."
"I see.
It may become my business, though. How'd the blast happen?"
Norris told
him the story up to the point of the detonation. "The light over the door
was loose. Kept flickering on and off. Franklin reached up to tighten it. Must
have been a little gas in the socket. Soon as he touched itwham!"
"Why was
the door open with the gas on?"
"I told
youwe were checking the intakes. If you close the door, it starts the
automatics. Then you can't get it open till the cycle's finished."
"Where
were you?"
"I'd
gone to cut off the gas again."
"Okay,
stay in the house until we're finished out here." When Norris went back in
the house, his wife's white face turned slowly toward him.
She sat
stiffly by the living room window, looking sick. Her voice was quietly
frightened.
"Terry,
I'm sorry about everything."
"Skip
it."
"What
did you do?"
He grinned
sourly. "I adapted to an era. Did you find the instruments?"
She nodded.
"What are they for?"
"To cut
off a tail and skin a tattooed foot. Go to the store and buy some brown
hair-dye and a pair of boy's trousers, age two.
Peony's going
to get a crewcut. From now on, she's Mike."
"We're
class-C, Terry! We can't pass her off as our own."
"We're
class-A, honey. I'm going to forge a heredity certificate."
Anne put her
face in her hands and rocked slowly to and fro. "Don't feel bad, baby. It
was Franklin or a little girl. And from now on, it's society or the
Norrises."
"What'll
we do?"
"Go to
Atlanta and work for Anthropos. I'll take up where Delmont left off."
"Terry!"
"Peony
will need a husband. They may find all of Delmont's males. I'll make her
one. Then we'll see if a pair of chimp-Ks can do better than their
makers."
Wearily, he
stretched out on the sofa.
"What
about that priest? Suppose he tells about Peony. Suppose he guesses about
Franklin and tells the police?"
"The
police," he said, "would then smell a motive. They'd figure it out
and I'd be finished. We'll wait and see. Let's don't
talk; I'm tired. We'll just wait for Miler to come in."
She began
rubbing his temples gently, and he smiled.
"So we
wait," she said. "Shall I read to you, Terry?"
"That
would be pleasant," he murmured, closing his eyes.
She slipped
away, but returned quickly. He heard the rustle of dry pages and smelled musty
leather. Then her voice came, speaking old words softly. And he thought of the
small child-thing lying peacefully in her cage while angry men stalked about
her. A small life with a mind; she came into the world as quietly as a thief, a
burglar in the crowded house of Man.
"I
will send my fear before thee, and I will destroy the peoples before
whom thou shalt come, sending hornets to drive out the Hevite and the Canaanite
and the Hethite before thou enterest the land. Little by little I will drive
them out before thee, till thou be increased, and dost possess the land. Then
shalt thou be to me a new people, and I to thee a God . . ."
And on the
quiet afternoon in May, while he waited for the police to finish puzzling in
the kennels, it seemed to Terrell Norris that an end to scheming and pushing
and arrogance was not too far ahead. It should be a pretty good world then.
He hoped Man
could fit into it somehow.
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