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#Post#: 195--------------------------------------------------
Books and Audio Books that may interest you &#129488;
DIR By: AGelbert
Date: April 3, 2022, 5:07 pm
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&#128266; HELL'S DIMENSION by TOM CURRY - Professor Lambert
Deliberately Ventures into a Vibrational Dimension to Join His
Fianc�e in Its Magnetic Torture-Fields.
HTML https://www.archive.org/download/astoundingstories16_1607_librivox/astoundingstories16_09_various_128kb.mp3
[left]
HTML https://archive.org/download/astoundingstories16_1607_librivox/as16_1607.jpg[/left]
[left]Astounding Stories 16, April 1931
HTML https://librivox.org/astounding-stories-16-april-1931-by-ray-cummings/[/left]
#Post#: 196--------------------------------------------------
The Power and the Glory
DIR By: AGelbert
Date: April 3, 2022, 5:26 pm
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Agelbert NOTE: Nearly a century ago the scientists in this story
had ethics. Unfortunately for us, scientists like that are now
few to none.
[center]&#128266; The Power and the Glory by Charles W. Diffin
HTML https://www.archive.org/download/astounding_stories_07_1405_librivox/astoundingstories07_17_128kb.mp3[/center]
[left]
HTML https://archive.org/download/astounding_stories_07_1405_librivox/astounding_7_1405.jpg[/left]
[left]Astounding Stories 07, July 1930
HTML https://librivox.org/astounding-stories-07-july-1930-by-sewell-peaslee-wright/[/left]
#Post#: 268--------------------------------------------------
&quot;I know. You think it looks as though you'd broken down
somehow. You didn't.
DIR By: AGelbert
Date: April 19, 2022, 9:46 pm
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[left]
HTML https://soberthinking.createaforum.com/gallery/soberthinking/1-190422222950.jpeg[/left]
Transcriber's note: This etext was produced from Astounding
Science Fiction, September, 1960. Extensive research did not
uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication
was renewed.
[center]ALARM CLOCK[/center]

By EVERETT B. COLE
Illustrated by Van Dongen
[move]Most useful high explosives, like ammonium nitrate, are
enormously violent ... once they're triggered. But they will
remain seemingly inert when beaten, burned, variously
punished�until the particular shock required comes
along....[/move]
HTML https://www.gutenberg.org/files/24180/24180-h/images/image_01.jpgany years had passed since the original country rock had been
broken, cut and set, to form solid pavement for the courtyard at
Opertal Prison. And over those years the stones had suffered
change as countless feet, scuffing and pressing against once
rough edges, had smoothed the bits of rock, burnishing their
surfaces until the light of the setting sun now reflected from
them as from polished mosaic.
As Stan Graham crossed the wide expanse from library to cell
block, his shoe soles added their small bit to the perfection of
the age-old polish.
He looked up at the building ahead of him, noting the coarse,
weathered stone of the walls. The severe, vertical lines of the
mass reminded him of Kendall Hall, back at the Stellar Guard
Academy. He smiled wryly.
There were, he told himself, differences. People rarely left
this place against their wishes. None had wanted to come here.
Few had any desire to stay. Whereas at the Academy�
How, he wondered, had those other guys they'd booted out really
felt? None had complained�or even said much. They'd just packed
their gear and picked up their tickets. There had been no
expression of frustrated rage to approach his. Maybe there was
something wrong with him�some unknown fault that put him out of
phase with all others.
He hadn't liked it at all.
His memory went back to his last conversation with Major
Michaels. The officer had listened, then shaken his head
decisively.
"Look, Graham, a re-examination wouldn't help. We just can't
retain you."
"But I'm sure�"
"No, it won't work. Your academic record isn't outstanding in
any area and Gravitics is one of the most important courses
we've got."
"But I don't see how I could have bugged it, sir. I got a good
grade on the final examination."
"True, but there were several before that. And there were your
daily grades." Michaels glanced at the papers on his desk.
"I can't say what went wrong, but I think you missed something,
way back at the beginning. After that, things got worse and you
ran out of time. This is a pretty competitive place, you know,
and we probably drop some pretty capable men, but that's the way
it is."
"Sir, I'm certain I know�"
"It isn't enough to know. You've got to know better than a lot
of other people."
Michaels got to his feet and came around the desk.
"Look, there's no disgrace in getting an academic tossout from
here. You had to be way above average to get here. And very few
people can make it for one year, let alone three or four."
He raised a hand as Stan started to speak.
"I know. You think it looks as though you'd broken down somehow.
You didn't. From the day you came here, everyone looked for
weaknesses. If there'd been a flaw, they'd have found it�and
they'd have been on you till you came apart�or the flaw
disappeared. We lose people that way." He shrugged.
"You didn't fall apart. They just got to you with some pretty
rough theory. You don't have to bow your head to anybody about
that."
Stan looked at the heavily barred door before him.
"No," he told himself, "I don't suppose I'm the galaxy's prize
boob, but I'm no high value shipment, either. I'm just some guy
that not only couldn't make the grade, but couldn't even make it
home without getting into trouble."
He pushed the door aside and went into the building, pausing for
an instant between two monitor pillars. There was no warning
buzz and he continued on his way through a hallway.
He barely noticed his surroundings. Once, when he had first been
brought here, he had studied the stone walls, the tiny, grilled
windows, the barred doors, with fascinated horror. But the
feeling had dulled. They were just depressingly familiar
surroundings now.
He stopped at a heavy metal grill and handed a slip through the
bars. A bored guard turned, dropped the paper into a slot, then
glanced at a viewplate. He nodded.
"All right, forty-two ninety. You're on time. Back to your
cell." He punched a button and a gate slid aside.
Stan glanced at the cell fronts as he walked. Men were going
about their affairs. A few glanced at him as he passed, then
looked away. Stan closed his eyes for an instant.
HTML https://www.gutenberg.org/files/24180/24180-h/images/image_02.jpg
That much hadn't changed. At school, he had never been one with
any of the cadet groups. He had been accepted at first, then
coolly tolerated, then shunted to the outer edges.
Oh, he'd had his friends, of course. There were those other
oddballs, like Winton and Morgan. But they'd gone. For one
reason or another, most of them had packed up and left long
before he'd had his final run-in with the academic board.
And there had been Major Michaels. For a while, the officer had
been warm�friendly. Stan could remember pleasant chats�peaceful
hours spent in the major's comfortable quarters. And he could
remember parties, with some pretty swell people around.
Then the older man had become a forbidding stranger. Stan had
never been able to think of a reason for that. Maybe it was
because of the decline in his academic work. Maybe he'd done
something to offend. Maybe�
He shook the thoughts away, walked to a cell door, and stood
waiting till the guard touched the release button.
As Stan tossed his books on his bunk, Jak Holme raised his head
and looked across the cell.
"More of them books?"
"Yeah." Stan nodded. "Still trying to find out about this
planet."
"You trying to be some kinda big politician when you get out?"
Holme snorted.
"Tell you, be better you try mixing with the guys, 'stead of
pushing 'em around with that fancy talk, making 'em jump now and
then, see. You get along with 'em, you'll see. They'll tell you
all you need. Be working with some of 'em, too, remember?"
"Oh, I don't try to push anybody around." Stan perched on his
bunk. "Doesn't hurt anyone to study, though."
"Oh, sure." Holme grimaced. "Do you a lot of good, too. Guy's
working on some production run, it helps a lot he knows why all
them big guys in the history books did them things, huh?" He
laughed derisively.
"Sure it does! What they want, you should make that fabricator
spit out nice parts, see?" He swelled his chest.
"Now me, I got my mind on my business, see. I get out of here, I
oughta make out pretty good." He looked around the cell.
"Didn't get no parole, see, so I get all the training. Real good
trained machinist now, and I'm gonna walk out of here clean. Get
a job down at the space-yards.
"Machinist helper, see? Then, soon's I been there a while, I'll
get my papers and go contract machinist. Real good money. Maybe
you'd do better, you try that."
From the lower bunk, Big Carl Marlo laughed softly.
"Sure, kid, sure. You got it all made, huh? Pretty quick, you
own Janzel Equipment, huh? Hah! Know what happens, you go
outside?
"Sure, they give you a job. Like you said, helper. They pay
enough you get a pad and slop to keep you alive. That's all you
get."
"Aw, now listen!" Holme started up.
Marlo wagged his head. "You go for papers, see? Naw! Got no
papers for jailbirds. Staffman'll give you the word. He gets
through pushing you around, you go back, 'counta you don't know
nothing else."
He laughed shortly.
"Gopher, that's you. You go fer this, and you go fer that. Slop
and a pad you get." He swung out of his bunk.
"Oh, sure, maybe they put you on a fabricator. Even let you set
it up for 'em. But that don't get you no extra pins."
Holme shook his head.
"Councilor gave me the word," he said stubbornly. "They need
good machinists."
"Yeah." Marlo nodded. "Sure, they want graduates down at
Talburg. But they ain't paying 'em for no contract machinist
when they can keep 'em as helpers." He turned.
"Ain't that right, Pete?"
Karzer looked up from a bag he was packing.
"Yeah, yeah, that's right, Carl. I know a few guys once, tried
playing the legit. Got kicked around, see? Low pay. Staffman
hammering on 'em all the time. Big joke when they try to get
more for themselves.
"Yeah, big joke. They get blamed, they bust something, see, so
they owe the company big money." He looked critically at a pair
of socks.
"So they get smart after a while. Dusted around the corner and
went back on the make. Do better that way, see?
"Naw, they give you a lot of guff, you go to work outside, work
hard, keep your nose clean, you come out of parole and you're in
the money. It's sucker bait, is all. Don't go like that, see."
Marlo came closer to Holme.
"Naw, you go out clean, see, just like you say. Then you play it
easy. Get a good score and lay back for a while. Don't go
pushing your luck.
"That's how they hook me, see. I get too hungry. Get a nice
touch, it looks so good I gotta go back for seconds, and they're
waiting. I don't make that mistake again." He shook his head.
"Got me a nice pad, way up valley. Gonna hole up there. Go out,
pull a good job, then I lay around, maybe a year and think up
another. Then, when I'm all ready, I go out, pull a can or two
open and lift what they got back to the pad. Ain't gonna be no
more of this scuffling around, hitting a quick one and running
out to spend the pins quick, so's I can get in no traps."
He looked at Holme thoughtfully.
"I just now think of something, kid. You can make yourself a
nice bit, real easy. Don't cost hardly nothing to set up and
there ain't much risk. You work more'n a year, learning all
about tools, huh? They teach you all about making tools, huh?"
"Sure." Holme laughed shortly. "Got to make all your own hand
tools before you get through. Why?"
Marlo grinned broadly.
"I could tell you a lotta guys, need real special tools. Need
tools you don't buy in no store, like maybe a good can opener a
guy can carry easy. And they pay real good, you make what they
want and keep your mouth shut." He rubbed his chin.
"Nice," he went on. "Real nice. And all you need is maybe a few
tools you can buy anywhere. And maybe you gotta build up a
little forge. Guy knew his way around, he could make a nice pile
that way."
Stan looked at the man thoughtfully.
"Sounds interesting," he broke in, "but suppose they find some
fabricator operator out in the woods, heating up metal instead
of working on a regular job? They'd be curious, don't you think?
Especially if the guy's already picked up a record."
"Naw." Marlo turned toward him. "So he's a graduate�who ain't?
See, they show this guy up here, he's supposed to be a
fabmeister. Only maybe he don't like punching keys. Maybe he
don't like to chase them meters, huh? So maybe he'd rather use
muscle hardware, see?" He grinned.
"Some guy sets himself up a shack up valley, see? Starts a fixit
joint. Looks real legit. Even with muscle hardware, he can put
out jobs faster'n them people can get parts from way down
Talburg way, see.
"And he gets in with the joes, too. They got their troubles
getting things made up for 'em. So this guy gives them a hand.
Even working cheap, he picks up some change there, too, and one
way or another, the guy's got a living, see?" He glanced back at
Holme.
"Only now and then, here comes a few guys in the back door, they
want a special job, see, for real special pay. And there's your
ice cream and cake. And maybe a little stack for later on."
"I don't know." Stan picked up a book. "I'd rather try playing
'em on the table for a while. It might beat getting flashed and
dropped back in."
Big Carl shrugged and crawled back into his bunk.
"Aagh, can happen to anybody," he said. "Just keep this under
your hair. Smart kids like you can make out pretty good, you
just use your heads. Ain't nothing down Talburg way, though." He
yawned.
"Well, I've had it. Got into it with that Wanzor again, out on
the pile. Give one of them joes a boost, he gets three meters
high." He yawned again and turned toward the wall.
Stan flipped the pages of the book. He had still been unable to
put his finger on the point at which Kellonia had ceased to be a
planet of free citizens and become the planetary prison he had
found himself on.
There had been no sudden change�no dramatic incident, such as
the high spots in the history of his native Khloris. Here,
things had just drifted from freedom to servitude, with the
people dropping their rights as a man discards outworn clothing.
He leaned back, lowering the book. Kell's planet, he remembered,
had been one of the first star colonies to be founded after the
discovery of the interstellar drive. Settlers had flocked to get
passage to the new, fertile world.
During the first three hundred years, people had spread over the
planet, but the frontier stage had passed and the land of
promise had stabilized, adopted laws, embraced the arts and
sciences. One by one, frontier farms had given way to mechanized
food-producing land, worked by trained technical teams and
administered by professional management.
Kellonia had entered the age of industrialized culture, with the
large individual owner a disappearing species.
Unnoticed and unregretted, the easy freedom of the frontier was
discarded and lost. One by one, the rights enjoyed by the
original settlers became regarded as privileges. One by one, the
privileges were restricted, limited by license, eliminated as
unsuitable or even dangerous to the new Kellonian culture.
Little by little, the large group became the individual of law
and culture, with the single person becoming a mere cipher.
Members of groups�even members of the governing council
itself�found themselves unable to make any but the most minor
decisions. Precedent dictated each move. And precedent developed
into iron-hard tradition.
In fact, Stan thought, the culture seemed now to be completely
self-controlled�self-sustaining. The people were mere cells, who
conformed�or were eliminated.
Again, he picked up the book, looking casually through its
pages. Detail was unimportant here. There was, he realized with
a feeling of frustration, only a sort of dull pattern, with no
significant detail apparent.
He awoke a little groggily, looked around the cell, then jumped
hastily out of his bunk. Usually he was awake before the bell
rang.
Pete Karzer was coming back from the washstand. He looked over.
"You up, Graham?" he said in his whispery voice. "Hey, you know
I'm getting out this morning. Guess you'll want to swap blankets
again, huh?"
"That's right, too. No use turning in a good blanket, is there?"
"Don't make sense." Pete massaged the back of his neck.
"Never could figure that swap," he said. "Don't get me wrong, it
was real good, being able to sleep warm, but you caught me good
when I tried to swipe that blanket of yours. Ain't never seen a
guy move so quick. And I ain't so dumb I don't know when I'm
licked." He grinned ruefully.
"So I'm down, like I been hit with a singlejack. Then you go and
hand over a good blanket for that beat thing I been using. How
come?"
Stan shrugged. "I told you," he said. "Where I come from, it's a
lot colder than it is here, so I don't need a blanket. I'd have
offered a swap sooner, but I didn't want to look like some
greasy doormat."
"Wasn't no grease about that swap." Pete grinned and rubbed his
neck again. "I found out real quick who was the big man. Where'd
you learn that stuff anyway?"
"Oh, picked it up�here and there." Stan glanced down at the
floor.
There would be no point in explaining the intensive close combat
training he'd been put through at school. Such training would
make no sense to his cellmates. To the good citizens of
Kellonia, it would seem horrifyingly illegal. He glanced up
again.
"You know how it is," he went on. "A guy learns as he goes."
Big Carl Marlo swung his legs over the side of his bunk.
"Looks like you learned real good," he said. He examined Stan.
"Pete tells me about this deal. I kinda miss the action this
time, but Pete tells me he's got the blanket and he's all set to
plug you good, you should maybe try a hassle.
HTML https://www.gutenberg.org/files/24180/24180-h/images/image_03.jpg "Only all at once, you're on him. He feels a couple quick
ones,
then he don't know nothing till next day. You can maybe do
things like that any time?"
Stan shrugged. "Guy never knows what he can do till he tries. I
know a few other tricks, if that's what you mean."
Marlo nodded. "Yeah. Know something, kid? Ain't no use you waste
your time being no fabricator nurse. You got a good profesh
already, know what I mean?"
Stan looked at him questioningly.
"Sure." Marlo nodded. "So you come here, like maybe you're a
tourist, see. But the joes get you and they bring you up here.
Going to teach you a trade�fabricator nurse, see. Only they
don't know it but you're one guy they don't have to teach,
'counta you got something better. All you gotta do is find your
way around."
"I have? Do you really think...."
"Sure. Look, there's a lot of antique big-timers around, see.
These old guys figure they need some guy can push the mugs. Pay
real good, too, and they couldn't care less you're a graduate.
Maybe makes it even better, see. You get in with one of those
old guys, you got it made. All legit, too. Oughta look into
that, you get out."
Stan smiled. "The first day I was on this planet, they went
through my bags while I was out looking over the town. They
found a paper knife and a couple of textbooks." He shrugged.
"So I came back to the hotel and someone hit me with a flasher.
I came to in a cell." He glanced around.
"Somebody finally told me they'd given me two to five years for
carrying a dangerous weapon and subversive literature. Now what
would I get if I went out and really messed some guy up?"
Marlo waved a hand carelessly.
"Depends on who you work for," he declared. "You got the right
boss, you get a bonus. Worse the guy's gaffed, the bigger the
payoff, see?"
Stan reached for his bag of toilet articles.
"That's legitimate?"
"Sure." Mario smiled expansively. "Happens all the time. Even
the big outfits need musclers. Staffmen, see? Sorta keep
production up.
"Lot of guys get real big jobs that way. Start out, they're
Staff Assistance Specialists, like they roust the mugs when they
got to. Then pretty quick, they're all dressed up fancy, running
things. Real good deal." He shrugged.
"Need a heavy man once in a while, even in my business. Like
maybe some guy's got a good pad, he doesn't want a lot of
prowlers shaking up the neighbors. You know, gets the law too
close, and a guy can't work so good with a lot of joes hanging
around. Might even decide to make a search, then where'd you
be?" He spread his hands.
"But there's some Johnny Raw, keeps coming around. And maybe
this is a pretty rough boy, you can't get on him personal, see.
So the only answer, you get some good heavy guy to teach this
ape some ethics. Lotta staffmen pick up extra pins this way."
"I think I get the idea. But suppose the law gets into this
deal?"
Marlo spread his hands. "Well, this is a civil case, see, so
long as the chump don't turn in his ticket. So, anything comes
up, you put an ambassador on the job. He talks to the
determinators and the joes don't worry you none. Just costs a
little something, is all."
Pete looked up from his packing, a smile twisting his face.
"Only trouble, some of these big boys fall in love with their
work. This can get real troublesome, like I pick up this five to
ten this way.
"See, they get this chump a couple too many. So, comes morning,
he's still in the street. Real tough swinging a parole, too. I'm
in here since five years, remember? So I'm real careful where I
get muscle any more."
"Sounds interesting." Stan nodded thoughtfully.
"Great Space and all the little Nebulae," he said to himself.
"What kind of a planet is this? Nothing in the histories about
this sort of thing." He walked over to the washstand.
"Some day," he promised himself, "I'm going to get out of here.
And when I do, I'll set up camp by Guard Headquarters. And I'll
needle those big brains till they do something about this."
There was, he remembered, one organization that should be able
to do more than a little in a case like this. He smiled to
himself ruefully as he thought of the almost legendary stories
he had heard about the Federation's Special Corps for
Investigation.
As he remembered the stories, though, corpsmen seemed to appear
from nowhere when there was serious trouble. No one ever seemed
to call them in. No one even knew how to get in touch with them.
He shrugged.
The men of the Special Corps, he remembered, were reputed to be
something in the superhuman line.
For a large part of his life, he had dreamed of working with
them, but he had been unable to find any way of so much as
applying for membership in their select group. So, he'd done the
next best thing. He'd gone into the Stellar Guard. And he'd
lasted only a little more than three years.
Somehow, he'd taken it from there. He was still a little hazy as
to how he'd managed to land in prison on Kell's planet. It had
been a mere stopover.
There had been no trial. Obviously, they had searched his
luggage at the hotel, but there had been no discussion. He'd
simply been beamed into unconsciousness.
After he'd gotten to Opertal, someone had told him the length of
his sentence and they'd assigned him to the prison machine shop,
to learn a useful trade and the duties of a citizen of Kellonia.
He smiled wryly. They had taught him machinery. And they'd
introduced him to their culture. The trade was good. The
culture�?
His memory slid back, past the prison�past the years in Kendall
Hall, and beyond.
He was ten years old again.
It was a sunny day in a park and Billy Darfield was holding
forth.
"Yeah," the boy was saying, "Dad told me about the time he met
one of them. They look just like anyone else. Only, when things
go wrong, there they are, just all at once. And when they tell
you to do something, you've had it." He closed his eyes
dreamily.
"Oh, boy," he said happily, "how I'd love to be like that!
Wouldn't it be fun to tell old Winant, 'go off some place and
drown yourself'?"
Stan smiled incredulously. "Aw, I've heard a lot about the
Special Corps, too. They've just got a lot of authority, that's
all. They can call in the whole Stellar Guard if they need 'em.
Who's going to get wise with somebody that can do that?"
Billy shook his head positively. "Dad told me all about them,
and he knows. He saw one of 'em chase a king right off his
throne once. Wasn't anybody to help him, either. They've got all
they need, all by themselves. Just have to tell people, that's
all."
With a jerk, Stan came to the present. He slopped water over his
hands.
"Too bad I can't do something like that myself," he thought.
"I'd like to tell a few people to go out and drown themselves,
right now." He grinned ruefully.
"Only one trouble. I can't. Probably just a lot of rumor,
anyway."
But there was something behind those stories of the Special
Corps, he was sure. They didn't get official publicity, but
there were pages of history that seemed somehow incomplete.
There must have been someone around with a lot more than the
usual ability to get things done, but whoever he had been, he
was never mentioned.
He shrugged and turned away from the washstand.
"Hope that bell rings pretty soon," he told himself. "I'd better
get chow and go to work before I really go nuts."
A demonstrator had the back off from one of the big
Lambert-Howell sprayers. As the man started to point out a feed
assembly, another prisoner stepped directly in front of Graham.
Stan shook his head impatiently and moved aside. Again, the man
was in front of him, blocking his view. Again, Stan moved.
The third time the man blocked his view, Stan touched his
shoulder.
"Hey, Chum," he said mildly, "how about holding still a while.
The rest of us would sort of like to see, too."
For several seconds, the other froze. Then he whirled, to
present a scowling face.
"Who you pushing around, little rat? Keep your greasy paws to
yourself, see." He turned again, then took a sudden, heavy step
back.
Stan moved his foot aside and the man's heel banged down on the
stone floor. For a heartbeat, Stan regarded the fellow
consideringly, then he shook his head.
"Stay in orbit, remember?" he told himself. He moved aside,
going to the other side of the group around the fabricator.
Now he remembered the man. Val Vernay had been working on the
fabricators when Stan had come to the shop.
Somehow, he had never run an acceptable program, but he hung
around the demonstrations, unable to comprehend the
explanations�resentful of those who showed aptitude.
He glanced aside as Stan moved, then pushed his way across until
he was again in front of the smaller man. Stan sighed
resignedly.
Again, the heavy foot crashed toward the rear. This time, the
temptation was too great. Deftly, Stan swung his toe through a
small arc, sweeping Vernay's ankle aside and putting the man off
balance.
He moved quickly away, further trapping the ankle and getting
clear of the flailing arms.
For a breathless instant, Vernay tried to hop on one foot, his
arms windmilling as he fought to regain his balance. Then he
crashed to the floor, his head banging violently against the
stones.
Stan looked at the body in consternation. He had merely intended
to make the fellow look a little silly.
"Hope he's got a hard head," he told himself.
The workroom guard came up warily.
"What's all this?"
"I don't know, sir." Stan managed a vaguely puzzled look. "First
thing I knew, he was swinging his arms all over the place. Then
he went down. Maybe he had a fit, huh?"
"Yeah." The guard was sardonic. "Yeah, maybe he had a fit. Well,
no more trouble out of him for a while." He raised his voice.
"Hey, you over by the first-aid kit. Grab that stretcher."
Big Carl Marlo was in his bunk when Stan came into the cell. He
looked up with a grin.
"Hey, kid, you start at the top, huh?"
"What do you mean?"
"This Vernay, what else? Like I said, you start at the top. I
didn't think you got it when I told you about the muscle racket.
How'd I know you was already figuring something?" Marlo shook
his head admiringly.
"Real nice job, too. You take it easy, set this chump up, and
there you are. Only you get a real big fish. Think you can
handle this guy again?"
Stan blinked. "Look," he said, "punch in some more data, will
you? And run it by real slow. I'm way off co-ordinates."
"Huh? What you�Oh, I get you." Marlo frowned.
"Now don't go telling me you don't know about this Vernay. Don't
give me you ain't figured how you can land a big job with Janzel
Equipment. You know me�Big Carl. I don't talk, remember?" He
looked at the blank expression on Stan's face.
"Besides, there ain't a guy in the walls, don't figure this deal
by now. Man, you just don't know how many guys been watching
that Vernay."
Stan walked across the cell and sat down on his bunk.
"Look," he said patiently, "let's just say I'm some stupid kid
from off planet. Maybe I don't get things so well. Now, what's
this all about?"
Marlo shrugged. "So all right, but for some guy don't know what
he's doing, you sure pick 'em pretty. Well, anyway, here's the
layout.
"See, this guy, Vernay, is one of Janzel's big strong-arms. Real
salt and butter guy. Been pushing them poor apes of theirs all
over the place, see. Don't know too much about the business, but
they tell him some mug's not putting out, Vernay goes over and
bends the guy around his machine a while, he should maybe work
faster. See what I mean?"
Stan frowned distastefully and Marlo held up a hand.
"Oh, that's all right," he said. "This is what they pay this guy
for. But he gets to like his work too well, know what I mean? So
here a while back, he gets on some machine tender. Leans all
over this poor guy. Well, the fab nurse ends up turning in his
tickets, and this, the joes don't go for so good." He jerked a
shoulder.
"Oh, Janzel tries to kill the squawk, but it's no go. The joes
push the button and here's Vernay." He grinned.
"They manage to get it knocked to some kinda manslaughter, but
Vernay's still got time to pick up, so they pull wires and get
him up here. It ain't no rest home, but it ain't no madhouse
neither, like some of them places." His eyes clouded.
"Oogh, when I think of some of the holes�" He waved a hand.
"So anyway, like you see, Vernay's got plenty of muscle, but
he's kind of low in the brain department. Maybe they thought
something might drill through the skull up here, but that don't
work either. I guess Janzel'd about as soon get another pretty
boy, but they know they'll lose too much face, they dump him
right away.
"Then you come along and just about split the chump's conk just
so's he'll stay out of your light, see?" He shook his head
slowly.
"Only thing, that don't solve nothing. He comes out of the
bone-house in a couple days, and he ain't gonna like you at all.
See what I mean?"
"Yeah." Stan examined his fingernails.
"Yeah," he repeated. "You make it all nice and clear." He got up
and went to the washstand.
"Whatcha gonna do, Georgie, boy?" he chanted. "Guess I'll just
have to give him a free lesson in breakfalls. He won't like it
too well, but he could use lots of practice."
It took Vernay more than a couple of days to get out of the
hospital. As time went by, Stan became more and more conscious
of the speculative looks he was getting from prisoners and
guards alike.
He stood watching, as a maintenance engineer tore into the
vitals of a Lambert-Howell. Around him was space�a full meter on
all sides. It was, he realized, a distinction�symbolic accolade
for anyone who had the temerity to down a man like Vernay. It
was also a gesture of caution. No one was anxious to block the
view of a man who had downed a vicious fighter with an
unobtrusive gesture. And no one was anxious to be too close when
Vernay might come by.
What sort of man was Vernay, Stan wondered. Of course, he was
familiar with the appearance of the tall, blond. He could easily
visualize the insolent, sleepy looking eyes�the careless weave
of the heavy shoulders. And he'd heard a lot about the man's
actions.
But these could mean anything. Was the man actually as clumsy
and inept as he'd seemed? Was he simply a powerful oaf, who
relied on pure strength and savagery? Or was he a cunning
fighter, who had made one contemptuously careless mistake?
"Well," the maintenance man was saying, "that's the way you set
those upper coils. Remember, each one has its own field angle,
and you've got to set 'em down to within a tenth of a degree.
Otherwise, you'll never get a sharp focus and your spray'll make
a real mess." He swept his glance over the group.
"You use the manual when you set these things up," he added.
"Don't go depending on your memory. You can play some pretty
dirty tricks on yourself that way." He looked thoughtfully at
the array of coils.
"And don't go using any gravito clamps around these things when
the back's off. They don't like it. It makes 'em do nasty
things." He flipped his wrist up, looking at his watch.
"All right, that's it. Let's go eat." He snapped a cover back in
place and swung down from the catwalk.
Stan turned away. No tools to put away tonight, he thought.
Didn't need 'em all afternoon. He smiled. And no column to fall
into, either. This was the weekly free night.
He walked out of the shop, following a group of prisoners
through the archway into the main yard. Another small group
followed him, keeping a decent interval behind.
Someone drew a sharp breath.
"Hey, look! Over there."
Stan followed the direction indicated by a dozen abruptly turned
heads. Vernay was lounging in the shadow of the archway. He
smiled tigerishly and sauntered toward Stan. The group of
prisoners melted away, to form a rough semicircle. From
somewhere, others were appearing.
"So all right, little rat," Vernay said softly, "you've had a
lot of fun these last few days, eh? Big man around the yard,
huh? Yeah! Well, it's going to stop." He massaged his right hand
with the thumb and fingers of his left, then stretched out his
arms, flexing his fingers.
"Real smart little fella," he added. "Knows all kinds of little
tricks. Got anything to say before I open you up for
inspection?"
Stan faced him, his feet a few inches apart, his knees slightly
bent. He folded his arms without interlacing them.
"Look, Vernay," he said. "I'm not looking for any fight, but if
you force one, I'll break you all to pieces. I didn't mean to
bust your head the first time, but I can do it on purpose if I
have to. Why don't we just forget it?"
Vernay looked dazed for an instant, then recovered and laughed
derisively.
"You trying to crawl out and still look good? No, no. You made
your brags. Now we'll have a little dance." He took a step
forward.
"Come on, baby, just stay there. I'm going to unscrew your
head."
He came closer, then reached out, his hand open.
Stan looked at the hand incredulously. No one could be that
careless. For an instant, he almost spun away from a suspected
trap. Then he decided the man was in no position for a counter.
A try for a simple hand hold couldn't do a bit of harm.
His right hand darted up, gripping the outstretched hand before
him. He jerked down, clamped the hand with his left, then
pressed up and took a quick step forward.
With a startled cry of pain, Vernay spun around and bent toward
the ground. Stan carried the motion through with a sudden surge
that forced the big man's face almost to the stones. Abruptly,
Vernay twisted and kicked, trying to tear away. There was a
ripping noise and he screamed thinly, then slumped to the
pavement.
Stan looked down at him in bewilderment. It had been too easy,
he thought. Something had to be wrong. The imprisoned hand
twitched and was flaccid. He let it go and stepped back.
For a few seconds, Vernay lay quietly, then he struggled into
violent motion. He scrambled to get to his feet, his left hand
groping at his belt. Stan caught the glint of polished steel. He
stepped quickly around the man, poising himself.
It was no use, he thought. This would have to be decisive. He
brought his two hands up to his shoulder, then swung them like
an axe, stepping into the swing as Vernay got his feet under
him.
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The impact of the blow brought Vernay to a standing position. As
the man stood swaying, Stan swung his hands again.
Vernay's back arched and for an instant he was rigid. Then he
stumbled forward, to pitch against the wall.
Briefly, he was braced upright against the wall, his left hand
high on the stones, the scalpel glittering. Then the hand
relaxed and the sliver of steel clattered to the paving. Slowly,
the man slid down, to melt into a shapeless heap in the gutter.
Stan sighed, then shook his head and wiped an arm across his
eyes.
There was a concerted sigh behind him.
"Go ahead, kid," someone muttered. "Give him the boots. Big
phony hadda go trying a knife."
Stan turned. "No use," he said wearily. "I just hope he's still
alive."
"I don't get it," said someone. "He wants this guy alive?"
Someone else laughed shortly. "Maybe he just likes to make it
tough on himself. Hey, look out! The joes."
As the crowd faded into the nowhere from whence most of it had
come, a guard approached Stan warily.
"Now, look, Graham," he said cautiously, "I gotta throw you in
the hole. You know that, huh?"
Stan nodded listlessly.
"Yeah," he said. "I suppose so."
"Look, fellow, it won't be too long. He jumped you, so they'll
have you out of there real soon." The guard was apologetic.
"Besides, they'll probably offer you his job at Janzel. Get you
clear out of here. Only don't give me a hard time. All you'll
get is both of us flashed."
"Yeah, I know." Stan held out an arm. "Come on, let's go."
Stan watched as the chief test engineer waved a hand.
"Two hundred twenty gravs," the man said. "Full swing completed
on both axes. That's it. Ease off your tractors."
He looked closely at his panel of meters, then got off his stool
and stretched.
"No evidence of strain. Looks as though all components are
good." He turned, looking at the test operators.
"Let's get this place cleaned up."
The sense of disorientation set up by the tractors was
subsiding. Stan got to his feet and looked at his companion.
Dachmann nodded at him.
"Well," he said slowly, "Golzer can get off the hook now. His
run'll be approved. Suppose we get back on the job."
He led the way out of the blockhouse tunnel.
A car was pulling up at the entrance. A heavy, square face
looked from a rear window and a large hand beckoned.
"Dachmann, Graham. Over here."
"Oh, oh." Dachmann sighed. "Here's trouble. Wizow doesn't come
out here unless he's got something."
The blocky production chief looked coldly at them as they
approached the car.
"It'll be a lot better," he growled, "if you two clear through
my office before you start wandering all over the grounds." He
looked at Stan.
"Got a problem for you. Maybe we'll get some action out of you
on this one." He held out a few sheets of paper.
"Hold up over in the components line." He jabbed at a sheet with
a forefinger.
"Take a trip over there and kick it up." He glanced at Dachmann.
"Got another one for you."
Stan took the papers, studying them. Then he looked up. There
was very little question as to the bottleneck here. Each
material shortage traced back to one machine. He frowned.
"Maintenance people checked over that machine yet?" he asked.
Wizow shrugged impassively. "You're a staffman," he said coldly.
"Been on parole to us long enough, you should know what to do,
so I'm not going to tell you how. Just get to the trouble and
fix it. All I want is production. Leave the smart talk to the
technical people." He turned.
"Get in, Dachmann. I've got a headache for you."
Stan examined the tabulated sheets again. The offending machine
was in building nine thirty-two. Number forty-one.
He walked over to the parking lot and climbed on the skip-about
he had bought on his first pay day. The machine purred into life
as he touched a button and he raised the platform a few inches
off the ground, then spun about, to glide across the field
toward block nine.
Fabricator number forty-one was a multiple. A single programming
head actuated eight spinaret assemblies, which could deliver
completed module assemblies into carriers in an almost
continuous stream. It was idling.
Stan visualized the flow chart of the machine as he approached.
Then he paused. The operator was sitting at the programming
punch, carefully going over a long streamer of tape. Stan
frowned and looked at his watch. By this time, the tapes should
be ready and the machine in full operation. But this man was
obviously still setting up.
He continued to watch as the operator laboriously compared the
tape with a blueprint before him. There was something familiar
in the sharp, hungry-looking features. The fellow turned to look
closely at the print and Stan nodded.
"Now I remember," he told himself. "Sornal. Wondered what
happened to him. Never saw him after the first day up in
Opertal."
Sornal came to the end of the tape, then scrabbled about and
found the beginning. He commenced rechecking against the print.
Stan shook his head in annoyance.
"How many times is he going to have to check that thing?" he
asked himself. He walked toward the man.
"Got trouble?"
Sornal looked up, then cringed away from him.
"I'll get it going right away," he whined. "Honest! Just want to
make sure everything's right."
"You've already checked your tape. I've been watching you."
Sornal flinched and looked away.
"Yeah, but these things is tricky. You get some of this stuff
out of tolerance, it can wreck a whole ship. They got to be
right."
"So, why not a sample run-through? Then you can run test on a
real piece."
"This is a very complicated device. Can't check those internal
tolerance without you put in on proof load. These got to be
right the first time."
Stan shook his head wearily.
"Look. Get up. I'll give your tape a run-through, then we'll
pull a sample and check it out. Got a helper?"
"Some place around here." Sornal got out of his chair and stood,
looking at the floor.
Stan picked up the tape and sat down.
"All right, go find him then. And bring him over here while I
run out the sample. We can make with the talk after that."
The tape was perfect, with neither patch nor correction. Stan
finally raised his head, growling to himself.
"Guy's competent enough at programming, anyway. Now, what's
wrong with him?"
He snapped the power switch from stand-by to on, then waited as
the indicators came up. Delicately, he turned a couple of
microdrive dials till the needles settled on their red lines.
Then he opened the control head, poked the tape in, and punched
the starter lever.
The tape clicked steadily through the head. Stan kept his eyes
moving about as he checked the meters.
The tape ran out of the head and dropped into the catcher basket
and hydraulics squished as a delivery arm set a small block on
the sample table. Stan picked it up, turning it over to examine
it.
It was a simple, rectangular block of black material, about the
size of a cigarette lighter. On five sides were intricate
patterns of silvery connector dots. An identifying number
covered the sixth. Inside, Stan knew, lay complex circuitry,
traced into the insulation. Tiny dots of alloy formed critical
junctions, connected by minute, sprayed-in threads of conductor
material. He glanced around.
Sornal watched anxiously. He looked at the little module block
as though it were alive and dangerous.
"Here," Stan told him, "stick this in the test jig and run it."
Sornal carefully set the block into an aperture, then reached
for a switch. His hand seemed to freeze on the switch for a
moment, then he looked back at Stan and snapped it on. Needles
rose from their pins, flickered, then steadied.
Sornal appeared to gain a little confidence. He turned a dial,
noted the readings on a few meters, then twisted another dial.
Finally, he faced around.
"Looks all right," he said reluctantly, "only�"
"Looks all right, period." Stan turned to the helper.
"Get that machine rolling," he ordered. "And keep your eyes on
those meters. Let's get this run finished right." He moved his
head.
"Come on, friend, I'll buy you a mug of tea."
Sornal backed away.
"You ain't gonna�Look, ain't I seen you some place before? Look,
I just�"
"I said I'd buy you a mug of tea. Then, we'll talk, and that's
all. I mean it."
"I just got outta�Listen, I can't take it so good any more,
see?"
"Don't worry. We aren't going to have any games this morning.
Come on, let's go."
When Sornal started talking, the flow of words was almost
continuous.
He had come to Kellonia almost four years before, on a standard
one-year contract. For over twenty years, he'd moved around,
working in space-yards over the galaxy. He'd worked on short
contracts, banking his profits on his home planet. And he'd
planned to finally return to his original home on Thorwald, use
his considerable savings to buy a small business, and settle
down to semi-retirement.
But an offer of highly attractive rates had brought him to
Kellonia for one last contract with Janzel.
"They got my papers somewhere around here," he said, "only I
can't get 'em back any more." He shook his head wearily and went
on.
Everything had gone smoothly for the first half of his contract
period. He'd drawn impressively large checks and deposited them.
And after thinking it over, he had indicated he would like an
extension.
"That was when they nailed me down," he said. "There was just
that one bad run, only that was the job that sneaked through the
inspection and went bust at Proof."
"Blowup?"
Sornal grinned sourly.
"Blowup, you want to know? Even took out one of the tractor
supports. Real mess. Oh, you think they weren't mad about that!"
"You say there was just one bad run? Then everything came out
normally again?"
"Yeah. I ran a check, see? Test sample was perfect Beautiful. So
then the power went off for a while. Crew was working around.
Well, they found the trouble and cleared it, just before lunch
time. I went ahead and finished my run. It was only ten gyro
assemblies�control job.
"I don't know�guess they were out of balance. Maybe the shaft
alloys came out wrong. Anyway, I finished the run and went for
chow. Came back and set up a new run."
He stared into his cup.
"Along about quitting time, they came after me. Mister, I don't
like to think of that! I been beat up a lot since, but them's
just little reminders. Those guys really enjoyed their work!"
Sornal shuddered and set his cup down. Finally, he sighed and
continued.
He had left the hospital, muttering grim threats of the legal
action he would take. And he'd limped over to file a complaint
at the Federation Residency.
"I didn't get there. Next thing I knew, I was in some cell." He
looked up at Stan.
"Now I know where I see you. You're in that van, going out of
some jail."
"Yeah." Stan nodded, looking at his own empty cup.
"Tell me something," he said slowly. "When that maintenance crew
was working around your machine, did they have a gravito clamp!"
"Clamp? Yeah ... yeah, I suppose they might have. Use 'em a lot
around here when they've got heavy stuff, and those guys had a
lot of stuff to move."
"I see. Wonder if the field head got pointed at your machine?"
"I don't think ... I dunno, I didn't watch 'em close." Sornal
looked sharply at Stan.
"You mean, they mighta�"
"Well, what could cause a temporary misflow?"
"Yeah!" Sornal bobbed his head slowly. "Funny I didn't think of
that."
"So anyway, you went up to Opertal?"
"Yeah. Had me for evasion of obligation. Said I owed the company
plenty for the damage done by the blowup. Claimed I'd tried to
run out.
"They wouldn't let me in the machine shop up there. Had me out
hauling stuff for the landscape crew. Then, they paroled me back
here. Back to the machines again, only I ain't a contract man
any more. Junior machinist. Oh, it's better than helper, I
guess, only they don't pay much." Sornal pushed himself away
from the table.
"I'm going to be real careful with my work from now on," he
said. "They got me for quite a while, but that sentence'll run
out one of these days. I'll get me out of parole and pay off
that claim, then I'm getting out of here. They aren't hanging
another one on me."
"Only one trouble," Stan told him. "You're getting so careful,
you're setting yourself up."
"Huh?"
"Yeah. They'll tack you down for malingering if you don't watch
it." Stan got to his feet.
"Tell you what you do. Run things just as you did when you were
a contract man. Only one thing�if any crew comes around, pull a
sample after they leave. And check it. You know how to check for
magnetic and gravitic deviations. Do that, then go ahead with
your run. Now go back to your machine. I'm going to do a little
work."
He strode out of the refreshment room, watched Sornal as he took
over the production run, then swung around and walked over to
the Personnel office.
"Like to see the package on a man named Sornal," he told the
clerk.
The man hesitated. "We aren't supposed to release a whole file.
I can look up any specific information for you."
Stan frowned. "Don't argue with me. I want to see this guy's
package. Need his complete history. Now get it."
The clerk started to make an objection, then turned and went to
the files. He flipped an index, then punched a combination of
numbers on his selector. Finally, he came back with a folder.
Stan took it and flopped it open on the counter.
"All right, now just stay here while I go through this. I'll
give it back in a few minutes."
He looked through the records, looking closely at one exhibit.
"Wow!" he told himself silently.
"Eleven thousand, six hundred ninety-two interstells. Only way
he'll ever pay that off is by making a big dent in his savings."
He flipped the paper over, noting the details of the
determination of responsibility.
As he examined the payroll data, he nodded. It all balanced out
nicely. They'd get several years of production out of the man
for bare subsistence.
"Very neat," he told himself.
He closed the folder and handed it back to the clerk.
"All right, that's all I need." He glanced at the clock.
"Guess I'll check out for lunch."
He walked out of the office. This one, he thought, could be
broken wide open by a Guard investigation. Sornal would get his
freedom, and there might be sizable damages.
"Now it would be nice," Stan muttered, "if I could work out
something for myself."
The Guard sergeant was an old-timer�and a methodical man. He
listened impassively, then reached under his desk. For a few
seconds, his hand was hidden, then he picked up a pen.
"Now, let's get this straight. What did you say your name was?"
"Graham. Stanley Graham. I�"
The sergeant had pulled a form to him. He bent over, writing
slowly.
"Graham, Stanley. All right. Now, where do you live?"
One by one, he went through the maze of blanks, insisting on
getting no other information than that called for by the
specific space he was working on. Finally, he put down the pen
and leaned back.
"All right, now how about this other man you mention?" He pulled
another form to him.
Stan was becoming a trifle impatient. He answered the questions
on Sornal, managing to furnish information for most of the blank
spaces on the sergeant's form.
The man dragged a still different form to him.
"All right, now what's this exact complaint?"
Stan went through Sornal's history, quoting figures and dates
from the Personnel files he had read. The sergeant listened
noncommittally, stopping him frequently to get repetitions.
At last, he looked up.
"Got any documents to back up this story?"
Stan coughed impatiently.
"No, of course not. I can't pull a file out of Personnel and
just carry it up here. It's on file, though. I just got through
reading the working file and there's a private file on the guy,
too, that would really bust things wide open."
The sergeant smiled sourly.
"Maybe it would. I suppose they'd pull it right out and hand it
over, too."
He spun his chair around and fished a book from a shelf behind
his desk.
"Here." He put the book on the corner of the desk. "Here is the
regulation on this sort of situation."
He pointed out words, one at a time.
It was a long regulation, filled with complex terminology. It
forbade seizure of records in any manner not definitely
authorized by local statute. The sergeant went through it,
getting full value from each word.
At last his finger came away from the page.
"Those are private records, you're talking about. On this
planet, the law protects corporate records to the fullest
extent. We'd have to have positive evidence that an
incriminating document was in existence. We'd have to define its
location and content within fairly narrow limits. Then we'd have
to go before a local determinator and request authority for an
examination of that document."
He slammed the book shut.
"And if we failed to find the document in question, or if it
wasn't actually incriminating, the injured corporation could
slap us with a juicy damage claim." He looked at Stan coldly.
"If you want, I can get the local statute and let you look that
over, too." He paused briefly and non-expectantly.
"On the other hand, we are obligated to protect the interests of
galactic citizens." He looked pointedly at the insigne on Stan's
pocket, then held out a tablet.
"Here. Suppose you sit down over there at that table and write
out the complaint in your own handwriting. I'll pass it along."
Stan looked at the tablet for a moment.
"Oh�Suppose I manage to get copies of the records on this. Do
you think you could do anything then?"
"If you can bring in documentary evidence, that'll make a case;
we'll take action, of course. That's what we're here for." The
sergeant tapped impassively on the tablet.
"Want to make a written statement?"
"Skip it," Stan told him wearily, "I don't want to waste any
more time."
As he turned away, he thought he noticed a faint flicker of
disappointment on the sergeant's face before the man bent over
his desk.
He hardly noticed his surroundings as he walked back into the
Personnel building.
At first, there was a dull resentment�a free-floating rage�which
failed to find focus, but sought for outlet in any direction.
The trouble was, he thought, in the formal way of doing things.
It didn't really matter, he told himself, whether anything
really got done or not�so long as an approved routine was
followed.
Only the wrong people used direct, effective methods.
The anger remained nondirectional, simply swelling and surging
in all directions at once. There were too many targets and it
was a torturing pressure, rather than a dynamic force.
He thought of his brief explosion, then grunted in
self-ridicule. He'd implied he could just pick up Sornal's
record file, bring it in, and throw it before that sergeant. And
for just a flash, he'd really thought of it as a simple
possibility.
"Maybe," he told himself, "one of those Special Corpsmen could
do something like that, but I don't see any of them around,
trying it."
He looked around, startled. Somehow, he had passed the gate,
identified himself, parked the skip-about, and come inside�all
without remembering his actions.
"Well," he asked himself, "what do I do now? Just become some
sort of thing?"
He walked into the outer office and a clerk looked up at him.
"Oh, Mr. Graham. The chief wants to see you." She touched a
button and a gate opened.
"You know the way."
"Yes. I do. Wonder what he wants."
The woman shook her head and returned to her work.
"He didn't say. Just said to tell you to see him when you came
in."
Stan walked through the short corridor, stopping in front of a
door. Down in the corner of the pebbled glass, neat, small
letters spelled out the name�H. R. Mauson.
He tapped on the glass.
"Come in." The Personnel chief glanced up as the door opened.
"Oh, Stanley. Sit down."
Stan lowered himself to the padded seat, then leaned back. It
was one of those deep armchairs which invite relaxation.
The official touched a button, then leaned forward.
"Tell me, Stanley," he said gently, "what were you doing in the
Federation Building a few minutes ago?"
Stan tried to lift a hand in a casual gesture, but it seemed
stuck to the chair. He exerted more force, then twisted his
body. But his arms and legs refused to move away from the
upholstery. Mauson smiled.
"Just a little precaution, Stanley. A gravito unit, you see. It
may be unnecessary, but you do have a reputation for a
certain�shall we say, competence. Although you have never
demonstrated your abilities here, I see no reason for taking
foolish chances." His smile faded.
"Now, suppose you tell me all about that visit you made to the
Federation Building."
Stan forced himself to relax. Have to be careful, he thought. He
forced a grin to his face.
Continued in next post
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#Post#: 269--------------------------------------------------
Alarm Clock continued
DIR By: AGelbert
Date: April 19, 2022, 10:02 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
Alarm clock
Continued from last post:
"Now, suppose you tell me all about that visit you made to the
Federation Building."
Stan forced himself to relax. Have to be careful, he thought. He
forced a grin to his face.
"Lunch," he said casually. "The Interstellar Room has a
reputation all over Talburg, you know." He laughed easily.
"Truth is, I got sort of homesick. Got a sudden urge to have a
good dish of delsau. It's a sort of preserve we really enjoy at
home."
"Now, now." Mauson closed his eyes. "Try again. You should be
able to do better than that." He tapped at some notes.
Stan found he had enough freedom to move his head. "He was just
suffering from�"
Mauson coughed dryly. "I have a report on that, too. You fed him
some tea, talked for a while, then left him."
Again, he tapped at his notes.
"Then you came here and demanded the man's Personnel file. You
read that and went directly to the Federation Building. Now, I'm
not a completely stupid man. Don't try to make me believe you
just wanted some exotic food."
He poked a switch.
"Wizow, will you step in here, please?"
"Yes, Mauson?" The blocky production chief loomed through a
door.
He glanced at Stan.
"Oh. You got him in here, then?"
"Yes. Oh, he came in by himself. But now, he's trying to be a
little coy. Suppose you reason with him."
"Pleasure."
Wizow strode forward to stand over the chair. He struck one hand
into the palm of the other, twisting his wrist at each blow. For
the first time since Stan had known him, he had a faint smile on
his face.
"I don't like you, Graham," he said. "I didn't like you the
first time I saw you, and you haven't done a thing to change
that first impression.
"Thought you had something funny about you, the way you've
always coddled the workmen. Looked as though you were running
some sort of popularity contest." Again, he punched his palm.
"And then, there were those suggestions of yours. Smart
words�always pushing the wrong people off balance, like other
staffmen." The smile became one-sided.
"You know, you haven't made yourself too popular around here.
Not with the people that count. I've been getting complaints.
"A good staffman doesn't act the way you do. Good man sees to it
the workers work. They don't have to like him�they just get on
the job when he's around. Know what'll happen if they slack off.
"And a good staffman leaves the thinking to guys that get paid
to do it. He follows established procedure."
He leaned close to Stan, frowning.
"What are you? Some kind of Federation plant?"
Abruptly, his right hand flashed out, to crash against Stan's
cheek. A heavy finger trailed across one eye, bringing a sudden
spurt of tears. The hand moved back, poised for a more solid
blow.
Stan's head bounced back against the chair, then forward again.
Image
And the diffuse fury in him coalesced and burst into novalike
flame. It had a single target. It focused. He glared at the big
man.
"Those hands," he snapped. "Get them to your side!
"Now, get over into that corner. Move when I tell you!"
For an instant, Wizow stood immobile. The frown faded, leaving
the heavy face empty.
He tried to raise his hand again, then gave a little sob of
hopeless rage and moved back, one slow, reluctant step at a
time, until he was wedged into a corner of the room.
"That's good," Stan told him. "Now stay there. And keep quiet."
He turned toward Mauson.
"You. Turn off that gravito unit. Then sit still."
He pushed himself out of the chair as the constraining force was
removed.
"Now," he growled, "you can kick it in again. Give it a little
power, too, while you're at it." He wheeled around.
"All right," he snapped at Wizow, "turn around. Get into that
chair."
He watched as the big body was pressed into the cushions.
Wizow's face showed strain. Stan went around Mauson's desk.
"I said a little power." He reached down and gave the gravito
control an abrupt twist.
Wizow's mouth popped open, agony showing in his eyes. Stan
grinned tightly and eased off on the knob.
"I really should spin this thing up to a proof load," he said.
"Might be interesting to see what kind of an assembly job they
did on you. But we'll just leave you this way. All you've got to
do is keep quiet. You're deaf, dumb, and blind, you understand?"
He turned on Mauson.
"Now, for you�" His voice trailed off.
The man was sitting like a puppet whose controlling strings had
been cut. Stan's blazing fury started to burn down.
These minds, he suddenly realized, had been virtually paralyzed.
He didn't need anything to tie them down. All he had to do was
point his finger. They'd jump. He shook his head.
"Funny," he told himself. "All you have to do is be a little
forceful. Why didn't somebody tell me about this?" He looked
calculatingly at Mauson.
"Tell you what we're gonna do," he said rhythmically. "Get your
car over here. You know, the shielded job. We don't want anyone
snapping at us with flashers." His voice hardened.
"Come on," he ordered, "get on that box. Tell 'em you want that
car."
As the car rolled down the street, he leaned forward a little.
"All right, driver," he said peremptorily, "when we get to the
Federation Building, swing into the official driveway."
The driver moved his head slightly. Stan sat back, waiting.
He looked at the building fronts as they swept past. When he'd
first come here, he'd noticed the clean beauty of the city. And
he's been unable to understand the indefinable warning he'd
felt. But now�he'd looked beneath the surface.
The car slowed. A guard was flagging them down at the building
entrance. Stan touched a window control.
"Stand aside, Guardsman," he ordered. "We're coming in." He
flicked the window control again.
"Keep going, driver," he ordered. "You can let us out inside.
Then find a place to park, and wait."
Another guard came toward them as the car rolled to a stop.
"Hey," he protested, "this is�"
Stan looked at him coldly.
"Which way to the Guard commander's office?"
The man pointed. "Elevator over there. Fifth floor. But�"
"I didn't ask for a story. Get our driver into a parking space
and keep him there." Stan turned to Mauson.
"All right. Get out."
He shepherded the man into the elevator and out again. In the
hall, he glanced around, then walked through a doorway.
A middle-aged guardsman looked at him inquiringly.
"Can I do something for you gentlemen?"
"Yes. We want to see the commander."
The guardsman smiled. "Well, now, perhaps�"
Stan looked at him sternly.
"I've had my quota of runarounds today. I said we want to see
the commander. Now, all you have to do is take us to him. Move!"
The smile faded. For an instant, the man seemed about to rebel.
Then he turned.
"This way," he said evenly. He led the way through a large room,
then tapped at a door on the other side.
"Yes?"
The voice was vaguely familiar to Stan. He frowned, trying to
place it.
"Two men to see you, sir. Seems a little urgent."
"Oh? Well, bring them in."
Stan relaxed. This was getting easier, he thought. Now he could
get these people to take Mauson before a determinator. His
statements would furnish plenty of evidence for a full search of
Janzel's Personnel files.
He jerked his head at Mauson.
"Inside."
He waited as the man stepped through the door, then followed.
A slender man was standing behind a wide desk.
"Well," he said calmly. "Welcome home, Graham. Glad you could
make it."
"Major Michaels!" Stan forgot everything he had planned to say.
The other smiled. "Let's say Agent Michaels," he corrected.
"Special Corpsmen don't have actual Guard rank. Most of us got
thrown out of the Academy in the first couple of years."
He glanced at the guardsman, then flicked a finger out to point
at Mauson.
"Take this down and put it away somewhere till we need it,
deSilva. Graham and I have some talking to do."
"Yes, sir." The middle-aged man turned toward Stan.
"Congratulations, sir." He jerked a thumb at Mauson.
"Come on, you. March."
Michaels held up a hand as Stan opened his mouth.
"Never mind," he said quietly. "DeSilva is quite capable of
handling that one. Take care of three or four more like him if
he had to. Pretty good man." He reached for a box on his desk.
"Here," he said. "Light up. Got a few things to talk about."
"But I've got�"
"It can wait. Wall put the whole story on the tape when you were
talking to him downstairs. We've been sweating you out."
"You've been sweating me out? I had to practically force my way
up here."
"That you did." Michaels took a cigarette from the box, started
to put it in his mouth, then pointed it at Stan.
"That's normal procedure. You've heard of the Special Corps for
Investigation, I presume?"
"Yes. But�"
"Ever think of being a corpsman yourself?"
"Of course. You know that�we've talked about it. But I never
could�"
"That's right." Michaels waved the cigarette. "We don't have
recruiting offices. All our people have to force their way in.
Tell me, do you know anything about the history of this planet?"
Stan clenched his teeth. Somehow, he had lost the initiative in
this interview. He took a deep breath.
"Look," he said decisively, "I�"
"Later." Michaels shook his head. "You are familiar with this
culture by now, then?"
"Well ... yes. I've read some history ... a little law."
"Good. Saves me a lot of talk. You know, sometimes we run into a
situation that can be corrected by a single, deft stroke. Makes
things very pleasant. We send in an agent�or two or six. The
necessary gets done, and somebody writes up a nice, neat
report." He toyed with the cigarette lighter.
"But this thing isn't like that. We've got a long, monotonous
job of routine plugging to do. We've got to bust a hard-shelled
system without hurting too many of the people within it. And
we've been at it for a while. We think we've made some progress,
but we've still got a lot of snakes to kill.
"But even bad situations have their good points. At least, this
place is a good training ground for probationers."
"Probationers?"
"Right. Probationers who don't even know they're being tested."
He smiled.
"People with the qualifications for Senior Agent are hard to
get. Most of them are latent�asleep. We can't expect them to
walk in�we have to find them. Then we have to wake them up. It
can be tricky."
He lit his cigarette, eying Stan thoughtfully.
"I suppose you've heard some of the stories that fly around
about the Corps. The truth of the matter is, the Senior Agent
isn't any superman. He's just a normal human being with a couple
of extra quirks."
He held up a finger.
"First, he's trouble prone. A nasty situation attracts him much
as a flame attracts a moth.
"There are a lot of people like that. Most of them are always
getting themselves clobbered. The agent usually doesn't."
He held up a second finger.
"Because he has a compensating ability. When he turns on the
pressure, people do just as he tells them�most people, that is."
He sighed.
"That's the latent ability. Sometimes full control is buried so
deeply it takes something like a major catastrophe to wake the
guy up to the fact he can use it." He smiled wryly.
"Oh, he pushes people around once in a while�makes 'em uneasy
when he's around�makes himself unpopular. But he's got no
control. He's got to be awakened."
"Yes, but�"
"Uh-uh. It sounds simple, but it isn't." Michaels shook his
head.
"You don't just snap a finger in front of this fellow. You've
got to provide him with real trouble. Pile it on him�until he
gets so much pressure built up that he snaps himself into
action. Makes a place like this useful."
"I begin to see. You mean all this stuff I've been going through
was sort of a glorified alarm clock?"
"Yes. You could put it that way. That, and a trial assignment as
a junior agent. Still want to be a Special Corpsman?"
Stan looked around the office consideringly, then got to his
feet.
"I stood it without knowing what was going on. Even had a little
fun once in a while. Maybe I could learn to like it if I knew
what I was doing." He shrugged.
"What's next?"
Michaels shoved a stack of papers toward him.
"Administrative details. You just can't get away from them." He
took a pen from his desk.
"After you sign all these, I'll get a couple of people in here
for witnesses while we give you your oath.
"It's practically painless."
#Post#: 274--------------------------------------------------
&quot;Simply no conception of any other person's point of view,
and a hatred of people that was fantastic.&quot;
DIR By: AGelbert
Date: April 21, 2022, 1:20 pm
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Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding
Science Fiction June 1955. Extensive research did not uncover
any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was
renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been
corrected without note.
FINAL WEAPON BY EVERETT B. COLE
Illustrated by Leydenfrost
[move]Man has developed many a deadly weapon. Today, the weapon
most effective in destroying a man's hopes and security is the
file folder ... and that was the weapon Morely knew and loved.
But there was something more potent to come.[/move]
District Leader Howard Morely leaned back in his seat, to glance
down at the bay. Idly, he allowed his gaze to wander over the
expanse of water between the two blunt points of land, then he
looked back at the skeletonlike spire which jutted upward from
the green hills he had just passed over. He could remember when
that ruin had been a support for one of the world's great
bridges.
Now, a crumbling symbol of the past, it stubbornly resisted the
attacks of the weather, as it had once resisted the far more
powerful blasts of explosives. Obstinately, it pointed its rusty
length skyward, to remind the observer of bygone conflict�and
more.
[center]
HTML https://www.gutenberg.org/files/24723/24723-h/images/002.png[/center]
Together with the tangled cables, dimly seen in the shoal water,
the line of wreckage in the channel, and the weed-covered strip
of torn concrete which led through the hills, it testified to
the arrival of the air age. Bridges, highways, and harbors alike
had passed their day of usefulness.
Not far from the ruined bridge support, Morely could see the
huge, well maintained intake of one of the chemical extraction
plants. He shook his head at the contrast.
"That eyesore should be pulled down," he muttered. "Should have
been pulled down long ago. Suggested it in a report, but I
suppose it never got to the Old Man. He depends on his staff too
much. If I had the region, I'd�"
He shook his head. He was not the regional director�yet. Some
day, the old director would retire. Then, Central Co�rdination
would be examining the records of various district leaders,
looking for a successor. Then�
He shrugged and turned his attention to his piloting of the
borrowed helicopter. It was a clumsy machine, and he had to get
in to Regional Headquarters in time for the morning conference.
There would be no sense it getting involved in employee
traffic�not if he could avoid it.
The conference, his informant had told him, would be a little
out of the ordinary. It seemed that the Old Man had become
somewhat irritated by the excess privileges allowed in a few of
the eastern districts. And he was going to jack everyone up
about it. After that would come the usual period of reports, and
possibly a few special instructions. Some of the leaders would
have pet projects to put forward, he knew. They always did.
Morely smiled to himself. He'd have something to come up with,
too.
And this conference might put a crimp in Harwood's style. Morely
had carefully worded his progress report to make contrast with
the type of report that he knew would come from District One.
George Harwood had been allowing quite a few extra privileges to
his people, stating that it was good for morale. And, during the
past couple of months, he'd seemed to be proving his point.
Certainly, the production of the employees from the peninsula
had been climbing. Harwood, Morely decided would be the most
logical person�after himself�for the region when the Old Man
retired. In fact, for a time, it had looked as though the
director of District One was going to be a dangerous rival.
But this conference would change things. Morely smiled slowly as
he thought of possible ways of shading the odds.
He looked ahead. Commuters were streaming in from the peninsula
now, to make for the factory parking lots. His face tightened a
little. Why, he wondered, had the Old Man decided to call the
conference at this hour? He could have delayed a little, until
commuter traffic was less heavy. He'd been a district leader
once. And before that, under the old government, a field leader.
He should know how annoying the employee classes could be. And
to force his leaders to mingle with commuting employees in heavy
traffic!
For that matter, everyone seemed to be conspiring to make things
uncomfortable today. Those heavy-handed mechanics in the
district motor pool, for example. They'd failed him today. His
own sleek machine, with its distinctive markings was still being
repaired. And he'd been forced to use this unmarked security
patrol heli. The machine wasn't really too bad, of course. It
had a superb motor, and it carried identification lights and
siren, which could be used if necessary. But it resembled some
lower-class citizen's family carryall. And, despite its
modifications, it still handled like one. Morely grimaced and
eased the wheel left a little. The helicopter swung in a slow
arc.
Helis were rising from the factory lots, to interlace with
incoming ships before joining with the great stream headed
south. The night workers were heading for home. Morely hovered
his machine for a moment, to watch the ships jockey for
position, sometimes barely avoiding collisions in the stream of
traffic. He watched one ship, which edged forward, stopped
barely in time to avoid being hit, edged forward again, and
finally managed to block traffic for a time while its inept
driver fooled with the controls and finally got on course.
"Quarrelsome, brawling fools," he muttered. "Even among
themselves, they can't get along."
He looked around, noting that the air over the Administrative
Group was comparatively free of traffic. To be sure, he would
have to cross the traffic lines, but he could take the upper
lanes, avoiding all but official traffic. A guard might
challenge, but he could use his identifying lights. He wouldn't
be halted. He corrected his course a little, glanced at the
altimeter, and put his ship into a climb.
At length, he eased his ship over the parklike area over
Administrative Square and hovered over the parking entry. A
light blinked on his dash, to tell him that all the official
spaces were occupied. He grunted.
"Wonder they couldn't leave a clear space in Official. They know
I'm coming in for conference."
He moved the control wheel, allowing his ship to slide over to a
shopping center parking slot, and hovered over the entry,
debating. He could park here and take the sub-surface to
Administrative, or he could use the surface lot just outside of
the headquarters group. Of course, the director frowned on use
of the surface lot, except in emergency. The underground lots
were designated for all normal parking. Morely thought over the
problem, ignoring the helis which hovered, waiting for him to
clear the center of the landing area. Finally, his hand started
for the throttle. He would settle in the landing slot, let the
guards shove his heli to a space, and avoid any conflict with
the director's orders regarding the surface lot.
Suddenly, there was a sputtering roar. Someone had become
impatient at the delay. A small sports heli swept by, impellers
reversed, and dropped rapidly toward the entry to the
underground parking space. Morely's ship rocked a little in the
air blast.
For an instant, Morely felt a sharp pain which gnawed at the pit
of his stomach. His head was abruptly light, and his hand,
apparently of its own volition, closed over the throttle knob.
This joy boy was overdue for a lesson.
Morely measured the distance quickly, judging the instant when
the other pilot would have to repitch his impellers and halt his
downward rush. He allowed his own heavy ship to wallow
earthward.
Scant feet from ground surface, the sportster pilot flicked his
pitch control and pulled his throttle out for the brief burst of
power which would allow him to drop gently to the landing
platform.
Morely grinned savagely as he saw the impellers below him change
pitch and start to move faster. He twisted his own impellers to
full pitch and pulled out the throttle for a sudden, roaring
surge of power, then swung the control column, jerking his ship
up and away. As he steadied his heli and cut power, he looked
down.
The powerful downblast had completely upset the sportster
pilot's calculations. The small ship, struck by the gale from
above, had listed to the right and gone out of control, grazing
one of the heavy splinter shutters at the side of the landing
slot. The ship lay on its side, amidst the wreckage of its
impellers.
Morely flicked on his warning siren and lights, then feathered
his own impellers, dropping his ship in free fall. He dropped to
the grassy area by the landing slot, ignoring the other ships
which scattered like frightened chickens, to give him room. At
the last instant, he twisted the impellers to full pitch again,
pulled out the throttle for a moment, then slammed the lever to
the closed position. His ship touched down on springy turf, its
landing gear settling gently to accept the weight. A klaxon was
sounding, and warning lights flashed from the landing slot, to
warn ships away from an attempted landing.
It would be a long time before the shiny, new sportster would be
in condition to sweep into another parking area. And, after
paying his fine and taking care of his extra duties, it would be
an even longer time before the employee-pilot would have much
business in the luxury shopping center, anyway.
Morely smiled bitterly as he closed the door of his ship. It
didn't pay to cross Howard Morely�ever.
He walked slowly toward the landing slot, motioning imperiously
to an approaching guard.
"Have someone place that ship for me," he ordered, jerking a
thumb back toward his heli. "Then come over to that wreck. I
shall want words with the pilot." He held out his small
identification folder.
The guard's glance went to the folder. For an instant, he
studied the card exposed before him, then he straightened and
saluted, his face expressionless.
"Yes, sir." He signaled another guard, then pointed toward
Morely's ship, and to the landing slot. "I can go with you now."
The two went down in the elevator and walked over to the wrecked
sportster. A slender man was crawling from a door. When the man
was clear of his ship, Morely beckoned.
"Over here, Fellow," he commanded.
The sportster pilot approached, the indignation on his face
changing to bewilderment, then dismay as he noted Morely's
insignia and the attitude of the two men who faced him.
Morely turned to the guard.
"Get me his name, identification number, and the name of his
leader."
"Yes, sir."
The guard turned to the man, who grimaced a little with pain as
he slowly put a hand in his pocket. Wordlessly, he extracted a
bulky folder, from which he took a small booklet. He held out
the booklet to the guard.
Morely held out a hand. "Never mind," he said. "Simply put him
in custody. I'll turn this over to his leader myself."
He had noted the cover design on the booklet. It was from
District One�Harwood's district. He flipped the cover open,
ascertaining that there was no transfer notice. He'd give this
to Harwood all right�at the right time. He looked at his watch.
"I shall want my heli in about three hours," he announced. "See
to it that it's ready. And have a man check the fuel and see if
the ship's damaged in any way." He turned away.
The district leaders sat before the large conference table.
Among them, close to the director's place, was Morely, his face
fixed in an expression of alert interest. His informant had been
right. The man must have gotten a look at the Old Man's notes.
The regional director was criticizing the laxity in inspection
and control of employee activities. He objected to the excessive
luxury activity allowed to some members of the employee classes,
as well as to the overabundance of leisure allowed in several
cases, some of which he described in detail.
He especially pointed up the fact that a recent heli meet had
been almost dominated by employee class entries. And he pointed
out the fact that there was considerable rehabilitation work to
be done in bombed areas. It could be done by employees, during
their time away from their subsistence jobs. That was all
community time, he reminded.
It was all very well, he said, to allow the second- and even
third-class citizens a certain amount of leisure recreation.
That kept morale up. But they were certainly not to be allowed
any position of dominance, either individually, or as a class.
That, he said, was something else again. It was precisely the
sort of thing that had led to the collapse and downfall of many
previous civilizations.
"Keep 'em busy," he ordered. "So busy they don't have time to
think up mischief to get into. Remember, gentlemen, second- and
third-class citizens have no rights�only privileges. And
privileges may be withdrawn at any time."
He rapped sharply on the table and sat down, looking at the
leader of District One.
One by one, the district leaders made their verbal reports of
activity. Occasionally, questions of production or work quotas
were brought up and decided. Morely waited.
At last, he made his own report, emphasizing the fact that his
district had exceeded its quotas�subsistence, luxury, and
rehabilitation�for the fourth consecutive quarter. He cited a
couple of community construction projects he had ordered and
which were well on the way to completion, and brought out the
fact that his people, at least, were being inspected constantly
and thoroughly.
Also, he suggested, if any time remained to be used, or if
leisure activity threatened to become excessive, it might be
well to turn some attention outside of the old urban areas.
There was considerable bomb damage in the suburban and former
farming areas, and the scrap from some of the ruined structures
could be stockpiled for disposal to factories and community
reclamation plants.
Further, a beautification program for the entire region might
keep some of the employee class busy for some time. And some of
the ex-farmers among the lower classes might find it pleasant to
work once again with the soil, instead of their normal work in
the synthetic food labs or machine shops. With the director's
permission, he could start the program by removing the useless
tower and wreckage at the bay channel, and by salvaging the
metal from it. Of course, he admitted, it was a trifle beyond
his own authority, since most of the channel was in District
One. The regional director cast him a sharp glance, then
considered the suggestion. At last, he nodded.
"It might be well," he decided. "Go ahead, Morely. Take care of
that detail." He looked over at his executive. "Have Planning
draw up something on salvage and beautification in the former
rural areas," he ordered. He looked about the room.
"And the rest of you might try looking over your own districts.
You don't have to wait for a directive, and every one of you can
find some improvement that could be made. If it's a district
line matter, submit some plan for mutual agreement to my
office." He rose and went to the door.
Morely waited, watching George Harwood. The leader of District
One gathered his papers, looked down the table for an instant,
then went out. Morely followed him at a discreet distance.
As Harwood neared the door to the regional director's office,
Morely caught up with him.
"Oh, Harwood," he said loudly. "Caught one of your people in a
flagrant case of reckless flying this morning. Why don't you
bear down a little on those fellows of yours? This one seemed to
think he was winning a heli meet."
He held out the folder he had confiscated. "Here's his
identification. I had the guards hold him for you. Second-class
citizen. Must've had a lot of spare time, to get the luxury
credits and purchase authorization for that ship of his."
Harwood looked at him, a faint expression of annoyance crossing
his face. Then, he glanced at the open door nearby, and
comprehension grew on his face. He took the folder, nodded
wordlessly, and walked rapidly past Morely, who turned to watch
him.
As Harwood swung through the door to an elevator, Morely smiled
appreciatively. That had been a smart trick, he thought. Have to
remember that one. No argument to disturb the Old Man. Not even
positive proof that Morely hadn't been talking to empty space.
But there was an answer to that, too, if one was alert. He
walked through the doorway into the director's office.
The regional director looked up.
"Oh, Morely. You wanted to see me?"
"Yes, sir." Morely stood at rigid attention. "I just thought of
all those useless highways around the countryside. Of course, a
few of them have been camouflaged and converted to temporary and
emergency heli parking lots, but there's still a lot of waste
concrete about that could be removed. It would improve the
camouflage of the groups. It could be divided into community
projects for spare time work, sir."
"Very good idea. If this stalemate we're in should develop into
another war, it would be well to have as few landmarks as
possible. And some of these people do have too much time on
their hands. They sit around, thinking of their so-called
rights. Next thing we know, some of the second-class citizens'll
be screaming for the privilege of a vote. Set it up in your
district, Morely. We'll see how it works out, and the rest of
the district leaders can follow your example."
He looked sharply at Morely. "Heard a little disturbance in the
hall just before you came in."
"Oh, that." Morely contrived a look of confusion. "I'm sorry,
sir. I didn't mean anyone to hear that. It was just that I had a
minor bit of business with Leader Harwood. One of his people
nearly knocked me out of the air this morning, over a parking
area, and I confiscated his identification. I tried to give it
to Harwood after the conference, but he must have been in a
hurry. I caught up with him and gave him the folder."
"So I heard." The director smiled wryly. "Anything more?"
"No, sir." Morely saluted and left.
"That," he told himself, "should drop Harwood a few points."
He went to the parking area to reclaim his helicopter. Better
get back to his district and start setting up those community
projects. Too, he would have to run a check inspection or so
this evening. See to it his sector men weren't getting lax. He'd
check on Bond tonight.
He flew back to District Twelve, dropped his helicopter into the
landing area, and made his way to his office.
Inside, he went to a file, from which he took his
spot-inspection folder. Carrying it to his desk, he checked it.
Yes, Bond's sector was due for a spot inspection. Might be well
to make a detailed check of one of the employees in that sector,
too. Morely touched a button on his desk.
Almost immediately, a clerk stood in the doorway.
"Get me the master quarters file for Sector Fourteen," Morely
ordered.
The clerk went out, to return with two long file drawers.
Quickly, he set them side by side on a small table, which he
pushed over to his superior's desk.
Idly, Morely fingered through the cards, noting the indexing and
condition of the file. He nodded in approval, then gave the
clerk a nod of dismissal. At least, his people were keeping
their files in order.
He reached into a pocket, to withdraw a notebook. Turning its
pages, he found a few of the entries he had made on population
changes, then cross-checked them against the files. All were
posted and properly cross-indexed. Again, he nodded in
satisfaction.
Evidently, that last dressing down he had given the files
section had done some good. For a moment, he considered calling
in the chief clerk and complimenting him. Then, he changed his
mind.
"No use giving him a swelled head," he told himself.
He drew a file drawer to him, running his finger down its
length. At last, he pulled a card at random. It was colored
light blue.
He put it back. Didn't want to check a group leader. He'd be a
first-class citizen, and entitled to privacy. He pulled another
card from a different section of the file. This one was salmon
pink�an assistant group leader. He examined it. The man was a
junior equipment designer in one of the communications plants.
For a moment, Morely tapped the card against his desk. Actually,
he had wanted a basic employee, but it might be well to check
one of the leadmen. He could have the man accompany him while he
made a further check on one of the apartments in his sub-group.
Again, he looked at the card.
Paul Graham, he noted, was forty-two years of age. He had three
children�was an electronics designer, junior grade. His
professional profile showed considerable ability and training,
but the security profile showed a couple of threes. Nothing
really serious, but he would be naturally expected to be a
second-class citizen�or below. It was not an unusual card.
Morely looked at the quarters code. Graham lived in Apartment
7A, Group 723, which was in Block 1022, Sector Fourteen. It
would be well to check his quarters first, then check, say, 7E.
Morely went through the numerical file, found the card under 7E,
and flipped the pages of his notebook to a blank sheet, upon
which he copied the data he needed from the two cards.
He put the notebook in his pocket and returned the cards to
their places in the file, then riffled the entire file once
more, to be sure there would be no clue as to which cards he had
consulted. Finally, he touched the button on his desk again.
Once more, the clerk stood in the doorway.
"This file seems to be satisfactory," he was told. "You may
bring in the correspondence now."
The correspondence was no heavier than usual. Morely flipped
through the routine matter, occasionally selecting a report or
letter and abstracting data. Tomorrow, he could check
performance by referring to these. At last, he turned to the
separate pile of directives, production and man-hour reports,
and other papers which demanded more attention than the routine
paper.
He worked through the stack of paper, occasionally calling upon
his clerk for file data, sometimes making a communicator call.
At last, he pushed away the last remaining report and leaned
back. He spun his chair about, activated the large entertainment
screen, and spent some time watching a playlet. At the end of
the play, he glanced at his watch, then turned back to his desk.
He leaned forward to touch a button on his communicator.
As the viewsphere lit, he flicked on the two-way video, then
spoke.
"Get me Sector Leader Bond." He snapped the communicator off
almost before the operator could acknowledge, then spun about,
switching his entertainment screen to ground surface scan. A
scene built up, showing a view from his estate in the hills.
There were some buildings on the surface�mostly homes of upper
grade citizens, who preferred the open air, and could afford to
have a surface estate in addition to their quarters in the
groups. These homes, for the most part, were located in wooded
areas, where their owners could find suitable fishing and
hunting.
Most of the traces of damage done by the bombings of the
Nineties were gone from about the estate areas by now, and the
few which remained were being eliminated. Morely increased the
magnification, to watch a few animals at a waterhole. He could
do a little hunting in a few weeks. Take a nice leave. He drew a
deep breath.
Those years after the end of the last war had been hectic, what
with new organizational directives, the few sporadic revolts,
the integration of homecoming fighters, and the final, tight
set-up. But it had all been worth it. Everything was running
smoothly now.
The second- and third-class citizens had learned to accept their
status, and some few of them had even found they liked it. At
least, now they had far more security. There was subsistence in
plenty for all producers, thanks to the war-born advances in
technology, and to the highly organized social framework. To be
sure, a few still felt uneasy in the underground quarters, but
the necessity for protection from bombing in another war had
been made clear, and they'd just have to get used to conditions.
And, there were a very few who, unable to get or hold
employment, existed somehow in the spartan discomfort of the
subsistence quarters.
For most, however, there was minor luxury, and a plenitude of
necessities. And there was considerable freedom of action and
choice as well as full living comfort for the full citizens, who
had proved themselves to be completely trustworthy, and who were
deemed fit to hold key positions.
The communicator beeped softly, and he glanced at the sphere. It
showed the face of Harold Bond, leader of the fourteenth sector.
The district leader snapped on his scanner.
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"Report to me here in my office at eighteen hours, Bond."
"Yes, sir."
"And you might be sure your people are all in quarters this
evening."
Bond nodded. "They will be, sir."
"That's all." Morely flicked the disconnect switch.
He got up, strode around the office, then consulted his watch.
There would be time for a cup of coffee before Bond arrived.
Time for a cup of coffee, and time for the employees in Sector
Fourteen to scurry about, getting their quarters in shape for an
inspection. They would have no way of knowing which quarters
were to be checked, and all would be put in order.
He smiled. It was a good way, he thought, to insure that there
would be no sloppiness in the homes of his people. And it
certainly saved a lot of inspection time and a lot of direct
contact.
He went out of the office, and walked slowly down to the snack
bar, where he took his time over coffee, looking critically at
the neat counter and about the room as he drank.
The counter girls busied themselves cleaning up imaginary spots
on the plastic counter and on their equipment, casting
occasional, apprehensive glances at him. Finally, he set his cup
down, looked at the clock over the counter, and walked out.
Bond was waiting in the office. Morely examined the younger man,
carefully appraising his appearance. The sector leader, he saw,
was properly attired. The neat uniform looked as if freshly
taken from the tailor shop. The man stepped forward alertly, to
halt at the correct distance before his superior.
"Good evening, sir. My heli is on the roof."
"Very good." Morely nodded shortly and took his notebook from
his pocket. "We'll go to Building Seven Twenty-three."
He turned and walked toward the self-service elevator. Bond
hurried a little to open the door for him.
Bond eased the helicopter neatly through the entry slot and on
down into one of the empty visitor spaces in the landing area at
Block 1022. The two men walked across the areaway to an
entrance.
As they went up the short flight of stairs into the hall, Morely
took careful notice of the building. The mosaic tile of the
stairs and floor gleamed from a recent scrubbing. The plastic
and metal handrails were spotless. He looked briefly at his
subordinate, then motioned toward the door at their right.
"This one," he ordered.
Bond touched the call button and they waited.
From inside the apartment, there was a slight rustle of motion,
then the door opened and a man stood before them. For an
instant, he looked startled, then he straightened.
"Paul Graham, sir," he announced. "Apartment 7A is ready for
inspection." He stepped back.
Morely looked him over critically, saw nothing that warranted
criticism, and went inside, followed by Bond.
Cursorily, the district leader let his gaze wander about the
apartment. The kitchen at his left, he saw, was in perfect
order, everything being in place and obviously clean. He went to
the range and motioned with his head.
"Pull the drip pan," he ordered.
Graham came forward and pulled a flat sheet from the range, then
opened an access door at the front of the stove.
Morely peered inside, then thrust a hand in. For a moment, he
groped around, then he pulled his hand out and looked at it. It
was clean. He sniffed at his fingers, then turned away.
"You may replace the pan, Fellow." He went into the living room,
noting that the woman and three children were neat and in the
proper attitudes of attention. One of the children was looking
at him, wide-eyed. He saw that the child was clean and
apparently healthy.
In addition to the usual chairs, table, and divan, there were
some bookcases which formed a small alcove around a combination
desk and drawing table. Morely circled the bookcases, to stand
before the desk.
"What's this?" he demanded. He turned to a bookcase, to examine
the titles.
Most of the books were engineering texts and reference works.
There were some standard works of philosophy and a few on
psychology. None of the titles seemed to be actually
objectionable.
"I�" Graham started to speak, but Morely silenced him with an
upraised hand.
"Later," he said coldly. "Bond, has this been reported to you,
and have you investigated?"
Bond nodded. "Yes, sir," he said. "Graham is a design engineer,
sir, and has been granted permission to do some research in his
quarters.
"He's commercially employed, sir, and it was a routine matter.
His employer says he has been keeping his production quotas, no
alteration to the apartment has been made, and no community
property has been defaced. I'm told that several of Graham's
designs have been of value in his plant. I didn't think�"
"I see you didn't. What is this man working on now?"
"A new type of communicator, sir. I don't know all the details."
"Get them, Bond. Get them all, and give me a full report on his
project and its progress tomorrow. Since this work is being done
during time when the man is not working for his employer, he's
using community time and the community becomes vitally
interested in his results." Morely paused, looking at the
bookcase again.
"And, while we are on the subject," he added, "get me details on
those previous designs you spoke of. It's quite possible the
community has not been getting royalty payments to which it's
entitled." He picked out a book, flipping over its pages for a
moment, then replaced it and looked searchingly at Bond.
"And get me a full inventory of this man's books and any
equipment he may have." He turned on Graham.
"Do you have purchase authorization and receipts for all of
this?"
"Yes, sir." Graham motioned toward the desk.
"Very well. I shan't bother with that now. An investigating team
can check that."
Morely took a final glance at the half-finished schematic on the
drawing board, then circled the bookcases again, to come out
into the main room.
"We'll inspect the rest of your quarters."
At last, Morely left the quarters area, followed by Bond. As
they reached the helicopter, Morely turned, one hand on the
door.
"Laxity, Bond, is something I don't tolerate. You should know
that. Possibly this man, Graham, is doing nothing illegal, or
even irregular. Possibly, he is not wasting community time, but
I have very serious doubts. I'll venture to say the community
has a financial interest in several of his recent designs, and I
mean to find out which ones and how much. And it's certainly an
unusual situation. The man's a leadman, you know, and could
spend his time more profitably in checking on the people he's
responsible for." He slid into the seat.
"I'll concede," he continued, "that employees are to be allowed
a certain amount of recreation of their own choosing. They may
have light reading in their quarters, and they may even work on
small projects�with permission, of course. But this man seems to
have gone much farther than that. He has a small electronics
factory of his own, as well as a rather extensive library. He's
obviously spending a lot of time at his activities, and that
time must come out of his community performance. This certainly
is not routine, and I can't condone your failure to make a
report on it."
"But, I�"
Morely held up a hand sternly. "Let's not have a string of
excuses," he said. "Give me a full report on the man's
possessions, his history, and the progress of whatever work he's
doing in that private factory of his. Get the details on his
previous designs, too. And bring your report in to me in the
morning, personally. I shall want to determine whether to make
this new device a community project, or whether to allow it to
be offered to his employer on a community royalty agreement. And
I shall require details on his older designs for Fiscal to
examine into. Research, you should know, is a community
function, not something to be done in any set of quarters. I
shall want to talk to you further when I've gone over this
matter.
"Now, get me back to the district offices. I want to get home,
and you've work to do tonight."
The report was a long one. Morely smiled to himself as he
thought of the time it must have taken Bond to assemble the data
and to make up his final draft. Possibly in the future, that
young man would be a little less inclined to assume too much
authority, or to be too soft in his dealings with the employee
classes. The spring in his swivel chair twanged musically as the
district leader leaned back to read.
First, there was an inventory of Graham's effects. It was a
lengthy list, followed by a certification by a security
inspector that all of the equipment inventoried was covered by
authorizations and receipts held by Graham, and that none of the
books and equipment were of improper nature for possession by a
member of the employee classes. Morely grunted and tossed that
section aside.
There was a detailed history of Graham's activities, so far as
known to Security. Morely scanned through it hurriedly. There
was nothing here of an unusual nature.
Graham had been graduated from one of the large technical
colleges during the early nineties. Morely noted that it was one
of those schools which had been later closed as a result of one
of the post-war investigations.
The subject had been employed by Consolidated Electronics as a
junior engineer, and had designed several improvements for
Consolidated's products. There was a record of promotions and a
few awards. He had held a few patents, which had been taken over
by the Central Co�rdination Products Division during the
post-war reorganization. He had also belonged to the now
proscribed Society of Electronic Engineers, had contributed
articles to that organization's journal, and had taken an active
part in some of its chapter meetings.
During the war, he had worked on radio-controlled servos, doing
acceptable work. When the professional and trade societies and
other organizations were outlawed, he had promptly resigned from
his society, and made the required declarations. But he had been
reported as privately remarking that it was "a sad thing to see
the last vestiges of personal freedom removed."
Morely pursed his lips. Not an unusual history, he decided. Of
course, the man was completely ineligible for full
citizenship�bad risk. He was barely qualified for second-class
citizenship, his obvious ability being the only qualifying
factor. Unlike many, he had no record of any effort to shirk
duty, or do economic damage during the critical period. The
district leader tossed the dossier aside and picked up the
report on Graham's present activities.
There were a series of complex schematics, and several machine
drawings which he shuffled to the back of his report. Those
could be interpreted later, if necessary. He was interested in
the description of function.
The device Graham was working on was described as a communicator
which operated by direct mind-to-mind transfer. Morely sat up
straighter, reading the paragraph over again. Either this man
was a true genius, who had discovered a new principle, or he was
completely a crackpot.
"Telepathy!"
Morely snorted and went over to the descriptions of the device,
reading carefully. Finally, he read the comments of a senior
engineer, who cautiously admitted that the circuits involved,
though highly unconventional, were not of a type to cause
spurious radiation, or to interfere with normal communication in
any way.
The engineer also noted that it was possible that the device
might be capable of radiation effects outside of the
electromagnetic spectrum, and that the power device was capable
of integration into standard equipment�in fact, might be well
worth adoption. He carefully declined, however, to give any
definite opinion without an actual model to run tests on. And he
added the comment that the first model was as yet incomplete.
Morely tossed the last sheet to his desk and leaned forward,
tapping idly on the dull-finished plastic. Finally, he touched
his call button and waited till the clerk came in.
"You may send Mr. Bond in now," he directed.
He picked up the section of the report dealing with Graham's
past designs, and started scanning it. He would have the Fiscal
chief go over this and set up the necessary royalty agreements
with Consolidated. Some of them might generate worth-while
amounts of funds.
He made no sign of recognition or awareness when Bond entered
the office, but continued with his reading. At last, he pulled a
notepad to him, wrote a brief indorsement to the Fiscal chief,
and clipped it to the part of the report dealing with Graham's
older designs. He replaced his pen in its stand and leaned back,
to stare at his junior, who stood at rigid attention.
"Yes?"
"Sector Leader Bond, sir, reporting as ordered." Bond saluted.
Negligently, Merely returned the salute, then picked up Bond's
report.
"I have gone through this, Bond," he announced. "Very
interesting. And you thought it too unimportant to report on
before?"
"I didn't want to bother you with some idle fantasy, sir. Until
the man's experiments showed definite results of some sort, I�"
"And then, you hoped to spring a completed device on me? Take
credit for it yourself, eh?"
"Not at all, sir. I�"
Morely raised a hand. "Never mind. I don't need any kind of aid
to read your intentions. They're quite plain, I see. It would
have been quite a credit to you, wouldn't it?
"'Look what I worked out, with a little, minor help from one of
the employees in my sector.'
"But I've seen that line worked before, Bond, and worked
smoothly. You don't catch the Old Man napping so easily as
that." He paused.
"Of course we don't know whether or not this device is going to
be of any real use. But we do know that this man, Graham, has
developed one thing which can be profitably incorporated into
conventional equipment. That power source of his appears to be
quite practical, and we'll adopt it. Offer it to the man's
employer, subject to community royalty. And see if you can get
Graham a little time off work in compensation. Then, keep a
close watch on his work on the rest of his device. He'll
probably use his time off to work on it�at least, he'll be a lot
better off if he does.
"I want frequent reports on his progress�daily reports, if any
significant developments occur. And I want a model of that
device as soon as it's developed and has had preliminary tests.
If it works, it might be valuable for community defense." He
waved a hand.
"That's all."
Bond turned to go, and almost got to the door before Morely
called him back.
"Oh, one more thing, Bond. Keep a closer watch on the rest of
your people. If any more of them decide to do extra work of any
unusual nature, I shall expect an immediate report in full.
Don't fail me again. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir." Bond saluted again and made his escape.
Morely watched him disappear, then turned to his communicator.
"Get me Field Leader Denton," he ordered.
The pause was slight, then the face of a middle-aged man
appeared in the viewsphere.
"Denton," said the district leader, "I want you to keep closer
watch on your sector men. Last night I spot-checked Bond, in
Fourteen, and I found an irregularity. I'll expect you to
endorse the report back, and I'll expect you to tighten down.
Keep an especially close eye on this man, Bond."
The field leader's eyebrows raised a little. "Bond, sir? He's
one of�"
"Bond. Yes." His superior interrupted forcefully. "And tighten
down on all your men. You know how I feel about laxity."
He snapped the communicator off and gathered Bond's report
together. For a few seconds, he looked at the neat stack of
paper, then he slipped a paper clamp on it and punched his call
button.
"There!" Paul Graham straightened from his hunched-over position
at the desk. He laid his soldering iron down and massaged the
small of his back, grimacing slightly.
"Oh, me! I'll swear my back'll never be the same again. But that
ought to do it, at last." He looked at the equipment before him
and grinned ruefully.
"Of all the haywire messes. It started out so nice. And it ended
up so awful."
The device had started out as a fairly neat assembly, using a
headband as a chassis. But the circuitry seemed to have gone out
of control. Miniature sub-assemblies hung at all angles from
their wires and tiny components were interlaced through the
unit, till the entire assembly looked like a wig from a horror
play. Graham shook his head, picked up the band; and carefully
fitted it, being careful that the contacts touched his forehead
and temples properly.
For an instant, he looked a little dazed. Then, he reached up
and fumbled for a moment with the controls at the front of the
headband. Suddenly, he stopped, an expression of pleasure on his
face. He stood for a time, looking at the wall, then looked up
at the ceiling. He frowned and looked at his wife, who was
anxiously watching him. A smile grew on his face, and she was
clearly conscious of the projected thought.
"I told you, Elaine, it can't possibly hurt anyone. Stop
worrying about me."
Elaine Graham looked startled. "I didn't, say anything,
darling."
Her husband looked at her with an impish grin. She frowned a
little, then her eyes widened and her mouth opened a little. She
ran at him indignantly.
"It simply isn't decent! You take that thing off, Paul Graham,
right now. I won't have you reading my mind!"
Graham laughingly fended her off with one hand as he carefully
removed the headband with the other. He set the device gently on
the desk, then seized his wife about the waist.
"It works, honey," he said jubilantly. "It really works." He
waltzed her away from the desk, to the middle of the living
room.
"Of course, I couldn't get anything from anyone but you. It
seems to work just as I thought it might�only if you can see the
person you want to contact. But I'll bet two people who were
acquainted could use two of these things to communicate with
each other at any distance. And it may be possible to work out
the problem of single-device communication at distance and
through obstacles. But that'll have to come later. Right now,
this thing works."
"But Paul. I'm afraid. What will they do with something like
this? We have so little freedom left now. Why, they won't even
let us think privately." She paused, her head turning from side
to side as she looked about the apartment.
"You know, Paul, I hardly ever dare go out of this apartment
now, they upset me so. And if they're able to read my thoughts,
I shan't be safe, even here."
Graham frowned. "True," he admitted. "But somehow, when I had
the thing on, I got some funny ideas. I wonder if anyone could
really oppress someone he fully understood. I wonder if two
people who could fully comprehend each other's point of view
could have a really serious disagreement." He picked up the
headband, looking at it searchingly.
"And there's another thing," he added. "Unless both parties are
wearing the things, vision seems to be essential to any
reaction, at least in this model. I tried to get thoughts from
the kids and from the Moreno's, upstairs. But there wasn't a
thing. And yet, I could get you clearly. Apparently this thing
won't work out as a spy device."
"But, are you sure?"
Graham shrugged wryly. "Well ... no," he admitted. "I'll have to
finish wiring the other set and try 'em both out before I'll be
sure of anything. And it'll take a lot of tests before I'm sure
of very much. Now, I've just got some ideas." He frowned
thoughtfully.
"Anyway, I can't stop now. They know about the thing, and I've
got to finish it�or furnish definite proof it's impractical." He
turned back to the desk. "Should be through with the other band
in a few minutes. Just have to put in a couple of filters."
He picked up the completed device and turned around again.
"Here, Elaine, put this on, will you? See what you get. Try to
catch a thought from outside the room."
Dutifully, Elaine Graham accepted the headband. She eyed it
doubtfully for a moment, then adjusted it over her hair, setting
the contacts on her skin as she had seen her husband do. For a
few seconds, she stared at her husband, wide-eyed. Then, she
looked away, her eyes focused on infinity.
Graham busied himself with the soldering iron and another
headband.
At last, Elaine took the headband off. "It's weird, Paul," she
said. "When I was looking at you, I knew everything you were
thinking. But when I looked away, there was nothing. It was
almost as though I didn't have it on. Only, I seemed to be able
to think so much more clearly."
Graham looked up from his work, squinting thoughtfully. "Yeah,"
he muttered. "Yeah, I noticed that, too, come to think of it.
Feedback effect of some sort, I suppose. Have to experiment with
that, too, I expect." He turned back to his work.
Elaine put the headband back on and watched him. She felt a
complete familiarity with everything he was working on. For the
first time, she felt she fully understood this man with whom she
had lived for so many years. And the understanding was pleasant.
She could comprehend the mysteries of the circuits he was
working on. She had always felt slightly neglected when he
worked with his equipment, especially since the bureaucracy, who
took his results without recompense. Now, she could feel his
interest in his work for its own sake. She could sympathize with
it. And, with a little study, she felt she could join with him.
Graham straightened again. "It's done," he said. He picked the
second headband from the desk and put it on. Abruptly, both he
and his wife were aware of a fuzziness in their thoughts and
senses. The walls, the floor, and the furniture seemed to blur
and waver, like the fantasy world of delirium. He put his hand
up and adjusted the controls. The room returned to normal, and
their senses were abruptly sharp and clear again. He dropped his
hand.
"Outside. See if it'll work when we can't see each other."
"Almost curfew time."
"Only a couple of minutes. Then lights out and sleep."
Elaine walked to the door. She stepped out into the corridor and
walked down the steps.
"All right?"
"Perfect! Try the parking lot. Close the door."
She went out of the quarters, crossed the areaway, and stood
under the landing slot. Far overhead, a segment of sky appeared
between the open bomb shutters. Stars shone coldly. She was
conscious of a movement and looked down, toward a shadow which
moved among the parked helicopters.
"What's that?"
She looked more closely at the shadow, then shuddered a little.
"Never mind." The thought was urgent. "Come inside. I got him,
too."
Quickly, Elaine walked back into the apartment. She closed the
door and walked to the desk, removing the headband as she
approached. Her husband put his headband beside it.
"We'd better get to bed," he said quietly. "I'll notify them
tomorrow."
"No, Paul. It would be harder then. And there would be so many
questions. Call the sector leader tonight. We'll have to get it
over." Elaine shivered.
"But what will they do with it?" She asked the question almost
despairingly.
Graham shook his head. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "I started
with the idea of simply building a really effective
communicator. But this is more than that. To you and I, it meant
full understanding. But to that person out there ... I don't
know."
"His thoughts were flat�almost lifeless. And he made my skin
crawl. Paul, do you remember how you used to feel when you came
close to a snake? There's something wrong with that man."
"I know. I felt it, too. And it made the blood rush into my
ears." Graham moved toward the communicator, placing his hand on
the switch. "And you're right. I'll have to report immediately.
They don't really need telepathy. And certainly, they never
required real evidence. A suspicion is sufficient, and they'd be
very suspicious if I didn't notify the sector leader tonight."
He depressed the switch deliberately, like a man firing a
weapon. Then, he dialed a number, and waited.
The sphere lit, to show the face of Harold Bond.
"Oh, Graham." Bond frowned a little. "It's late. Do you have
something to report?"
"Yes, sir." Graham's face was expressionless. "The mental
communicator is finished. Do you wish to test it, sir?"
Bond opened his eyes a little more and nodded. "It's really
done, then?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'll be there in a few minutes." The sphere darkened.
Graham looked at it. De-energized, the communicator seemed to be
merely a large ball of clear material. It stood on its low
pedestal, against its black background, reflecting a distorted
picture of the chiaroscuro of the room. He leaned toward it, and
saw a faint, deformed reflection of his own head and shoulders.
He spread his hands a little, and turned around. Elaine had
crossed to the divan, where she sat, looking apathetically at
the door, her hands folded in her lap. He smiled apprehensively,
coughed, and held up a hand, two fingers crossed.
Elaine glanced at him, nodded, and resumed her watch of the
door. Graham shrugged and walked over to his desk, where he
stood, aimlessly looking down at the two headbands.
They both jumped convulsively when the buzzer sounded. Graham
strode rapidly to the door, opened it, and stood back as the
sector leader came in. Elaine had come to her feet, and stood
rigidly, facing the door.
Sector Leader Bond closed the door, then looked from one of them
to the other. He shook his head a little sadly, and waved a hand
gently back and forth.
"Relax, you two," he said. "I'm alone this time." He turned to
Graham. "Let's see what we've got."
Graham walked to his desk and picked up the two headbands.
"They're a little rough-looking, sir," he apologized. "But they
work."
Bond tossed his head back with a little laugh. "They do look a
little rugged, don't they?" he chuckled. "Well, we'll worry
about appearance later. Right now, I'm curious. I want to see
what these things do."
Graham handed over one of the bands and slowly adjusted the
other to his head. For a moment, he looked searchingly at the
sector leader, then his face relaxed into a relieved expression.
"Hear me?"
Bond had been examining the device in his hands. He looked up,
puzzled.
"Of course I hear you," he said. "I'm not deaf."
Graham smiled a little, then placed a hand tightly over his
mouth.
"Still get me?"
Bond cocked his head to one side, looked down at the device in
his hands, then looked up again. "Well," he commented. "So
that's the way they work. I thought you spoke."
Graham shook his head. "Didn't have to. Try it on."
Bond shrugged. "Well, here we go." He pulled off his cap, tossed
it to a chair, and replaced it with the headband. For a moment,
he looked around the apartment, then he glanced at Mrs. Graham.
He blinked, ducked his head, and looked more closely at her.
"Ow! Nobody could be as bad as that!" He looked at Graham. "What
do you think?"
"There's one outside." Graham inclined his head a little.
Elaine Graham sprang to her feet. "I'm terribly sorry," she
apologized contritely. "It's just that I�"
Bond took off the headband abruptly. "I'm sorry, too," he said.
"I was prying." He looked down at the device. "I'm not too sure
about this thing," he added. "It works. I can see that much. But
I'm almost afraid it works too well. What's it going to cause?"
Graham pulled off his own headband and extended his hand for the
other. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "I'm not sure of anything at
all." He frowned. "Wish I hadn't�" He looked at the sector
leader quickly.
"I'm sorry, sir," he apologized. "Forgot my training, I guess."
Bond waved a hand. "Look," he said, "there are times, and there
are places. Right now, I'm in your home, and I'm just as worried
about this as you are. I'm just another person." He looked down
at his neat uniform.
"Once," he mused, "we were all just people. Now�" He shrugged.
"And then, these things come along." He looked at the two
headbands, then at the man holding them.
"Wonder how many people feel like that?"
Graham held out the headbands. "I know one way to find out."
Bond nodded. "I see what you mean," he admitted. "But it could
be pretty bad." He walked over to the chair and picked up his
cap.
"Well," he added with a sigh, "I suppose I'd better grab these
things and take them over to Research. Have to find out all we
can about them. I've still got to report on them." Again, he
looked at Graham. "You'd better come along, too. Research people
might have a lot of questions, and I could never answer them."
Graham nodded and went to the hall closet. He took his coat from
the hanger, put it on, and reached for his hat, then hesitated.
"You know," he said, "we might try one experiment, right here."
"Oh?" Bond raised his eyebrows.
"There's a man out in the parking lot. I believe he's detailed
to keep watch on me. You might try him with one of the
headbands. Then, see what he'll do with one on."
"Any special reason?"
Graham twisted his face uneasily. "I can't describe it," he said
almost inaudibly. "You'd have to see for yourself."
Bond looked at him speculatively for a moment, then held out his
cap and one of the headbands.
"Here, hold these."
He put the other headband on, accepted the first, and walked out
of the apartment, followed by Graham, who still carried the cap.
As they came out and started across the parking lot, a man
approached them.
Bond looked at him, frowned, then cast a sidelong look at
Graham.
"That what you meant?" His thought carried an undercurrent of
incredulity.
Graham nodded wordlessly, and Bond looked toward the approaching
man again. Once more, his face wrinkled distastefully, then he
spoke aloud.
"Oh, Ross. Want you to try some thing." He held out the headband
he was carrying in his left hand.
Ross came up, accepted the device, and looked at it curiously.
"You mean this is the thing he's been working on?" He jerked a
thumb at Graham. "Saw his wife come out a while ago. Guess she
had one of 'em on. She went right back in again."
Bond nodded. "This is it," he said. "Let's see how it works for
you."
Ross shrugged. "Try anything once, I guess." He adjusted the
band to his head, then stood, looking at the two men.
"Notice anything?" Bond looked at him sharply.
Again, Ross shrugged. "Nothing special," he said with a slight
grunt. "Seems as though this guy's pretty nervous."
"You don't have to say anything, just think it. And see if you
can communicate with Graham."
"Huh?" Ross had been looking directly at Bond. He frowned.
"You mean, this thing�" He paused, looking for a moment at
Graham, then took the headband off. "Thing doesn't feel good,"
he complained. He held the device out to Bond, who accepted it.
"But it works? You could communicate both ways with it?"
"Oh, sure." Ross nodded grudgingly. "I got you, all right. But I
couldn't get a thing out of this guy." He wagged his head toward
Graham. "Except he was jittery about something."
"I see. Thanks." Bond accepted the headband. "We're going to
take these to Research," he added. "Let the technicians there
find out how good they are." He turned away and led Graham to
his helicopter.
As Graham settled in the seat, he turned to the sector leader.
"He just couldn't use it properly," he remarked. "Maybe only
certain people can use them."
Bond nodded as he started the motor. "Or maybe only certain
people can't." He busied himself in getting the machine up
through the landing slot, then turned as they climbed into the
night sky.
"Maybe you've got to be able to understand and like people
before you can establish full contact with them. Maybe ... Maybe
a lot of things." He was silent for a moment. "You know, this
thing might become far more valuable than you thought, Graham."
Howard Morely looked up from a memo as the clerk tapped on the
door.
"Come in."
The man opened the door and stepped inside.
"Sector Leader Bond is here, sir. He has some gentlemen with
him."
"And what does he want?"
"He said it was about that new communicator, sir."
"Oh." Morely turned his attention back to the memo. "Have them
wait." He waved a hand in dismissal and went on with his
reading.
The beautification program was progressing well. Twenty miles of
the old main highway through the valley had been completely
cleared and planted. Crews were working on another stretch. The
foreman of the wrecking crew down at the point, in Sector Nine,
reported that the last bit of scrap had been removed from the
old bridge support. Underwater crews had salvaged the cables and
almost all of the metal from the fallen bridge itself, and the
scrap was on the beach, ready for delivery to the reclamation
mills in District One.
Morely smiled sourly. Harwood would have a storage problem on
his hands in a day or so. The delay in delivery could be
explained and justified. Morely had seen to that. Now, all the
material was ready and could be delivered in one lot.
Harwood would have to raise his production quota in his
community mills to use up the excess material, and that would
slow down the clean-up in District One. The Old Man couldn't
help but notice, and he'd see who was efficient in his region.
The district leader pushed the memo sheets aside and placed his
hands behind his head.
Slowly, he pivoted his chair, to look at the entertainment
screen. He started to energize it, then drew his hand back.
Continued in next post on this thread:
HTML https://soberthinking.createaforum.com/gallery/soberthinking/1-040422164520-5301778.gifhttps://soberthinking.createaforum.com/gallery/soberthinking/1-040422164615-5351419.gif
#Post#: 276--------------------------------------------------
Final Weapon continued
DIR By: AGelbert
Date: April 21, 2022, 1:25 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
Final Weapon continued:
Slowly, he pivoted his chair, to look at the entertainment
screen. He started to energize it, then drew his hand back.
So that crackpot, Graham, had finally come up with something
definite. Morely smiled again. It had almost seemed as though
the man had been stalling for a while. But the pressure and the
veiled threats had been productive�again.
To be sure, the agents covering that project had reported that
the device seemed to be merely another fairly good means of
communication�nothing of any tremendous importance. But results
had been obtained, and a communicator which was reasonably free
from interception and which required relatively low power might
be of some value to the community. He might be able to get a
commendation out of it, at least.
And even if it were unsuitable for defense, there'd be a new
product for one of the luxury products plants in the district,
and the district would get royalties from the manufacturer. Too,
it would keep people busy and make 'em spend more of their
credits.
He grimaced at his vague reflection in the screen before him,
and spoke aloud.
"That's the way to get things done. Make 'em know who's in
charge. And let 'em know that no nonsense will be tolerated.
Breathe down their necks a little. They'll produce." He cleared
his throat and spun around, to punch the button on his desk.
The door opened and the clerk stood, respectfully awaiting
orders.
"Send in Bond and the people with him."
The clerk stepped back, turning his head.
"You may go in now, sir." He disappeared around the door.
Harold Bond stepped through the doorway, followed by two men.
Morely looked at them closely. Engineers, he thought.
"What have you got?" he demanded.
One of the men opened a briefcase and removed a large, dully
gleaming band. Apparently, it was made of plastic, or some light
alloy, for he handled it as though it weighed very little.
As the man laid it on the desk, Morely examined the object
closely. It was large enough to go on a man's head, he saw. It
had adjustable straps, which could be used to hold it in place,
and there were a few spring-loaded contacts, which apparently
were meant to rest against a wearer's forehead and temples.
A few tiny knobs protruded from one side of the band, and a
short wire, terminated by a miniature plug, depended from the
other.
The engineer dipped into his brief case again, to produce a
small, flat case with a long wire leading from it. He put this
by the headband, and connected the plugs.
"The band, sir," he explained, "is to be worn on the head." He
pointed to the flat case. "To save weight in the band, we built
a separate power unit. It can be carried in a pocket. We've
tested the unit, sir, and it does provide a means of private
communication with anyone within sight, or with a group of
people. Two people, wearing the headbands, can communicate for
considerable distances, regardless of obstacles."
"I see." Morely picked up the headband. "Do you have more than
one of these?"
"Yes, sir. We made four of the prototypes and tested them
thoroughly." Bond stepped forward. "I sent a report in on them
yesterday."
"Yes, yes. I know." Morely waved impatiently. He examined the
headband again. "And you say it provides communication?"
"Yes, sir."
"No chance of interception?"
Bond shook his head. "Well," he admitted, "if two people are in
contact, and a third equipped person wishes to contact either
one, he can join the conversation."
"So, it's easier to tap than a cable circuit, or even a security
type radio circuit." Morely frowned. "Far from a secure means of
communication."
"Well, sir, if anyone cuts in on a communication, both parties
know it immediately."
Morely grunted and shook his head. "Still not secure," he
growled. He looked at the papers on his desk. "Oh, put one on.
We'll see how they work." He leaned back in his chair.
Bond turned to the man with the brief case, who held out another
headband. The sector leader fitted it to his head, plugged in
the power supply and looked around the room. Finally, he glanced
at his superior. A shadow of uncertainty crossed his face,
followed by a quickly suppressed expression of distaste.
Morely watched him. "Well?" he demanded impatiently, "I don't
feel or see anything unusual."
"Of course not, sir," explained Bond smoothly. "You haven't put
on the other headband yet."
"Oh? I thought you could establish communication with only one
headset, so long as you were in the same room."
HTML https://www.gutenberg.org/files/24723/24723-h/images/005.png Bond smiled ingratiatingly. "Only sometimes, sir. Some people
are more susceptible than others."
"I see." Morely looked again at the headband, then set it on his
head. One of the engineers hurried forward to help him with the
power pack, and he looked around the room, becoming conscious of
slight sensations of outside thought. As he glanced at the
engineers, he received faint impressions of anxious interest.
"Can you receive me, sir?"
Morely looked at Bond. The younger man was staring at him with
an intense expression on his face. The district leader started
to speak, then remembered and simply thought the words.
"Of course I can. Didn't you expect results?"
"Oh, certainly, sir. Do you want me to go outside for a further
test?"
The headband was bothering Morely a little. Unwanted impressions
seemed to be hovering about, uncomfortably outside the range of
recognition. He took the device off and looked at it again.
"No," he said aloud. "It won't be necessary. It's obvious to me
that this thing will never be any good for practical application
in any community communications problem. It's too vague. But
it'll make an interesting toy, I suppose. Some people might like
it as a novelty, and it'll give them some incentive to do extra
work in order to own one. That's what luxury items are for. And
the district can use any royalty funds it may generate."
He laid the headband on his desk. "Go ahead and produce a few
samples. Offer the designs to Graham's employer. He can offer
them on the luxury market, if he wishes, and we'll see what they
do. If people want them, it might be profitable, both for the
district and for Consolidated." He shrugged.
"No telling what'll make people spend their credits." He started
to nod a dismissal, then hesitated.
"Oh, yes. I think I'll keep this one," he added. "And you might
leave a couple more. The regional director might be amused by
them."
He accepted the two headbands and their power packs, put them in
a desk drawer, and sat back to watch the three men leave the
office.
After the door closed, he still sat, idly staring at the
headband on his desk. He put it on his head again, then sat,
looking about the room. There was no unusual effect, and he took
the band off again, looked at it sourly, and laid it down.
Somehow, when Bond and those other two had been in the room, he
had sensed a vague feeling of expectancy. Those three had seemed
to be enthusiastic and hopeful about something, he was sure. But
he failed to see what. This headband certainly showed him
nothing.
He stared at the band for a while longer, then put it back on
and punched the call button on his desk. As his clerk came into
sight, he watched the man closely. There was a slight effect. He
could sense a vague fear. And a little, gnawing hatred. But
nothing was definite, and no details of thought came through. He
shrugged.
Of course the man was fearful. He probably was reviewing his
recent mistakes, wondering which one he might be called upon to
explain. Too bad his mind wasn't clear enough to read. But what
could you expect? Possibly, he could drive Research into
improving the device later.
"Anyway," he told himself, "everyone has something they're
afraid of. It's natural. And everyone has their pet hates, too."
For an instant, he thought of Harwood.
He focused his mind on a single thought. "Get me the quarters
file for Sector Nine."
There was a definite effect this time. There was a sharp
radiation of pained surprise. Then, there was acquiescence. The
clerk started to say something, then backed toward the door. The
impression of fear intensified. Morely smiled sardonically. The
thing was an amusing toy, at that. He might find uses for it.
He sat back, thinking. He could use it as a detector. Coupled
with shrewd reasoning, well-directed questions, and his own
accurate knowledge of human failings, it could tell him a great
deal about his people and their activities.
For instance, a question about some suspicious circumstance
would cause a twinge of fear from the erring person. And that
could be detected and localized. Further questions would produce
alternate feelings of relief and intensified fear. He nodded
complacently. Very little had ever gotten by him, he thought.
But from now on, no error would remain undiscovered or
unpunished.
The clerk returned to place the file drawers convenient to his
superior's desk. He hesitated a moment, his eyes on the
headband, then picked up the completed papers from the desk and
went out.
Morely riffled through the cards, idly checked a few against his
notes, and leaned back again. The file section seemed to be
operating smoothly. He looked at his desk. Everything that had
to be done immediately was done. And the morning was hardly more
than half over.
He rose to his feet. Surely, somewhere in the headquarters,
there must be some sort of trouble spot. Somewhere, someone was
not producing to the fullest possible. There must be some loose
end. And he'd find it. He went out, jerking a thumb back at his
office as he passed his clerk's desk.
"You can pick up those files again, Roberts. And see to it that
my office gets cleaned up a little. I won't be back for a
while."
He went out, to walk down the corridor to the snack bar.
There were a few girls there. He walked by their table, glancing
at their badges. Communications people. He nodded to himself,
ordered coffee, and chose a table.
As he glanced at the girls' table, he could detect a current of
uneasiness. They'd probably been fooling away more time than
they should. Too bad he couldn't get more definite information
from their thoughts. Like to know just how long they had been
there. He tilted his wrist, taking a long look at his watch. The
current of uneasiness increased. No doubt to it, they'd been
more than ten minutes already.
The girls hurriedly finished their coffee and left. Morely
sipped at his own cup.
At last, he got up and went out. Might be a good idea to visit
the Fixed Communications Section. Looked as though there might
be a little laxity there.
As he walked down the corridor, he mentally reviewed the
operation of communications. There was Fixed Communications,
responsible for communicator service to all the offices and
quarters in the district, as well as to the various commercial
organizations. There were also Mobile Comm, Warning, Long Lines,
and Administrative Radio.
Of these, the largest was Fixed Communications, with its dial
equipment, its banks of video amplifiers, the network of cables,
and the substation equipment. It would take days to thoroughly
check all their activities. But the office was the key to the
entire operation. He could check their records, and get a clue
to their efficiency. And he could question the section chief.
He took the elevator to the communications level and walked
slowly along the hallway, glancing at the heavy steel door
leading to Warning as he passed it. That could be checked later,
though there would be little point to it.
It had always annoyed him to think of the operators in that
section. They simply sat around, doing nothing but watch their
screens and keep their few, piddling records. They did nothing
productive, but they had to be retained. Actually, he had to
admit, they were a necessity under present conditions. War was
always a possibility and the enemy was building up his
potential. He might strike at any time, and he'd certainly not
send advance notification. If he did strike, the warning teams
would perform their brief mission, alerting the active, working
members of the defense groups. Then, they would be available for
defense. And the defense co�rdinators required warning teams and
equipment in prescribed districts. His was one of these.
He grumbled to himself. Even the number of operators and their
organization were prescribed. This was a section, right within
his own district, where he had little authority. And it was
irritating. Drones, that's what they were.
He continued to the Fixed Communications office. Here, at least,
he had authority.
He walked through the door, casting a quick glance at the office
as he entered. The section chief got up from his chair, and came
forward. Morely felt a little glow of satisfaction as he
detected the now familiar aura of uneasiness. Again, he wished
this device he wore were more effective. He would like to know
the details of this man's thoughts.
"Good morning, sir." The Fixed Communication chief saluted.
Morely returned the salute perfunctorily, then examined the man
critically.
"Morning," he acknowledged. "Kirk, I want you to get some new
uniforms. You look like a rag bag."
A little anger was added to the uneasiness. Kirk looked down at
his clothing. It wasn't new, but there was actually little
wrong, other than the slight smudge on a trouser leg, and a few,
small spots of dullness on his highly polished boots.
"I've been inspecting some cable vaults, sir," he explained. "We
had a little trouble, due to ground seepage."
"It makes no difference," the district leader snorted, "what
you've been doing. A man in your position should be properly
attired at all times." He paused, looking Kirk over minutely.
"If your cable vaults are in such bad condition, get them
cleaned up. When I look your installations over, I shall expect
them to be clean. Clean, and in order."
He looked beyond Kirk. "And get that desk cleared. A competent
man works on one thing at a time and keeps his work in order. A
place for everything, and everything in its place, you know. You
don't need all that clutter. Is the rest of your office as
disorderly as this?"
He looked disparagingly about the small room, then turned toward
the door to the main communications office. Kirk moved to open
the door.
At one side of the large office was a battery of file cabinets.
Four desks were arranged conveniently to them. Morely looked at
this arrangement.
"What's this?"
"Billing and Directory, sir. These are the master files of all
fixed communication subscribers. From them, we make up the
semiannual directory, its corrective supplements, and the
monthly bills."
Morely frowned at the desks and files, then looked at the
clerks, who were bent over their desks. As one of the girls
straightened momentarily, he recognized her. He'd seen her
earlier, in the snack bar. He looked more closely at her desk.
She had reason, he thought for that radiation of uncertain fear
he could sense.
"What's in those files?" he demanded.
"It's a complete index to all subscribers, sir." Kirk looked a
little surprised. Morely recognized that the man thought the
question a little foolish. He cleared his throat growlingly.
"Let's see one of those cards."
Kirk walked to the file, pulled a small envelope at random, and
held it out. The district leader examined it.
"Hah!" he snorted. "I thought so. Duplication of effort. This
has nothing on it that isn't in my quarters and locator files."
"There's billing information on the back, sir," Kirk, pointed
out. "And current charge slips are kept in the envelope. We use
these to prepare the subscriber bills, as well as to maintain
the directory service. It's a convenience file, to speed up our
work."
Morely turned the envelope over in his hands. "Oh, yes." He
opened the envelope, to look at the slips inside. "How do you
get the information for these?"
"The charge slips come from Long Lines, sir." Kirk paused. "We
get billing information for basic billing from the counters in
the dial machine. The other information comes from installation
reports and from the quarters file section and the locator
files."
Morely handed the envelope back.
"I can see, Kirk," he said, "that you've built up a whole
subsection of unnecessary people here." He stepped over to the
file cabinets, examined their indices, then pulled a drawer
open. He pulled his notebook out, consulted its entries, and
searched out an envelope. For a moment, he compared it with the
notebook. Then, he turned, holding out the envelope.
"And you don't even keep your information current," he accused.
"This man was transferred yesterday afternoon, to another
sector. You still show him at his old quarters, with his old
communicator code."
"We haven't that information from Files yet, sir," protested
Kirk. "They send us a consolidated list of changes daily, but it
generally doesn't come in till thirteen hundred."
Morely dropped the envelope on one of the desks.
"Quarters Files can handle this entire operation," he declared,
"with a little help from Fiscal. And they can handle it far
better than your people here." He stopped for a moment,
thinking, then continued. "Certainly," he decided, "Fiscal can
take care of your billing. They handle the funds anyway, in the
final analysis. And you can co�rdinate your directory work with
the chief clerk at Files. You've got excess people here, Kirk.
We don't need any of them."
He looked at the desks and felt a wave of consternation. Kirk
spread his hands.
"But we have the information we need close at hand, sir. Our
directory has been coming out on time, and in accurate
condition. And our billing is well organized. The directory and
billing are my respons�"
Morely waved a hand, then tapped himself on the chest with a
long forefinger. "The entire operation of this headquarters is
my responsibility, Kirk," he said positively, "and mine alone.
And I mean to take care of it. You're responsible to me that
Fixed Communications are kept in order, and I don't mean to
relieve you of a bit of that responsibility. But I won't have
you making jobs and wasting funds on excess personnel." He
snorted. "Convenience files are all right. But they're meant to
save work, not make it."
Kirk shook his head. "A decentralization will make it
difficult," he began.
Again, Morely cut him off. "Don't start telling me why you can't
do something," he snapped. "Work out a way you can do it. Make
up plans for transferring this filing function to Quarters
Files, and work up a plan for transferring your billing to
Fiscal. That's their business, and they know how to handle it.
Submit your study to me this afternoon." He looked around the
office again.
"The people in Files and Fiscal can handle this workload without
adding a single person. And they will. You're using four clerks
to swing it. Kirk, I want this organization to run efficiently,
and excess personnel don't lead to economic operation." He
stared at the section chief.
"Give these four people their notices today, and I'll expect
some suggestions from you as to further streamlining of your
section within the next two days. And be sure they're sound
suggestions, which result in personnel savings. Otherwise, I'll
be looking for a new section chief up here."
For a few seconds, he stood, enjoying the waves of consternation
and futile anger which beat about him. Almost, he could pick up
some of the despairing thoughts in detail. The clerks, of
course, were second-class citizens. And without employment,
they'd soon lose their luxury privileges. Unless they were
fortunate enough to find other employment very soon, they'd have
to move to subsistence quarters, and learn to do without all but
the most meagre of food, clothing, and shelter. When they did
get employment again, they'd appreciate it. He looked
majestically around the office once more, then turned and strode
away.
He went through the corridor to the elevator, and stepped in,
smiling contentedly. The morning hadn't been entirely wasted.
As he got out of the elevator on executive level, he glanced at
his watch. It wasn't quite time for lunch, but there would be
little point in spending the few remaining minutes in his
office. He walked slowly toward the executive cafeteria.
After lunch, he returned to his office. A few matters awaited
his examination and decision, and he busied himself for a short
time, disposing of them. He paused over the last.
It was a request from Kirk for more cable construction. The
justification showed figures which indicated an increase in
executive type communications during the past few months. This,
coupled with new quarters construction, necessitated additions
to the cable trunks from the main exchange. There was added a
short survey of necessary repair to existing cable facilities.
Morely leaned back. If he approved the request, he would be
helping Kirk increase his section. On the other hand, if he
disapproved it, and the communicator lines became congested, he
might find himself open to criticism later. Some of his
satisfaction evaporated. He looked sourly at the paper.
Suddenly, he thought of Bond's new project. The man had claimed
this device could serve as a communication means between its
wearers, and had demonstrated that his claim had some truth.
After noting the slight fatigue the device seemed to cause in
this application, and the vagueness of the device's operation,
Morely had disregarded the claim. But junior executives could
put up with a little fatigue and inconvenience. And he could see
that they did. It might even cut down the time they were always
wasting, talking with one another. He rubbed his chin with one
hand.
"Well," he told himself, "let's see how it works."
From the way Bond had acted in his office, the sector leader
might be still wearing his headband. In fact, he probably was.
Morely concentrated on the man, then concentrated on a single,
peremptory thought.
"Bond! Can you receive me?"
The answer was prompt. "Yes, sir. You wanted me?"
"Of course, Idiot. Why do you think I called? Do you really
believe these things would be suitable for routine
communication? Could they supplement our normal system?"
"Certainly, sir. They should be very effective."
"Have you offered them to Consolidated yet?"
"Yes, sir. They've accepted them. They're beginning to tool up
for production."
Morely winced. He had given the order, to be sure�and before
creditable witnesses. Bond had been right in taking immediate
action, and his speed would have been commendable in most cases.
But this time, Morely regretted his subordinate's efficiency. It
was possible the devices might have a practical use after all.
Possibly he had been hasty in releasing them to the open market.
He shrugged away his thoughts. After all, an administrator had
to make quick decisions. He returned to his unusual
conversation.
"Set up a line in research and make up sufficient of those
communicators to outfit the executive personnel of this
district."
"Yes, sir."
"And give me delivery as soon as you possibly can. How soon will
that be?"
"We can do it in five days, sir."
"Make it three. That's all."
Morely took off his headband. It wasn't as good as a
communicator sphere, but it would be good enough. He looked at
the request from Communications. Possibly, he would be able to
cut Kirk down still more. He scrawled a "disapproved" on the
sheet and initialed it. He started to toss the sheet to the
corner of his desk, then hesitated.
Drawing the request back to him, he added: "Two subjects on same
request. Resubmit as separate requests." He tossed the sheet to
the desk corner, for the clerk to pick up. Let Kirk make up new
requests, then worry about why his new construction request was
still disapproved. He could always be advised to resubmit later,
if the headbands didn't work out.
Miles away, Bond turned to an engineer.
"Tool up and start producing these communicators as fast as you
can make 'em, Morris. I'll tell you when to stop. The Old Man
just ordered a batch of 'em, and this is one order I want to
comply with, and fast!"
He walked toward the small production office. Let's see, he had
to produce enough for all the exec personnel in the district.
Have to start finding out just how many of those guys there
were.
"Make delivery as soon as possible, huh? Cut my estimate by two
days? I'll have 'em out over night, if I have to start driving
people to do it."
Morely looked up as the communicator beeped. He reached to the
control panel and touched the switch. The face of his deputy
appeared in the sphere.
"The section chiefs and field leaders are in the conference
room, sir."
"Very good." Morely pushed back his chair. "I'll be right in."
He stepped through the door and crossed the outer office to the
conference room. As he entered, there was a rustle of motion.
The section chiefs and field leaders stood at attention around
the table, waiting. At each place at the table was a blank
notepad. The district leader went immediately to the head of the
table and sat down.
"Gentlemen," he began, "I'll make this short. I've called you in
to try out a new device which I intend to use to help solve the
ever-present problem of communication." He looked toward Ward
Kirk, who had glanced up in surprise.
"From time to time," he continued, "requests for more and more
communicator lines have been coming in to my office. Since no
one else seemed to be able to do anything about it, I decided it
was time for me to step in. After all, we can't expand our
cables indefinitely. We haven't unlimited funds at our disposal
and there are other projects demanding attention. Important
projects.
"A new electronic development has come to my attention, and it
promises to relieve the load on our communicators. Each of you
will be issued one of these devices, which I believe are called
'mental communicators,' or something of the sort. And you will
draw sufficient of them to outfit those of your people who have
occasion to use communication to any large degree. You will use
them for all routine communications." He nodded to his deputy,
who stepped to the door and beckoned.
Two men came in, carrying cartons, which they distributed around
the room. Morely waited until one of the cartons was in the
hands of each of the men before him, then he reached up to touch
the headband he was wearing.
"This is the device I'm speaking of," he said. "Each of you will
wear one of these at all times while you are on duty. You will
find, after a little practice, that you will be able to call any
associate who is similarly equipped. And you will use them in
place of the conventional communications whenever possible." He
cleared his throat raspingly.
"Sufficient of these devices have been produced to outfit all
the key people of this district. I shall leave it to you to
distribute them to your subordinates, and to instruct those
subordinates in their use. And I shall expect the load on our
communicator cables to be appreciably diminished." He looked to
one side of the room.
"Bond."
"Yes, sir."
"You will instruct those present in the use of this new
communicator." Morely rose and left the room.
As the district leader disappeared through the door, Harold Bond
walked to the front of the room. In his hands, he held one of
the headbands and a power pack.
"Gentlemen," he said, "this is a form of communicator. I don't
pretend to understand precisely how it operates, though I
watched its development and set up a production line for it. All
I know is that it works. And I know how to use it�to some
extent.
"The district leader remarked that one could learn to use it
with a little practice, and he's right. Basically, anyone can
use it as soon as he puts it on for the first time. But it's
like so many other tools. The more you use it, the more
proficient you get with it. And I suspect it has capabilities I
haven't found yet." He shrugged.
"Operation is simple in the extreme. Since the first model,
refinements have been added, and it's unnecessary now for an
operator to make any adjustments, other than intensity."
He picked up the power pack.
"This is the power pack, which is plugged into the headband,
thus." He paused as he connected the two plugs.
"If you gentlemen will perform the operations as I do, this will
take only a short time."
There was a crackling in the room as cartons were opened. Power
packs and headbands rattled against the table for a moment, then
Bond continued.
"Having plugged in the power pack, you turn this small knob very
slightly in a clockwise direction, then place the headband on
your head. The knob is the switch and intensity control, and
it's quite sensitive. Most people need very little intensity. If
you have difficulty with communication, raise the intensity a
little at a time, till thoughts come through clearly." He
paused, as the men before him adjusted the headbands to their
heads.
"The power pack," he continued, "may be placed in a pocket." He
reached down. "Personally, I carry mine in my shirt, since I
find that convenient."
He looked around the room. Men were turning to stare at their
neighbors. Bond could detect a current of uncertainty, then a
sensation of pleased surprise. Snatches of thought drifted to
him. He ignored them for the moment. Time enough to become
acquainted with people later. He placed a hand over his mouth,
so everyone could see he was not speaking.
"Can everyone receive me?"
There was a wave of affirmation, and Bond nodded.
"Simple, isn't it? Are there any questions?"
A jumble of thoughts made him waver. Most of them could have
been phrased, "How does this thing work? What does it do? Am I
dreaming?" Bond smiled in real amusement. He held up a hand.
"I felt the same way," he thought reassuringly. "Sometimes. I
still do. All I can tell you is what you've already found out
for yourselves. It works. I'm told it's a sort of telepathic
amplifier and radiator. But as I told you, I don't understand
its principles. As to practice? I'm still meeting interesting
people. So will you." He took off the headband.
"If anyone has any further questions on operation, I'll try to
answer them," he thought quickly. He glanced around the room.
Three men were looking at him blankly. He took careful note of
them, and mentally shook hands with himself. They were the ones
he'd thought would blank out. He spoke aloud.
"I'm sorry, gentlemen," he apologized. "I forgot I might be out
of communication. I'm not completely used to this mentacom,
myself." He looked toward the deputy leader.
"Do you have anything to add, sir?"
The deputy shook his head. "No," he said thoughtfully. "I think
the demonstration was adequate. He cast a quizzical look at
Bond, then looked around the room.
"You gentlemen will find a supply of these devices in the outer
office. You may draw one for each person you wish outfitted. If
any of you have further questions, I would suggest you get in
touch with Community Research. They understand this thing." He
waved toward the door. "This meeting is adjourned."
He watched as the men filed from the room, then turned on Bond.
"What was that business after you took off your headband?" he
demanded. "I received you perfectly, and so did practically
everyone here. Why the apology?"
Bond grimaced. "We found out something peculiar while we were
making preliminary tests on this device, sir," he explained.
"Some people don't seem to be able to pick up clear thoughts
with it, unless another person uses the mentacom to drive in to
them. Most of us can pick up thoughts from anyone we look at,
whether they have a band on or not. Definite, surface thoughts,
that is."
"And?" The deputy's expression was still questioning. He reached
up to point at the band he was still wearing. "I'm getting some
mighty peculiar secondary thoughts right now," he added.
"And the people who can't use the device fully have other
peculiarities, sir. I'd rather not go into detail. You can find
out the whole story for yourself with a very short bit of
experimentation, and you have a subject right at hand. If I
simply told you, you probably wouldn't believe me anyway."
The deputy nodded slowly. "For the moment," he said, "I'll take
your words�and your thoughts�as true. Now, one more question:
Can a person, using one of these things, successfully lie to
another person who wears one?"
"No, sir." Bond was positive. "It's impossible."
"I got that impression. Thanks." The deputy turned and walked
out of the door. Bond looked after him, a slight smile growing
on his lips.
"Old Man wanted 'em," he told himself. "He's got 'em."
The Fiscal chief glanced through the letter in his hands, then
canted his head a little and read again. He lowered it to his
desk, then sat for a moment, to stare into space. Finally, he
looked down once more.
Central Co�rdination Agency
Office of the Comptroller
CCA 7.33821 July, 2012
To:District Leader
District Twelve
Region Nine
Attn.:Fiscal Chief
Subject:Mental Communicator
1. It has been brought to the attention of this office that a
product known as the "Consolidated Mental Communicator" is being
manufactured in District Twelve, Region Nine, and offered for
sale as a luxury item.
2. The characteristics of this device have been investigated by
the Technical Division, Central Co�rdination Agency, and it has
been found that the device does in fact permit communication
between persons by telepathic or some similar means.
3. This device is presently being offered for sale in retail
luxury stores throughout the nation. The volume of sales and of
potential sales warrants distribution of the manufacturing load
to manufacturers other than the Consolidated Electronics
Company, who, it is understood, presently hold an exclusive
manufacturing agreement with the office of the District Leader,
District Twelve, Region Nine. This arrangement is inconsistent
with the sales and use potential of the device in question.
4. The agreement between District Twelve, Region Nine, and the
Consolidated Electronics Company will be forwarded immediately
to this headquarters for consideration. It is contemplated that
this agreement will be terminated and replaced by a
manufacturing license from the Products Division, Central
Co�rdinating Agency, who will further license other
manufacturers to produce this device.
By Command of Chief Co�rdinator Gorman
KELLER
Comptroller
MRK/pem
The Fiscal chief shook his head. This one spelled trouble�in
capitals. The royalty payments from Consolidated had become one
of the major sources of income for the district. And Morely had
ordered project after project, using those funds to pay for
them. Some of the projects were still outstanding. The Old Man
would blow his top.
He looked again at the small scrap of paper which was clipped to
the letter. On it was scrawled: "DeVore�See me�HRM."
For a moment, DeVore considered using his own mentacom, then he
discarded the idea. To be sure, the leader had insisted that his
subordinates use the devices for their own communications, and
he'd cut Fixed Communications to the bone. But he still insisted
on either communicator calls or personal contact when he wished
to talk to any of his people. And he discouraged any but
essential use of the communicator system, generally demanding
that people come in to see him.
DeVore wrinkled his face disgustedly. It was hard to communicate
with the district leader by means of a headband. There was a
repellent characteristic about the man's mental emanations, and
he seemed to fail to comprehend nuances of meaning. Similes, he
ignored completely. Thoughts had to be completely and clearly
detailed, then phrased into normal, basic wordage before he
would acknowledge them. None of the short-cuts used by other
members of the administrative staff seemed to work out in his
case. He apparently didn't notice visualizations, and he never
made one. His transmission was as stiff and labored as the type
of communication he required from others�more so, if anything.
DeVore scratched his neck.
"How," he asked himself, "does one define a telepathic
monotone?"
There were a few others with whom DeVore had experienced similar
difficulties, but most people, he had found, picked up meanings
and concepts without difficulty�even seemed to anticipate at
times. And since the new induction mentacoms had come on the
market, with the annoying contacts and headstraps removed,
virtually everyone seemed to be either in possession of one of
the devices, or about to get one. And, they were worn
everywhere.
He smiled as he thought of the young father-to-be, who had bored
through the evening traffic rush yesterday. The youngster had
been so intent on getting his wife to the hospital that he'd
probably failed to see half the ships that clawed out of his
way. And his visualization had been almost painfully clear. He'd
probably be apologizing for weeks to everyone he contacted.
DeVore straightened in his chair. What would happen, he
wondered, if the leader ever ran into one of those situations?
"Yipe!" he muttered. "What a row that would be."
He shrugged, got out of his chair, and walked out into the
corridor.
"Better get it over with," he told himself.
As he approached the leader's door, it opened, and Ward Kirk
came out. He closed the door with a careful gentleness, then
faced it for an instant. DeVore was conscious of a wave of
hopeless fury, and a fleeting glimpse of Morely's face, framed
by brilliant flame. Then, Kirk faced around and saw him.
"Careful," DeVore thought. "You're broadcasting. He'll pick you
up."
Kirk grimaced and DeVore saw a faint image of a tyrannosaur,
which reared up, jaws agape. Blood dripped from the human figure
gripped in the creature's talons.
"The old ... wouldn't understand if he did."
DeVore grinned. "See what you mean. Well, guess I'm the next
victim."
He stepped to the door and tapped.
"Come in."
Morely looked up as his Fiscal Chief entered, then swept some
papers aside. "Well, what do you want?"
DeVore held out the letter. "You wanted to see me, sir, about
this." He placed the paper within the reach of his superior, who
snatched at it, held it up for a moment, then dropped it to his
desk.
"Yes, I did. What can we do about it?"
"Why," DeVore spread his hands slightly, "we'll have to comply."
"That isn't what I meant, Idiot! How can we continue to receive
the payments from Consolidated?"
"I don't think we can, sir. If Central Co�rdinating wants to put
the device on a national basis, we can't do anything about it."
Morely looked down at the letter, then glared searchingly at
DeVore. "The way I read this," he declared, "they want to
distribute manufacturing rights on the communicator to plants in
other regions than this. Right?"
"Yes, sir."
"But they don't say anything about our continuing the
Consolidated payments on an overwrite basis, for the sale of
devices they may make. Now, do they?"
"No, sir. But that's implied. In cases like this, Central always
takes over all rights." DeVore hesitated. "I believe
regulations�"
"I don't care what's implied, DeVore. And I don't care what you
believe. All I see is what's in this letter. They want to
distribute the manufacturing load, and I'm quite willing that
they should. I want to continue receiving the payments from
Consolidated. Now, you arrange it so that they're satisfied and
I'm satisfied."
"But that'll mean Consolidated will have to pay double. We
can't�"
"Don't say 'can't' to me!" Morely held up a hand angrily.
"DeVore, I'm not going to tell you how to do this. I want it
done. The details are your affair, and if I have to teach you
your business, I'll get someone who can do things without having
to have them spelled out to him." He leaned back, to glare at
DeVore.
"Now, get on the job. I told you to make arrangements for me so
that we will retain our payments from Consolidated. And I'm not
interested in what arrangements you make with them, or what
arrangements they make with Central. Is that a simple enough
order for you to understand?"
"Yes, sir. I understand all right. But�"
"Good! I'm glad I managed to get at least one simple idea into
your head." The spring in the chair twanged as Morely came
forward, to poke his head at DeVore. "Now, get to work on it."
He jerked his head down for a quick look at the letter on his
desk, then looked up again.
"And I'll expect a report from you by tonight that you've got
the matter taken care of."
DeVore looked at his superior expressionless for a heartbeat. He
had been given peculiar orders before, and he'd always managed
to work out the problems involved. But this was the ultimate.
This one seemed to be just plain illegal. And there was no point
in arguing further. There was just the barest chance that there
might be some legitimate way out. If he challenged the Old Man
on an illegal order, he just might get his ears pinned back.
He'd simply have to go back to his office and try to hunt out a
technicality. He nodded.
"Yes, sir. I'll get on it immediately."
He saluted and started to leave the office. But he didn't make
it.
"And, DeVore!"
The Fiscal chief halted abruptly, and turned.
"Sir?"
"I'm getting tired of the negative thinking you people seem to
have fallen into lately. I'm sick of going into every routine
detail with you. When you got that letter, you should have
immediately worked out a method of retaining the royalties.
Then, you could have come in and presented it for my approval.
That is the kind of work I want. And that's the kind of work I
mean to get in the future. Do you understand?"
Sternly, DeVore suppressed a sarcastic thought. He held his mind
and face blank and nodded with a semblance of respect.
"Yes, sir."
"Very well." Morely waved a hand. "Now get something done."
As DeVore walked through the corridor, he thought over the
situation. Of course, the easy way out would be to force
Consolidated to continue the payments in addition to their
license fees from Central. That could be done. There were all
kinds of methods by which pressure could be brought to bear on
any company by the district leader's office. And from
Consolidated's point of view, double payments could offer a
cheap means of keeping out of difficulties. They would be able
to pass most of the cost to the consumer by a slight price
increase, justified by a minor modification of the devices.
But they wouldn't be happy about it, and there would come a day
when an auditing team from Central would be checking in the
district. And that would be the day of days!
DeVore turned in at the door to his own office, crossed the
room, and sat down at his desk.
To be sure, he could request a share of the fees from Central,
and they'd make an award. But they'd never award more than fifty
per cent, and it'd be hard to get that much. That was no good.
The Old Man would want the same payments he'd been getting.
Or, he could try to negotiate a new agreement with Consolidated,
double the royalties, and then request fifty per cent from
Central. He grinned wryly. That would be within legal limits, he
was sure, but Central knew the present arrangement, and he knew
that they knew. And so would most of the interested
manufacturers in other regions. The first-class citizens who
owned the plants had their own liaison. They'd all balk. Then,
Central would invalidate both old and new agreements and refuse
compensation of any kind to district. That would be a suicidal
course.
He looked up, thinking of one of the girls out in the legal
crew.
"Fiscal regulations, please. And Markowitz on royalties, too."
The girl turned half around, and he could see a faint impression
of her view of office details. Then, she went to a book rack.
For a few seconds, she glanced over the books, then selected two
large volumes.
"Shall I look it up, or do you want the books?"
"I'll take them. Might need quite a bit of research."
Shortly, the girl appeared in his doorway. Quickly, she laid the
two volumes on his desk.
DeVore nodded his thanks and opened regulations. Some of the
paragraphs were delightfully vague, and could be subject to more
than one interpretation. But one paragraph was clear and
explicit. And that was the one he was concerned with.
A royalty agreement with, or manufacturing license from Central
Co�rdination definitely abrogated any agreement with, or payment
to, any lesser headquarters. Such an agreement or license barred
any further negotiation between any lesser headquarters and a
manufacturer, relating to the product concerned. Double
royalties were prohibited in any case.
He pushed the books aside. There was no need of looking in
Markowitz. That regulation paragraph took care of this exact
situation, and disposed of it neatly. For an instant, he thought
of taking the volume in to the leader's office. Then, he
remembered the threatening note in the authoritative voice and
the flat, deadly thoughts he had noted as secondaries.
That wouldn't work either. He thought of the undercurrent in
Kirk's thoughts. Kirk had been carrying a regulation book, he
remembered. He contacted the Fixed Communications chief.
"Don't," he was told. "I tried it. Know what happened?"
"Go ahead."
"He got the regional director on the communicator. I've been
transferred to Outpost. They seem to need a cable maintenance
chief up there. And I was lucky at that. I started to protest,
and they nearly had me for insubordination." Abruptly, Kirk cut
away.
DeVore stared unseeingly across the desk. He'd been at Outpost
for a short time once, on an inspection trip, and he still
remembered the place. At one time, it had been a well supplied,
well organized post. At that time, observational duty had been
regarded more highly than now, and the place had been desirable
for any single officer, though the married men had objected to
being separated from their families by the many miles of frozen
waste. But that had changed.
Now, Outpost was the end of the line. The dilapidated surface
quarters offered poor protection from the fierce cold. Supply
ships were rarely scheduled to the place, and were often held up
by storms when they were scheduled. Half rations�even quarter
rations�were commonplace. He shook his head. Kirk was in real
trouble, and there would be no point in joining him. That would
help neither of them.
This, he thought, was a situation. Then, he realized something
else. From Morely's point of view, it was a perfectly safe
situation, with nothing to lose. The district leader could
easily disclaim any responsibility for his Fiscal chief's
actions in this matter. After all, he hadn't given any detailed
instructions. He had made no direct suggestion of any illegal
course. He'd merely consulted his Fiscal expert on a technical
matter, and if DeVore had seen fit to use an illegal method of
solving a problem, it was DeVore's responsibility alone.
To be sure, Morely had been a little emphatic in his order, but
that was simply because he was well aware of his Fiscal chief's
disinclination to make exhaustive technical research.
DeVore pursed his lips and looked thoughtfully at the regulation
book. He might be able to use the same tactic Morely was
following�if he were so inclined. He could issue verbal
instructions to the sector leader concerned, and Bond might fail
to see the trap. Then, he could report to the leader that the
matter was taken care of, indorse the letter back to Central,
with the agreement copy, and let Bond turn in funds under one of
the "miscellaneous received" accounts. In fact, he realized,
that was just about what the district leader expected him to do.
He smiled and shook his head. A few months ago, it was possible
he could have done that, but even then, he wouldn't have. And
now, with the mental communicators in use, it would be a flat
impossibility. The trap would be as obvious to Bond as it had
been to him. He leaned back in his chair and tapped his
fingertips against each other.
The mentacoms, he knew, were in common use by this time, in
virtually every office of district, regional, and national
administration, as well as by most citizens. And he'd served
under Marko Keller once�known him fairly well, too. He shrugged.
It would be a little irregular for a district Fiscal chief to
make direct contact with the Co�rdination Agency's comptroller,
but there was nothing like getting the most expert and
authoritative advice available. He relaxed, trying to recreate
his memories of the man who was now National Comptroller.
Marko Keller strode purposefully into the filing section. He
could easily get the data he needed by simply contacting one of
the clerks, he knew, but he felt an urgent need for personal
activity. That conversation with DeVore, way out in Region Nine,
had upset him more than he liked to admit, even to himself.
It wouldn't be so bad if it were an isolated incident. Such
things could be taken care of by administrative action, and a
single instance would cause little disturbance. But there were
too many, happening too often. He pulled a file drawer open,
violently.
One of the clerks approached. "Can I help, sir?"
Keller turned to look at him. The man, he noted, was wearing one
of the late model inductive headbands that had been sold in such
quantities lately. Deluxe model, too. Must have cost him at
least two months' pay. Like almost everyone else, he was vitally
concerned in this latest affair. Keller frowned. He, himself, he
realized, was acting childishly. He would simply be wasting time
by trying to do this by himself.
"Yes," he growled. "Get me a brief on a few cases like this
one." He made full contact with the man, rapidly summarizing his
conversation with DeVore, and including DeVore's short flash of
his own conversation with Ward Kirk.
"And get a rundown from personnel. Dig up something on their
angle, too. Several representative cases. Get a few people to
help you�many as you need. I'm going to take this whole mess in
to the Chief tomorrow morning."
Paul Graham swept into the apartment, seized his wife about the
waist and swung her into the air, to set her on top of one of
his bookcases.
"They've done it, honey," he shouted.
Elaine kicked her heels in a rapid tattoo against the back of
the case.
"Paul Graham, you get me down this instant," she ordered
indignantly. "Who's done what?"
Graham stepped back and beat on his chest. "Meet the new
production manager, Mentacom Division, Consolidated
Electronics."
"Production manager? But, Paul, only first-class citizens can
hold supervisory positions."
"Not any more. Didn't you have the communicator on for the news?
It all came in."
Elaine shook her head and jumped to the floor. "I've a
confession to make, Paul. Ever since they stopped the compulsory
notices, I haven't had the thing on at all. It bothered me."
Her husband shook his head in mock dismay. "So now, I'm married
to an ignoramus." He spread his hands. "She doesn't know what's
going on in the great, big world." He shook a finger at her.
"It all busted this afternoon, darling. While you sat around in
your splendid isolation, everything turned upside down."
She looked at him indignantly for an instant, then turned toward
the kitchen.
"Paul, if you don't stop raving, I'm going to get my mentacom
and pry it out of you," she threatened. "Now, you just settle
down. Stop talking in circles and tell me what this is all
about."
"Oh, all right. If you insist." Graham sank into a chair,
looking like a small boy caught in a prank. "First, there are no
more first-class citizens�no second-class citizens�not even
third-class citizens. Everyone's a citizen again. Period." He
threw his hands up.
"You mean�?"
"That's exactly what I mean. No more restrictions. No more
compulsory community work. No more quarters inspections. And no
more privileges. We've got rights again!
"If you want a dress, you buy it. You don't worry about whether
it suits your station. If I can hold a job, I get it. And I
did!" He got out of the chair and strode across the room, to sit
on the arm of the divan. "And I can do this, if I want to. If I
break this thing down, so help me, George, I'll go out and buy a
new one." He bounced up and down a little.
"The administrators are going back to their original jobs.
They're responsible for defense, in case of enemy attack, and
that's all." He paused. "Of course, until sector and district
elections can be held, they'll still take care of some of the
community functions�some of them, that is. But the elections'll
be set up in a few weeks, and we'll be able to choose our own
officials for community government."
He bounced to his feet again, strode around the bookcases, and
looked down at his desk. Then, he looked around again.
"Corporations are being set up to take over home construction."
He held up a hand. "Home construction, I said, not quarters.
They're commercializing helicopter manufacture, all kinds of
repair work, and a lot of other services. And they're going to
restore patent rights. That means plenty to us, darling, believe
me."
"But, but why? What happened?"
Graham turned on her. "Elaine," he cried, "haven't you noticed
how many people are wearing mentacoms now, all the time? Haven't
you noticed the consideration people have been giving each other
for the past weeks? Remember what I told you once? If you fully
understand a person, you simply can't kick him around. It's too
much like taking slaps at yourself. With the exception of a few
empathic cripples, who can't use the mentacom properly anyway,
everyone, inside the administrative offices, as well as out,
recognized that the bureaucracy was simply unworkable as it
stood. So, they changed it. Effective immediately."
Elaine stamped her foot. "You know I haven't been out of this
apartment," she cried. "And you know why. I simply couldn't
stand the treatment I got. I'd have gotten into serious trouble
in minutes. So, I've stayed in. I've done my shopping by
communicator, and contented myself right here." She paused.
"But how is the new administration going to be supported? What
are people going to do? How are they taking it? It's all so
sudden, I should think�"
Graham held up a hand.
"Hey," he protested. "One at a time, please! First�remember
taxes? Remember how we used to growl about them? They're back.
And I love 'em. Second�nobody is going to do anything. Anything
drastic or unusual, that is. And finally? Everyone I've seen is
taking it in their stride. Seems as though they've been sort of
expecting it, ever since they started mind-to-mind
communication.
"You'd be surprised how good most people are at it, now that
they're used to it. You start into a line of helicopters. All at
once, you realize that the guy coming is really in a hurry. He's
got to get somewhere, fast. So, you let him go by. The next
fellow's not going to be in any tearing rush. He'll let you in,
and cheer you on your way.
"You feel like being left alone? Nobody'll even notice you. But
if you feel like talking, half a dozen total strangers'll find
something in common with you. And they'll discuss it. Honey,
you'll be surprised how much you've missed. Get your mentacom.
Let's take a little shopping trip."
"And here's one of our more difficult cases. But he's coming
along nicely." Dr. Moran pointed through the one-way window.
"Name's Howard Morely. He used to be a district leader, under
the bureaucracy. But along in the last few weeks, just before
the change, he got into some sort of scrape. They questioned
him, and declared him unfit for service. Put him out on a
pension." He pulled at an ear.
"Matter of fact, I understand his case had quite a deal to do
with the change�sort of triggered it. They tell me it sort of
pointed up the fallacies of the bureaucracy." He shrugged.
"But that's unimportant now, I guess. He almost receded into
complete paranoia. Had a virtually complete case of empathic
paralysis when he came to us. Simply no conception of any other
person's point of view, and a hatred of people that was
fantastic. But he's nearly normal now."
The visiting psychiatrist nodded. "I've seen the type, of
course. We have a number of them, too. You say this new
technique was successfully used in his case?"
"Yes. We had doubts of it, too. Seemed too simple. Sure, we're
all familiar with the mentacoms by now. Wouldn't be without my
own. But the idea of a field generator so powerful as to force
clear impressions into a crippled mind like his, without
completely destroying that mind, seemed a little fantastic." He
shrugged.
"In this case, though, it was a last resort, so we tried it. He
resisted the field for days. Simply sat in his cell and stared
at the walls. We were almost ready to give up when one of the
operators finally got through to him. Know what his first
visualization was?"
The visitor shook his head and laughed. "I could try a guess, I
suppose," he said, "but my chances would be something less than
one in a thousand million."
Moran grinned. "You're so right. There was a whole bunch of kids
standing around. Looked like dozens of 'em. And they were all
chanting at the top of their voices. You know that old jingle?
'Howie's got a gir-rul?' Chanted it over and over." The grin
widened. "Operator said his face stung for ten minutes. That
girl must have packed one sweet wallop!"
THE END
Final Weapon by Everett B. Cole (approx. 130 mins reading time)
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#Post#: 283--------------------------------------------------
Even on your world you have the saying ... Your people once
understood it.&quot;
DIR By: AGelbert
Date: May 5, 2022, 10:14 pm
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[center]CUBS OF THE WOLF
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BY RAYMOND F. JONES
Illustrated by Rogers
It may be that there is a weapon that, from the viewpoint of the
one it's used on, is worse than lethal. You might say that death
multiplies you by zero; what would multiplication by minus one
do?
SNIPPET:
"Transpace�" Joyce said dreamily. "Tell me about the Markovian
Nucleus. Why is it important enough for a big research study,
anyway?"
"It's a case of a leopard who changed his spots," said Cameron.
"And nobody knows how or why. The full title of the project is A
Study of the Metamorphosis of the Markovian Nucleus."
"What happened? How are they any different from the way they
used to be?"
"A hundred and fifty years ago the Markovians were the meanest,
nastiest, orneriest specimens in the entire Council of Galactic
Associates. The groups of worlds in one corner of their galaxy,
which make up the Nucleus, controlled a military force that
outweighed anything the Council could possibly bring to bear
against them.
"With complete disregard of any scheme of interplanetary rules
or order they harassed and attacked peaceful shipping and
inoffensive cultures throughout a wide territory. They were
something demanding the Council's military action. But the
Council lacked the strength.
"For years the Council dragged on, debating and threatening
ineffectively. But nothing was ever done. And then, so gradually
it was hardly noticed, the harassments began to die down. The
warlike posturing was abandoned by the Markovians. Within a
period of about seventy or eighty years there was a complete
about-face. They wound up as good Indians, peaceful, co�perative
and intelligent members of the Council."
"Didn't anybody ever find out why?" asked Joyce.
"No. Nobody wanted to find out. In the early years the worlds of
the Council were hiding behind their collective hands hoping
with all their might that the threat might go away if they kept
their eyes closed long enough. And by some miracle of all
miracles, when they parted their fingers for a scared glimpse,
the threat had disappeared.
"When they could breathe a little more easily it seemed a
foolish thing to bring out this old skeleton from the closet
again, so a perpetual state of hush was established. Finally,
the whole thing was practically forgotten except for a short
paragraph in an occasional history text. But no politician or
historian has ever dared publicly to question the mysterious why
of the Markovian's about-face."
"Sociologists should have done it long ago," said Joyce.
"There was always the political pressure, of course," said
Cameron. "But the real reason was simply our preoccupation with
making bibliographies of each others' papers. It's going to take
a lot of leg work, something in which our formal courses don't
give us any basic training. Fothergill understands that�it's why
he pushed me so hard with the Foundation. And Riley up there is
capable of seeing it, too.
"I showed him that here was a complex of at least a hundred and
ten major planets, inhabited by a fairly homogenous, civilized
people, speaking from a technological point of view at least.
And almost overnight some force changed the entire cultural
posture. I made him see that identification of that force is of
no small interest to us right now. If it operated once, it could
operate again�and would its results be as happy a second time?
"Riley got the Foundation to kick through enough for you and me
to make a start. A preliminary survey is about all it will
amount to, actually, but if we show evidence of something
tangible I'll get my degree, you'll get your basic
certification�and we'll both return in charge of a full-scale
inquiry with a staff big enough to really dig into things next
year.
Full Science Fiction EBOOK:
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#Post#: 293--------------------------------------------------
The problem: without repair parts, they couldn�t bring in the
ship that carried the repair parts!
DIR By: AGelbert
Date: May 11, 2022, 7:51 pm
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[center]
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[move]You might say that we are going to die because we cannot
land the Warlock with food and equipment.[/move]
[center]SAND DOOM[/center]
BY MURRAY LEINSTER
Illustrated by Freas
SNIPPETS:
He climbed to the exit port and went clumsily down the exterior
ladder to the tail fin. He adjusted his goggles. He went over to
the chattering young Indians, young man and girl. He held out
his gloved hand.
�I�m Bordman,� he said painfully. �Here to make a
degree-of-completion survey. What�s wrong that we had to land by
boat?�
Aletha�s cousin shook hands cordially.
�I�m Ralph Redfeather,� he said, introducing himself. �Project
engineer. About everything�s wrong. Our landing grid�s gone. We
couldn�t contact your ship in time to warn it off. It was in our
gravity field before it answered, and its Lawlor drive couldn�t
take it away�not working because of the field. Our power, of
course, went with the landing grid. The ship you came in can�t
get back, and we can�t send a distress message anywhere, and our
best estimate is that the colony will be wiped out�thirst and
starvation�in six months. I�m sorry you and Aletha have to be
included.�
Then he turned to Aletha and said amiably:
�How�s Mike Thundercloud and Sally Whitehorse and the gang in
general, �Letha?� ... ...
The Warlock rolled on in her newly-established orbit about Xosa
II. The landing boat was aground, having removed the two
passengers. It would come back. Nobody on the ship wanted to
stay aground, because they knew the conditions and the situation
below�unbearable heat and the complete absence of hope. But
nobody had anything to do! The ship had been maintained in
standard operating condition during its two-months� voyage from
Trent to here. No repairs or overhaulings were needed. There was
no maintenance-work to speak of. There would be only stand-by
watches until something happened. There would be nothing to do
on those watches. There would be off-watch time for twenty-one
out of every twenty-four hours, and no purposeful activity to
fill even half an hour of it. In a matter of�probably�years, the
Warlock should receive aid. She might be towed out of her orbit
to space in which the Lawlor drive could function, or the crew
might simply be taken off. But meanwhile, those on board were as
completely frustrated as the colony. They could not do anything
at all to help themselves.
In one fashion the crewmen were worse off than the colonists.
The colonists had at least the colorful prospect of death before
them. They could prepare for it in their several ways. But the
members of the Warlock�s crew had nothing ahead but tedium.
The skipper faced the future with extreme, grim distaste.
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#Post#: 307--------------------------------------------------
There was no past�no future�only a great chaotic NOW.
DIR By: AGelbert
Date: May 21, 2022, 5:44 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
--- Quote ---
> Transcriber's note: This etext was produced from Amazing
Stories, May 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any
evidence that the copyright on this publication was renewed.
--- End Quote ---
[move]QUOTE: This story was rejected by two top-flight
science-fiction editors for the same reason: &#128073; "Too hot
to handle." &#128073; "Too dangerous for our book."
HTML https://soberthinking.createaforum.com/gallery/soberthinking/1-120422122214-653256.gif We'd like to know whether or not the readers of Amazing
Stories
agree. Drop us a line after you've read it. UNQUOTE[/move]
[center]THE EDGE OF THE KNIFE
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By H. BEAM PIPER
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[center]There was no past�no future�only a great chaotic
NOW.[/center]
PART 1 of 2 PARTS:
"In 1973, at Basra." There was a touch of impatience in his
voice; surely they ought to know that much. "He was shot, while
leaving the Parliament Building, by an Egyptian Arab named
Mohammed Noureed, with an old U. S. Army M3 submachine-gun.
Noureed killed two of Khalid's guards and wounded another before
he was overpowered. He was lynched on the spot by the crowd;
stoned to death. Ostensibly, he and his accomplices were
religious fanatics; however, there can be no doubt whatever that
the murder was inspired, at least indirectly, by the Eastern
Axis."
The class stirred like a grain-field in the wind. Some looked at
him in blank amazement; some were hastily averting faces red
with poorly suppressed laughter. For a moment he was puzzled,
and then realization hit him like a blow in the stomach-pit.
He'd forgotten, again.
"I didn't see anything in the papers about it," one boy was
saying.
"The newscast, last evening, said Khalid was in Ankara, talking
to the President of Turkey," another offered.
"Professor Chalmers, would you tell us just what effect Khalid's
death had upon the Islamic Caliphate and the Middle Eastern
situation in general?" a third voice asked with exaggerated
solemnity. That was Kendrick, the class humorist; the question
was pure baiting.
"Well, Mr. Kendrick, I'm afraid it's a little too early to
assess the full results of a thing like that, if they can ever
be fully assessed. For instance, who, in 1911, could have
predicted all the consequences of the pistol-shot at Sarajevo?
Who, even today, can guess what the history of the world would
have been had Zangarra not missed Franklin Roosevelt in 1932?
There's always that if."
He went on talking safe generalities as he glanced covertly at
his watch. Only five minutes to the end of the period; thank
heaven he hadn't made that slip at the beginning of the class.
"For instance, tomorrow, when we take up the events in India
from the First World War to the end of British rule, we will be
largely concerned with another victim of the assassin's bullet,
Mohandas K. Gandhi. You may ask yourselves, then, by how much
that bullet altered the history of the Indian sub-continent. A
word of warning, however: The events we will be discussing will
be either contemporary with or prior to what was discussed
today. I hope that you're all keeping your notes properly dated.
It's always easy to become confused in matters of chronology."
He wished, too late, that he hadn't said that. It pointed up the
very thing he was trying to play down, and raised a general
laugh.
As soon as the room was empty, he hastened to his desk, snatched
pencil and notepad. This had been a bad one, the worst yet; he
hadn't heard the end of it by any means. He couldn't waste
thought on that now, though. This was all new and important; it
had welled up suddenly and without warning into his conscious
mind, and he must get it down in notes before the "memory"�even
mentally, he always put that word into quotes�was lost. He was
still scribbling furiously when the instructor who would use the
room for the next period entered, followed by a few of his
students. Chalmers finished, crammed the notes into his pocket,
and went out into the hall.
Most of his own Modern History IV class had left the building
and were on their way across the campus for science classes. A
few, however, were joining groups for other classes here in
Prescott Hall, and in every group, they were the center of
interest. Sometimes, when they saw him, they would fall silent
until he had passed; sometimes they didn't, and he caught
snatches of conversation.
"Oh, brother! Did Chalmers really blow his jets this time!" one
voice was saying.
"Bet he won't be around next year."
Another quartet, with their heads together, were talking more
seriously.
"Well, I'm not majoring in History, myself, but I think it's an
outrage that some people's diplomas are going to depend on
grades given by a lunatic!"
"Mine will, and I'm not going to stand for it. My old man's
president of the Alumni Association, and...."
That was something he had not thought of, before. It gave him an
ugly start. He was still thinking about it as he turned into the
side hall to the History Department offices and entered the
cubicle he shared with a colleague. The colleague, old
Pottgeiter, Medieval History, was emerging in a rush; short,
rotund, gray-bearded, his arms full of books and papers,
oblivious, as usual, to anything that had happened since the
Battle of Bosworth or the Fall of Constantinople. Chalmers
stepped quickly out of his way and entered behind him. Marjorie
Fenner, the secretary they also shared, was tidying up the old
man's desk.
"Good morning, Doctor Chalmers." She looked at him keenly for a
moment. "They give you a bad time again in Modern Four?"
Good Lord, did he show it that plainly? In any case, it was no
use trying to kid Marjorie. She'd hear the whole story before
the end of the day.
"Gave myself a bad time."
Marjorie, still fussing with Pottgeiter's desk, was about to say
something in reply. Instead, she exclaimed in exasperation.
"Ohhh! That man! He's forgotten his notes again!" She gathered
some papers from Pottgeiter's desk, rushing across the room and
out the door with them.
For a while, he sat motionless, the books and notes for General
European History II untouched in front of him. This was going to
raise hell. It hadn't been the first slip he'd made, either;
that thought kept recurring to him. There had been the time when
he had alluded to the colonies on Mars and Venus. There had been
the time he'd mentioned the secession of Canada from the British
Commonwealth, and the time he'd called the U. N. the Terran
Federation. And the time he'd tried to get a copy of Franchard's
Rise and Decline of the System States, which wouldn't be
published until the Twenty-eighth Century, out of the college
library. None of those had drawn much comment, beyond a few
student jokes about the history professor who lived in the
future instead of the past. Now, however, they'd all be
remembered, raked up, exaggerated, and added to what had
happened this morning.
He sighed and sat down at Marjorie's typewriter and began
transcribing his notes. Assassination of Khalid ib'n Hussein,
the pro-Western leader of the newly formed Islamic Caliphate;
period of anarchy in the Middle East; interfactional
power-struggles; Turkish intervention. He wondered how long that
would last; Khalid's son, Tallal ib'n Khalid, was at school in
England when his father was�would be�killed. He would return,
and eventually take his father's place, in time to bring the
Caliphate into the Terran Federation when the general war came.
There were some notes on that already; the war would result from
an attempt by the Indian Communists to seize East Pakistan. The
trouble was that he so seldom "remembered" an exact date. His
"memory" of the year of Khalid's assassination was an exception.
Nineteen seventy-three�why, that was this year. He looked at the
calendar. October 16, 1973. At very most, the Arab statesman had
two and a half months to live. Would there be any possible way
in which he could give a credible warning? He doubted it. Even
if there were, he questioned whether he should�for that matter,
whether he could�interfere....
He always lunched at the Faculty Club; today was no time to call
attention to himself by breaking an established routine. As he
entered, trying to avoid either a furtive slink or a
chip-on-shoulder swagger, the crowd in the lobby stopped talking
abruptly, then began again on an obviously changed subject. The
word had gotten around, apparently. Handley, the head of the
Latin Department, greeted him with a distantly polite nod.
Pompous old owl; regarded himself, for some reason, as a sort of
unofficial Dean of the Faculty. Probably didn't want to be seen
fraternizing with controversial characters. One of the younger
men, with a thin face and a mop of unruly hair, advanced to meet
him as he came in, as cordial as Handley was remote.
"Oh, hello, Ed!" he greeted, clapping a hand on Chalmers'
shoulder. "I was hoping I'd run into you. Can you have dinner
with us this evening?" He was sincere.
"Well, thanks, Leonard. I'd like to, but I have a lot of work.
Could you give me a rain-check?"
"Oh, surely. My wife was wishing you'd come around, but I know
how it is. Some other evening?"
"Yes, indeed." He guided Fitch toward the dining-room door and
nodded toward a table. "This doesn't look too crowded; let's sit
here."
After lunch, he stopped in at his office. Marjorie Fenner was
there, taking dictation from Pottgeiter; she nodded to him as he
entered, but she had no summons to the president's office.
The summons was waiting for him, the next morning, when he
entered the office after Modern History IV, a few minutes past
ten.
"Doctor Whitburn just phoned," Marjorie said. "He'd like to see
you, as soon as you have a vacant period."
"Which means right away. I shan't keep him waiting."
She started to say something, swallowed it, and then asked if he
needed anything typed up for General European II.
"No, I have everything ready." He pocketed the pipe he had
filled on entering, and went out.
The president of Blanley College sat hunched forward at his
desk; he had rounded shoulders and round, pudgy fists and a
round, bald head. He seemed to be expecting his visitor to stand
at attention in front of him. Chalmers got the pipe out of his
pocket, sat down in the desk-side chair, and snapped his
lighter.
"Good morning, Doctor Whitburn," he said very pleasantly.
Whitburn's scowl deepened. "I hope I don't have to tell you why
I wanted to see you," he began.
"I have an idea." Chalmers puffed until the pipe was drawing
satisfactorily. "It might help you get started if you did,
though."
"I don't suppose, at that, that you realize the full effect of
your performance, yesterday morning, in Modern History Four,"
Whitburn replied. "I don't suppose you know, for instance, that
I had to intervene at the last moment and suppress an editorial
in the Black and Green, derisively critical of you and your
teaching methods, and, by implication, of the administration of
this college. You didn't hear about that, did you? No, living as
you do in the future, you wouldn't."
"If the students who edit the Black and Green are dissatisfied
with anything here, I'd imagine they ought to say so," Chalmers
commented. "Isn't that what they teach in the journalism
classes, that the purpose of journalism is to speak for the
dissatisfied? Why make exception?"
"I should think you'd be grateful to me for trying to keep your
behavior from being made a subject of public ridicule among your
students. Why, this editorial which I suppressed actually went
so far as to question your sanity!"
"I should suppose it might have sounded a good deal like that,
to them. Of course, I have been preoccupied, lately, with an
imaginative projection of present trends into the future. I'll
quite freely admit that I should have kept my extracurricular
work separate from my class and lecture work, but...."
"That's no excuse, even if I were sure it were true! What you
did, while engaged in the serious teaching of history, was to
indulge in a farrago of nonsense, obvious as such to any child,
and damage not only your own standing with your class but the
standing of Blanley College as well. Doctor Chalmers, if this
were the first incident of the kind it would be bad enough, but
it isn't. You've done things like this before, and I've warned
you before. I assumed, then, that you were merely showing the
effects of overwork, and I offered you a vacation, which you
refused to take. Well, this is the limit. I'm compelled to
request your immediate resignation."
Chalmers laughed. "A moment ago, you accused me of living in the
future. It seems you're living in the past. Evidently you
haven't heard about the Higher Education Faculty Tenure Act of
1963, or such things as tenure-contracts. Well, for your
information, I have one; you signed it yourself, in case you've
forgotten. If you want my resignation, you'll have to show
cause, in a court of law, why my contract should be voided, and
I don't think a slip of the tongue is a reason for voiding a
contract that any court would accept."
Whitburn's face reddened. "You don't, don't you? Well, maybe it
isn't, but insanity is. It's a very good reason for voiding a
contract voidable on grounds of unfitness or incapacity to
teach."
He had been expecting, and mentally shrinking from, just that.
Now that it was out, however, he felt relieved. He gave another
short laugh.
"You're willing to go into open court, covered by reporters from
papers you can't control as you do this student sheet here, and
testify that for the past twelve years you've had an insane
professor on your faculty?"
"You're.... You're trying to blackmail me?" Whitburn demanded,
half rising.
"It isn't blackmail to tell a man that a bomb he's going to
throw will blow up in his hand." Chalmers glanced quickly at his
watch. "Now, Doctor Whitburn, if you have nothing further to
discuss, I have a class in a few minutes. If you'll excuse
me...."
He rose. For a moment, he stood facing Whitburn; when the
college president said nothing, he inclined his head politely
and turned, going out.
Whitburn's secretary gave the impression of having seated
herself hastily at her desk the second before he opened the
door. She watched him, round-eyed, as he went out into the hall.
He reached his own office ten minutes before time for the next
class. Marjorie was typing something for Pottgeiter; he merely
nodded to her, and picked up the phone. The call would have to
go through the school exchange, and he had a suspicion that
Whitburn kept a check on outside calls. That might not hurt any,
he thought, dialing a number.
"Attorney Weill's office," the girl who answered said.
"Edward Chalmers. Is Mr. Weill in?"
She'd find out. He was; he answered in a few seconds.
"Hello, Stanly; Ed Chalmers. I think I'm going to need a little
help. I'm having some trouble with President Whitburn, here at
the college. A matter involving the validity of my
tenure-contract. I don't want to go into it over this line. Have
you anything on for lunch?"
"No, I haven't. When and where?" the lawyer asked.
He thought for a moment. Nowhere too close the campus, but not
too far away.
"How about the Continental; Fontainbleu Room? Say
twelve-fifteen."
"That'll be all right. Be seeing you."
Marjorie looked at him curiously as he gathered up the things he
needed for the next class.
Stanly Weill had a thin dark-eyed face. He was frowning as he
set down his coffee-cup.
"Ed, you ought to know better than to try to kid your lawyer,"
he said. "You say Whitburn's trying to force you to resign. With
your contract, he can't do that, not without good and sufficient
cause, and under the Faculty Tenure Law, that means something
just an inch short of murder in the first degree. Now, what's
Whitburn got on you?"
Beat around the bush and try to build a background, or come out
with it at once and fill in the details afterward? He debated
mentally for a moment, then decided upon the latter course.
"Well, it happens that I have the ability to prehend future
events. I can, by concentrating, bring into my mind the history
of the world, at least in general outline, for the next five
thousand years. Whitburn thinks I'm crazy, mainly because I get
confused at times and forget that something I know about hasn't
happened yet."
Weill snatched the cigarette from his mouth to keep from
swallowing it. As it was, he choked on a mouthful of smoke and
coughed violently, then sat back in the booth-seat, staring
speechlessly.
"It started a little over three years ago," Chalmers continued.
"Just after New Year's, 1970. I was getting up a series of
seminars for some of my postgraduate students on extrapolation
of present social and political trends to the middle of the next
century, and I began to find that I was getting some very fixed
and definite ideas of what the world of 2050 to 2070 would be
like. Completely unified world, abolition of all national states
under a single world sovereignty, colonies on Mars and Venus,
that sort of thing. Some of these ideas didn't seem quite
logical; a number of them were complete reversals of present
trends, and a lot seemed to depend on arbitrary and
unpredictable factors. Mind, this was before the first rocket
landed on the Moon, when the whole moon-rocket and lunar-base
project was a triple-top secret. But I knew, in the spring of
1970, that the first unmanned rocket would be called the Kilroy,
and that it would be launched some time in 1971. You remember,
when the news was released, it was stated that the rocket hadn't
been christened until the day before it was launched, when
somebody remembered that old 'Kilroy-was-here' thing from the
Second World War. Well, I knew about it over a year in advance."
Weill had been listening in silence. He had a naturally
skeptical face; his present expression mightn't really mean that
he didn't believe what he was hearing.
"How'd you get all this stuff? In dreams?"
Chalmers shook his head. "It just came to me. I'd be sitting
reading, or eating dinner, or talking to one of my classes, and
the first thing I'd know, something out of the future would come
bubbling up in me. It just kept pushing up into my conscious
mind. I wouldn't have an idea of something one minute, and the
next it would just be part of my general historical knowledge;
I'd know it as positively as I know that Columbus discovered
America in. 1492. The only difference is that I can usually
remember where I've read something in past history, but my
future history I know without knowing how I know it."
"Ah, that's the question!" Weill pounced. "You don't know how
you know it. Look, Ed, we've both studied psychology, elementary
psychology at least. Anybody who has to work with people, these
days, has to know some psychology. What makes you sure that
these prophetic impressions of yours aren't manufactured in your
own subconscious mind?"
"That's what I thought, at first. I thought my subconscious was
just building up this stuff to fill the gaps in what I'd
produced from logical extrapolation. I've always been a stickler
for detail," he added, parenthetically. "It would be natural for
me to supply details for the future. But, as I said, a lot of
this stuff is based on unpredictable and arbitrary factors that
can't be inferred from anything in the present. That left me
with the alternatives of delusion or precognition, and if I ever
came near going crazy, it was before the Kilroy landed and the
news was released. After that, I knew which it was."
"And yet, you can't explain how you can have real knowledge of a
thing before it happens. Before it exists," Weill said.
"I really don't need to. I'm satisfied with knowing that I know.
But if you want me to furnish a theory, let's say that all these
things really do exist, in the past or in the future, and that
the present is just a moving knife-edge that separates the two.
You can't even indicate the present. By the time you make up
your mind to say, 'Now!' and transmit the impulse to your vocal
organs, and utter the word, the original present moment is part
of the past. The knife-edge has gone over it. Most people think
they know only the present; what they know is the past, which
they have already experienced, or read about. The difference
with me is that I can see what's on both sides of the
knife-edge."
Weill put another cigarette in his mouth and bent his head to
the flame of his lighter. For a moment, he sat motionless, his
thin face rigid.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked. "I'm a lawyer, not a
psychiatrist."
"I want a lawyer. This is a legal matter. Whitburn's talking
about voiding my tenure contract. You helped draw it; I have a
right to expect you to help defend it."
"Ed, have you been talking about this to anybody else?" Weill
asked.
"You're the first person I've mentioned it to. It's not the sort
of thing you'd bring up casually, in a conversation."
"Then how'd Whitburn get hold of it?"
"He didn't, not the way I've given it to you. But I made a
couple of slips, now and then. I made a bad one yesterday
morning."
He told Weill about it, and about his session with the president
of the college that morning. The lawyer nodded.
"That was a bad one, but you handled Whitburn the right way,"
Weill said. "What he's most afraid of is publicity, getting the
college mixed up in anything controversial, and above all, the
reactions of the trustees and people like that. If Dacre or
anybody else makes any trouble, he'll do his best to cover for
you. Not willingly, of course, but because he'll know that
that's the only way he can cover for himself. I don't think
you'll have any more trouble with him. If you can keep your own
nose clean, that is. Can you do that?"
"I believe so. Yesterday I got careless. I'll not do that
again."
"You'd better not." Weill hesitated for a moment. "I said I was
a lawyer, not a psychiatrist. I'm going to give you some
psychiatrist's advice, though. Forget this whole thing. You say
you can bring these impressions into your conscious mind by
concentrating?" He waited briefly; Chalmers nodded, and he
continued: "Well, stop it. Stop trying to harbor this stuff.
It's dangerous, Ed. Stop playing around with it."
"You think I'm crazy, too?"
Weill shook his head impatiently. "I didn't say that. But I'll
say, now, that you're losing your grip on reality. You are
constructing a system of fantasies, and the first thing you
know, they will become your reality, and the world around you
will be unreal and illusory. And that's a state of mental
incompetence that I can recognize, as a lawyer."
"How about the Kilroy?"
Weill looked at him intently. "Ed, are you sure you did have
that experience?" he asked. "I'm not trying to imply that you're
consciously lying to me about that. I am suggesting that you
manufactured a memory of that incident in your subconscious
mind, and are deluding yourself into thinking that you knew
about it in advance. False memory is a fairly common thing, in
cases like this. Even the little psychology I know, I've heard
about that. There's been talk about rockets to the Moon for
years. You included something about that in your future-history
fantasy, and then, after the event, you convinced yourself that
you'd known all about it, including the impromptu christening of
the rocket, all along."
A hot retort rose to his lips; he swallowed it hastily. Instead,
he nodded amicably.
"That's a point worth thinking of. But right now, what I want to
know is, will you represent me in case Whitburn does take this
to court and does try to void my contract?"
"Oh, yes; as you said, I have an obligation to defend the
contracts I draw up. But you'll have to avoid giving him any
further reason for trying to void it. Don't make any more of
these slips. Watch what you say, in class or out of it. And
above all, don't talk about this to anybody. Don't tell anybody
that you can foresee the future, or even talk about future
probabilities. Your business is with the past; stick to it."
The afternoon passed quietly enough. Word of his defiance of
Whitburn had gotten around among the faculty�Whitburn might have
his secretary scared witless in his office, but not gossipless
outside it�though it hadn't seemed to have leaked down to the
students yet. Handley, the Latin professor, managed to waylay
him in a hallway, a hallway Handley didn't normally use.
"The tenure-contract system under which we hold our positions
here is one of our most valuable safeguards," he said, after
exchanging greetings. "It was only won after a struggle, in a
time of public animosity toward all intellectuals, and even now,
our professional position would be most insecure without it."
"Yes. I found that out today, if I hadn't known it when I took
part in the struggle you speak of."
"It should not be jeopardized," Handley declared.
"You think I'm jeopardizing it?"
Handley frowned. He didn't like being pushed out of the safety
of generalization into specific cases.
"Well, now that you make that point, yes. I do. If Doctor
Whitburn tries to make an issue of ... of what happened
yesterday ... and if the court decides against you, you can see
the position all of us will be in."
"What do you think I should have done? Given him my resignation
when he demanded it? We have our tenure-contracts, and the
system was instituted to prevent just the sort of arbitrary
action Whitburn tried to take with me today. If he wants to go
to court, he'll find that out."
"And if he wins, he'll establish a precedent that will threaten
the security of every college and university faculty member in
the state. In any state where there's a tenure law."
Leonard Fitch, the psychologist, took an opposite attitude. As
Chalmers was leaving the college at the end of the afternoon,
Fitch cut across the campus to intercept him.
"I heard about the way you stood up to Whitburn this morning,
Ed," he said. "Glad you did it. I only wish I'd done something
like that three years ago.... Think he's going to give you any
real trouble?"
"I doubt it."
"Well, I'm on your side if he does. I won't be the only one,
either."
"Well, thank you, Leonard. It always helps to know that. I don't
think there'll be any more trouble, though."
He dined alone at his apartment, and sat over his coffee,
outlining his work for the next day. When both were finished, he
dallied indecisively, Weill's words echoing through his mind and
raising doubts. It was possible that he had been manufacturing
the whole thing in his subconscious mind. That was, at least, a
more plausible theory than any he had constructed to explain an
ability to produce real knowledge of the future. Of course,
there was that business about the Kilroy. That had been too
close on too many points to be dismissed as coincidence. Then,
again, Weill's words came back to disquiet him. Had he really
gotten that before the event, as he believed, or had he only
imagined, later, that he had?
There was one way to settle that. He rose quickly and went to
the filing-cabinet where he kept his future-history notes and
began pulling out envelopes. There was nothing about the Kilroy
in the Twentieth Century file, where it should be, although he
examined each sheet of notes carefully. The possibility that his
notes on that might have been filed out of place by mistake
occurred to him; he looked in every other envelope. The notes,
as far as they went, were all filed in order, and each one bore,
beside the future date of occurrence, the date on which the
knowledge�or must he call it delusion?�had come to him. But
there was no note on the landing of the first unmanned rocket on
Luna.
He put the notes away and went back to his desk, rummaging
through the drawers, and finding nothing. He searched everywhere
in the apartment where a sheet of paper could have been mislaid,
taking all his books, one by one, from the shelves and leafing
through them, even books he knew he had not touched for more
than three years. In the end, he sat down again at his desk,
defeated. The note on the Kilroy simply did not exist.
Of course, that didn't settle it, as finding the note would
have. He remembered�or believed he remembered�having gotten that
item of knowledge�or delusion�in 1970, shortly before the end of
the school term. It hadn't been until after the fall opening of
school that he had begun making notes. He could have had the
knowledge of the robot rocket in his mind then, and neglected
putting it on paper.
He undressed, put on his pajamas, poured himself a drink, and
went to bed. Three hours later, still awake, he got up, and
poured himself another, bigger, drink. Somehow, eventually, he
fell asleep.
The next morning, he searched his desk and book-case in the
office at school. He had never kept a diary; now he was wishing
that he had. That might have contained something that would be
evidence, one way or the other. All day, he vacillated between
conviction of the reality of his future knowledge and resolution
to have no more to do with it. Once he decided to destroy all
the notes he had made, and thought of making a special study of
some facet of history, and writing another book, to occupy his
mind.
After lunch, he found that more data on the period immediately
before the Thirty Days' War was coming into his consciousness.
He resolutely suppressed it, knowing as he did that it might
never come to him again. That evening, too, he cooked dinner for
himself at his apartment, and laid out his class-work for the
next day. He'd better not stay in, that evening; too much
temptation to settle himself by the living-room fire with his
pipe and his notepad and indulge in the vice he had determined
to renounce. After a little debate, he decided upon a movie; he
put on again the suit he had taken off on coming home, and went
out.
The picture, a random choice among the three shows in the
neighborhood, was about Seventeenth Century buccaneers; exciting
action and a sound-track loud with shots and cutlass-clashing.
He let himself be drawn into it completely, and, until it was
finished, he was able to forget both the college and the history
of the future. But, as he walked home, he was struck by the
parallel between the buccaneers of the West Indies and the
space-pirates in the days of the dissolution of the First
Galactic Empire, in the Tenth Century of the Interstellar Era.
He hadn't been too clear on that period, and he found new data
rising in his mind; he hurried his steps, almost running
upstairs to his room. It was long after midnight before he had
finished the notes he had begun on his return home.
Well, that had been a mistake, but he wouldn't make it again. He
determined again to destroy his notes, and began casting about
for a subject which would occupy his mind to the exclusion of
the future. Not the Spanish Conquistadores; that was too much
like the early period of interstellar expansion. He thought for
a time of the Sepoy Mutiny, and then rejected it�he could
"remember" something much like that on one of the planets of the
Beta Hydrae system, in the Fourth Century of the Atomic Era.
There were so few things, in the history of the past, which did
not have their counter-parts in the future. That evening, too,
he stayed at home, preparing for his various classes for the
rest of the week and making copious notes on what he would talk
about to each. He needed more whiskey to get to sleep that
night.
Whitburn gave him no more trouble, and if any of the trustees or
influential alumni made any protest about what had happened in
Modern History IV, he heard nothing about it. He managed to
conduct his classes without further incidents, and spent his
evenings trying, not always successfully, to avoid drifting into
"memories" of the future....
He came into his office that morning tired and unrefreshed by
the few hours' sleep he had gotten the night before, edgy from
the strain, of trying to adjust his mind to the world of Blanley
College in mid-April of 1973. Pottgeiter hadn't arrived yet, but
Marjorie Fenner was waiting for him; a newspaper in her hand,
almost bursting with excitement.
"Here; have you seen it, Doctor Chalmers?" she asked as he
entered.
He shook his head. He ought to read the papers more, to keep
track of the advancing knife-edge that divided what he might
talk about from what he wasn't supposed to know, but each
morning he seemed to have less and less time to get ready for
work.
"Well, look! Look at that!"
She thrust the paper into his hands, still folded, the big,
black headline where he could see it.
[move]KHALID IB'N HUSSEIN ASSASSINATED[/move]
He glanced over the leading paragraphs. Leader of Islamic
Caliphate shot to death in Basra ... leaving Parliament Building
for his palace outside the city ... fanatic, identified as an
Egyptian named Mohammed Noureed ... old American submachine-gun
... two guards killed and a third seriously wounded ... seized
by infuriated mob and stoned to death on the spot....
For a moment, he felt guilt, until he realized that nothing he
could have done could have altered the event. The death of
Khalid ib'n Hussein, and all the millions of other deaths that
would follow it, were fixed in the matrix of the space-time
continuum. Including, maybe, the death of an obscure professor
of Modern History named Edward Chalmers.
"At least, this'll be the end of that silly flap about what
happened a month ago in Modern Four. This is modern history,
now; I can talk about it without a lot of fools yelling their
heads off."
She was staring at him wide-eyed. No doubt horrified at his
cold-blooded attitude toward what was really a shocking and
senseless crime.
"Yes, of course; the man's dead. So's Julius Caesar, but we've
gotten over being shocked at his murder."
He would have to talk about it in Modern History IV, he
supposed; explain why Khalid's death was necessary to the
policies of the Eastern Axis, and what the consequences would
be. How it would hasten the complete dissolution of the old U.
N., already weakened by the crisis over the Eastern demands for
the demilitarization and internationalization of the United
States Lunar Base, and necessitate the formation of the Terran
Federation, and how it would lead, eventually, to the Thirty
Days' War. No, he couldn't talk about that; that was on the
wrong side of the knife-edge. Have to be careful about the
knife-edge; too easy to cut himself on it.
Nobody in Modern History IV was seated when he entered the room;
they were all crowded between the door and his desk. He stood
blinking, wondering why they were giving him an ovation, and why
Kendrick and Dacre were so abjectly apologetic. Great heavens,
did it take the murder of the greatest Moslem since Saladin to
convince people that he wasn't crazy?
Before the period was over, Whitburn's secretary entered with a
note in the college president's hand and over his signature;
requesting Chalmers to come to his office immediately and
without delay. Just like that; expected him to walk right out of
his class. He was protesting as he entered the president's
office. Whitburn cut him off short.
"Doctor Chalmers,"�Whitburn had risen behind his desk as the
door opened�"I certainly hope that you can realize that there
was nothing but the most purely coincidental connection between
the event featured in this morning's newspapers and your
performance, a month ago, in Modern History Four," he began.
"I realize nothing of the sort. The death of Khalid ib'n Hussein
is a fact of history, unalterably set in its proper place in
time-sequence. It was a fact of history a month ago no less than
today."
"So that's going to be your attitude; that your wild utterances
of a month ago have now been vindicated as fulfilled prophesies?
And I suppose you intend to exploit this�this coincidence�to the
utmost. The involvement of Blanley College in a mess of
sensational publicity means nothing to you, I presume."
"I haven't any idea what you're talking about."
"You mean to tell me that you didn't give this story to the
local newspaper, the Valley Times?" Whitburn demanded.
"I did not. I haven't mentioned the subject to anybody connected
with the Times, or anybody else, for that matter. Except my
attorney, a month ago, when you were threatening to repudiate
the contract you signed with me."
"I suppose I'm expected to take your word for that?"
"Yes, you are. Unless you care to call me a liar in so many
words." He moved a step closer. Lloyd Whitburn outweighed him by
fifty pounds, but most of the difference was fat. Whitburn must
have realized that, too.
"No, no; if you say you haven't talked about it to the Valley
Times, that's enough," he said hastily. "But somebody did. A
reporter was here not twenty minutes ago; he refused to say who
had given him the story, but he wanted to question me about it."
"What did you tell him?"
"I refused to make any statement whatever. I also called Colonel
Tighlman, the owner of the paper, and asked him, very
reasonably, to suppress the story. I thought that my own
position and the importance of Blanley College to this town
entitled me to that much consideration." Whitburn's face became
almost purple. "He ... he laughed at me!"
"Newspaper people don't like to be told to kill stories. Not
even by college presidents. That's only made things worse.
Personally, I don't relish the prospect of having this
publicized, any more than you do. I can assure you that I shall
be most guarded if any of the Times reporters talk to me about
it, and if I have time to get back to my class before the end of
the period, I shall ask them, as a personal favor, not to
discuss the matter outside."
Whitburn didn't take the hint. Instead, he paced back and forth,
storming about the reporter, the newspaper owner, whoever had
given the story to the paper, and finally Chalmers himself. He
was livid with rage.
"You certainly can't imagine that when you made those remarks in
class you actually possessed any knowledge of a thing that was
still a month in the future," he spluttered. "Why, it's
ridiculous! Utterly preposterous!"
"Unusual, I'll admit. But the fact remains that I did. I should,
of course, have been more careful, and not confused future with
past events. The students didn't understand...."
Whitburn half-turned, stopping short.
"My God, man! You are crazy!" he cried, horrified.
The period-bell was ringing as he left Whitburn's office; that
meant that the twenty-three students were scattering over the
campus, talking like mad. He shrugged. Keeping them quiet about
a thing like this wouldn't have been possible in any case. When
he entered his office, Stanly Weill was waiting for him. The
lawyer drew him out into the hallway quickly.
"For God's sake, have you been talking to the papers?" he
demanded. "After what I told you...."
"No, but somebody has." He told about the call to Whitburn's
office, and the latter's behavior. Weill cursed the college
president bitterly.
"Any time you want to get a story in the Valley Times, just
order Frank Tighlman not to print it. Well, if you haven't
talked, don't."
"Suppose somebody asks me?"
"A reporter, no comment. Anybody else, none of his damn
business. And above all, don't let anybody finagle you into
making any claims about knowing the future. I thought we had
this under control; now that it's out in the open, what that
fool Whitburn'll do is anybody's guess."
Leonard Fitch met him as he entered the Faculty Club, sizzling
with excitement.
"Ed, this has done it!" he began, jubilantly. "This is one
nobody can laugh off. It's direct proof of precognition, and
because of the prominence of the event, everybody will hear
about it. And it simply can't be dismissed as coincidence...."
"Whitburn's trying to do that."
"Whitburn's a fool if he is," another man said calmly. Turning,
he saw that the speaker was Tom Smith, one of the math
professors. "I figured the odds against that being chance. There
are a lot of variables that might affect it one way or another,
but ten to the fifteenth power is what I get for a sort of
median figure."
"Did you give that story to the Valley Times?" he asked Fitch,
suspicion rising and dragging anger up after it.
"Of course, I did," Fitch said. "I'll admit, I had to go behind
your back and have some of my postgrads get statements from the
boys in your history class, but you wouldn't talk about it
yourself...."
Tom Smith was standing beside him. He was twenty years younger
than Chalmers, he was an amateur boxer, and he had good
reflexes. He caught Chalmers' arm as it was traveling back for
an uppercut, and held it.
"Take it easy, Ed; you don't want to start a slugfest in here.
This is the Faculty Club; remember?"
"I won't, Tom; it wouldn't prove anything if I did." He turned
to Fitch. "I won't talk about sending your students to pump
mine, but at least you could have told me before you gave that
story out."
"I don't know what you're sore about," Fitch defended himself.
"I believed in you when everybody else thought you were crazy,
and if I hadn't collected signed and dated statements from your
boys, there'd have been no substantiation. It happens that
extrasensory perception means as much to me as history does to
you. I've believed in it ever since I read about Rhine's work,
when I was a kid. I worked in ESP for a long time. Then I had a
chance to get a full professorship by coming here, and after I
did, I found that I couldn't go on with it, because Whitburn's
president here, and he's a stupid old bigot with an air-locked
mind...."
"Yes." His anger died down as Fitch spoke. "I'm glad Tom stopped
me from making an ass of myself. I can see your side of it."
Maybe that was the curse of the professional intellectual, an
ability to see everybody's side of everything. He thought for a
moment. "What else did you do, beside hand this story to the
Valley Times? I'd better hear all about it."
"I phoned the secretary of the American Institute of Psionics
and Parapsychology, as soon as I saw this morning's paper. With
the time-difference to the East Coast, I got him just as he
reached his office. He advised me to give the thing the widest
possible publicity; he thought that would advance the
recognition and study of parapsychology. A case like this can't
be ignored; it will demand serious study...."
"Well, you got your publicity, all right. I'm up to my neck in
it."
There was an uproar outside. The doorman was saying, firmly:
"This is the Faculty Club, gentlemen; it's for members only. I
don't care if you gentlemen are the press, you simply cannot
come in here."
"We're all up to our necks in it," Smith said. "Leonard, I don't
care what your motives were, you ought to have considered the
effect on the rest of us first."
"This place will be a madhouse," Handley complained. "How we're
going to get any of these students to keep their minds on their
work...."
"I tell you, I don't know a confounded thing about it," Max
Pottgeiter's voice rose petulantly at the door. "Are you trying
to tell me that Professor Chalmers murdered some Arab?
Ridiculous!"
He ate hastily and without enjoyment, and slipped through the
kitchen and out the back door, cutting between two frat-houses
and circling back to Prescott Hall. On the way, he paused
momentarily and chuckled. The reporters, unable to storm the
Faculty Club, had gone off in chase of other game and had
cornered Lloyd Whitburn in front of Administration Center. They
had a jeep with a sound-camera mounted on it, and were trying to
get something for telecast. After gesticulating angrily,
Whitburn broke away from them and dashed up the steps and into
the building. A campus policeman stopped those who tried to
follow.
His only afternoon class was American History III. He got
through it somehow, though the class wasn't able to concentrate
on the Reconstruction and the first election of Grover
Cleveland. The halls were free of reporters, at least, and when
it was over he hurried to the Library, going to the faculty
reading-room in the rear, where he could smoke. There was nobody
there but old Max Pottgeiter, smoking a cigar, his head bent
over a book. The Medieval History professor looked up.
"Oh, hello, Chalmers. What the deuce is going on around here?
Has everybody gone suddenly crazy?" he asked.
"Well, they seem to think I have," he said bitterly.
"They do? Stupid of them. What's all this about some Arab being
shot? I didn't know there were any Arabs around here."
"Not here. At Basra." He told Pottgeiter what had happened.
"Well! I'm sorry to hear about that," the old man said. "I have
a friend at Southern California, Bellingham, who knew Khalid
very well. Was in the Middle East doing some research on the
Byzantine Empire; Khalid was most helpful. Bellingham was quite
impressed by him; said he was a wonderful man, and a fine
scholar. Why would anybody want to kill a man like that?"
He explained in general terms. Pottgeiter nodded
understandingly: assassination was a familiar feature of the
medieval political landscape, too. Chalmers went on to
elaborate. It was a relief to talk to somebody like Pottgeiter,
who wasn't bothered by the present moment, but simply boycotted
it. Eventually, the period-bell rang. Pottgeiter looked at his
watch, as from conditioned reflex, and then rose, saying that he
had a class and excusing himself. He would have carried his
cigar with him if Chalmers hadn't taken it away from him.
After Pottgeiter had gone Chalmers opened a book�he didn't
notice what it was�and sat staring unseeing at the pages. So the
moving knife-edge had come down on the end of Khalid ib'n
Hussein's life; what were the events in the next segment of
time, and the segments to follow? There would be bloody fighting
all over the Middle East�with consternation, he remembered that
he had been talking about that to Pottgeiter. The Turkish army
would move in and try to restore order. There would be more
trouble in northern Iran, the Indian Communists would invade
Eastern Pakistan, and then the general war, so long dreaded,
would come. How far in the future that was he could not
"remember," nor how the nuclear-weapons stalemate that had so
far prevented it would be broken. He knew that today, and for
years before, nobody had dared start an all-out atomic war.
Wars, now, were marginal skirmishes, like the one in Indonesia,
or the steady underground conflict of subversion and sabotage
that had come to be called the Subwar. And with the United
States already in possession of a powerful Lunar base.... He
wished he could "remember" how events between the murder of
Khalid and the Thirty Day's War had been spaced chronologically.
Something of that had come to him, after the incident in Modern
History IV, and he had driven it from his consciousness.
He didn't dare go home where the reporters would be sure to find
him. He simply left the college, at the end of the school-day,
and walked without conscious direction until darkness gathered.
This morning, when he had seen the paper, he had said, and had
actually believed, that the news of the murder in Basra would
put an end to the trouble that had started a month ago in the
Modern History class. It hadn't: the trouble, it seemed, was
only beginning. And with the newspapers, and Whitburn, and
Fitch, it could go on forever....
It was fully dark, now; his shadow fell ahead of him on the
sidewalk, lengthening as he passed under and beyond a
street-light, vanishing as he entered the stronger light of the
one ahead. The windows of a cheap cafe reminded him that he was
hungry, and he entered, going to a table and ordering something
absently. There was a television screen over the combination bar
and lunch-counter. Some kind of a comedy programme, at which an
invisible studio-audience was laughing immoderately and without
apparent cause. The roughly dressed customers along the counter
didn't seem to see any more humor in it than he did. Then his
food arrived on the table and he began to eat without really
tasting it.
After a while, an alteration in the noises from the television
penetrated his consciousness; a news-program had come on, and he
raised his head. The screen showed a square in an Eastern city;
the voice was saying:
"... Basra, where Khalid ib'n Hussein was assassinated early
this morning�early afternoon, local time. This is the scene of
the crime; the body of the murderer has been removed, but you
can still see the stones with which he was pelted to death by
the mob...."
A close-up of the square, still littered with torn-up
paving-stones. A Caliphate army officer, displaying the
weapon�it was an old M3, all right; Chalmers had used one of
those things, himself, thirty years before, and he and his
contemporaries had called it a "grease-gun." There were some
recent pictures of Khalid, including one taken as he left the
plane on his return from Ankara. He watched, absorbed; it was
all exactly as he had "remembered" a month ago. It gratified him
to see that his future "memories" were reliable in detail as
well as generality.
"But the most amazing part of the story comes, not from Basra,
but from Blanley College, in California," the commentator was
saying, "where, it is revealed, the murder of Khalid was
foretold, with uncanny accuracy, a month ago, by a history
professor, Doctor Edward Chalmers...."
There was a picture of himself, in hat and overcoat, perfectly
motionless, as though a brief moving glimpse were being
prolonged. A glance at the background told him when and where it
had been taken�a year and a half ago, at a convention at
Harvard. These telecast people must save up every inch of old
news-film they ever took. There were views of Blanley campus,
and interviews with some of the Modern History IV boys,
including Dacre and Kendrick. That was one of the things they'd
been doing with that jeep-mounted sound-camera, this afternoon,
then. The boys, some brashly, some embarrassedly, were
substantiating the fact that he had, a month ago, described
yesterday's event in detail. There was an interview with Leonard
Fitch; the psychology professor was trying to explain the
phenomenon of precognition in layman's terms, and making heavy
going of it. And there was the mobbing of Whitburn in front of
Administration Center. The college president was shouting
denials of every question asked him, and as he turned and fled,
the guffaws of the reporters were plainly audible.
An argument broke out along the counter.
"I don't believe it! How could anybody know all that about
something before it happened?"
"Well, you heard that-there professor, what was his name. An'
you heard all them boys...."
"Ah, college-boys; they'll do anything for a joke!"
"After refusing to be interviewed for telecast, the president of
Blanley College finally consented to hold a press conference in
his office, from which telecast cameras were barred. He denied
the whole story categorically and stated that the boys in
Professor Chalmers' class had concocted the whole thing as a
hoax...."
"There! See what I told you!"
"... stating that Professor Chalmers is mentally unsound, and
that he has been trying for years to oust him from his position
on the Blanley faculty but has been unable to do so because of
the provisions of the Faculty Tenure Act of 1963. Most of his
remarks were in the nature of a polemic against this law,
generally regarded as the college professors' bill of rights. It
is to be stated here that other members of the Blanley faculty
have unconditionally confirmed the fact that Doctor Chalmers did
make the statements attributed to him a month ago, long before
the death of Khalid ib'n Hussein...."
"Yah! How about that, now? How'ya gonna get around that?"
Beckoning the waitress, he paid his check and hurried out.
Before he reached the door, he heard a voice, almost stuttering
with excitement:
"Hey! Look! That's him!"
He began to run. He was two blocks from the cafe before he
slowed to a walk again.
That night, he needed three shots of whiskey before he could get
to sleep.
A delegation from the American Institute of Psionics and
Parapsychology reached Blanley that morning, having taken a
strato-plane from the East Coast. They had academic titles and
degrees that even Lloyd Whitburn couldn't ignore. They talked
with Leonard Fitch, and with the students from Modern History
IV, and took statements. It wasn't until after General European
History II that they caught up with Chalmers�an elderly man,
with white hair and a ruddy face; a young man who looked like a
heavy-weight boxer; a middle-aged man in tweeds who smoked a
pipe and looked as though he ought to be more interested in
grouse-shooting and flower-gardening than in clairvoyance and
telepathy. The names of the first two meant nothing to Chalmers.
They were important names in their own field, but it was not his
field. The name of the third, who listened silently, he did not
catch.
"You understand, gentlemen, that I'm having some difficulties
with the college administration about this," he told them.
"President Whitburn has even gone so far as to challenge my
fitness to hold a position here."
"We've talked to him," the elderly man said. "It was not a very
satisfactory discussion."
"President Whitburn's fitness to hold his own position could
very easily be challenged," the young man added pugnaciously.
"Well, then, you see what my position is. I've consulted my
attorney, Mr. Weill and he has advised me to make absolutely no
statements of any sort about the matter."
"I understand," the eldest of the trio said. "But we're not the
press, or anything like that. We can assure you that anything
you tell us will be absolutely confidential." He looked
inquiringly at the middle-aged man in tweeds, who nodded
silently. "We can understand that the students in your modern
history class are telling what is substantially the truth?"
"If you're thinking about that hoax statement of Whitburn's,
that's a lot of idiotic drivel!" he said angrily. "I heard some
of those boys on the telecast, last night; except for a few
details in which they were confused, they all stated exactly
what they heard me say in class a month ago."
PART 2 of 2 Parts:
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#Post#: 308--------------------------------------------------
&quot;Well.... Yes, Professor. You've had a bad crack-up. I
don't suppose you realize how bad.
DIR By: AGelbert
Date: May 21, 2022, 5:52 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
Click HERE
HTML https://soberthinking.createaforum.com/general-discussion/books-and-audio-books-that-may-interest-you-129488/msg307/#msg307 to read PART 1 of this Science Fiction Story.
PART 2 of 2 PARTS:
[center]THE EDGE OF THE KNIFE By H. BEAM PIPER
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[center]
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[center]Had the sane restrained the insane, or was it the other
way around?[/center]
"If you're thinking about that hoax statement of Whitburn's,
that's a lot of idiotic drivel!" he said angrily. "I heard some
of those boys on the telecast, last night; except for a few
details in which they were confused, they all stated exactly
what they heard me say in class a month ago."
"And we assume,"�again he glanced at the man in tweeds�"that you
had no opportunity of knowing anything, at the time, about any
actual plot against Khalid's life?"
The man in tweeds broke silence for the first time. "You can
assume that. I don't even think this fellow Noureed knew
anything about it, then."
"Well, we'd like to know, as nearly as you're able to tell us,
just how you became the percipient of this knowledge of the
future event of the death of Khalid ib'n Hussein," the young man
began. "Was it through a dream, or a waking experience; did you
visualize, or have an auditory impression, or did it simply come
into your mind...."
"I'm sorry, gentlemen." He looked at his watch. "I have to be
going somewhere, at once. In any case, I simply can't discuss
the matter with you. I appreciate your position; I know how I'd
feel if data of historical importance were being withheld from
me. However, I trust that you will appreciate my position and
spare me any further questioning."
That was all he allowed them to get out of him. They spent
another few minutes being polite to one another; he invited them
to lunch at the Faculty Club, and learned that they were
lunching there as Fitch's guests. They went away trying to hide
their disappointment.
The Psionics and Parapsychology people weren't the only
delegation to reach Blanley that day. Enough of the trustees of
the college lived in the San Francisco area to muster a quorum
for a meeting the evening before; a committee, including James
Dacre, the father of the boy in Modern History IV, was appointed
to get the facts at first hand; they arrived about noon. They
talked to some of the students, spent some time closeted with
Whitburn, and were seen crossing the campus with the
Parapsychology people. They didn't talk to Chalmers or Fitch. In
the afternoon, Marjorie Fenner told Chalmers that his presence
at a meeting, to be held that evening in Whitburn's office, was
requested. The request, she said, had come from the trustees'
committee, not from Whitburn; she also told him that Fitch would
be there. Chalmers promptly phoned Stanly Weill.
"I'll be there along with you," the lawyer said. "If this
trustees' committee is running it, they'll realize that this is
a matter in which you're entitled to legal advice. I'll stop by
your place and pick you up.... You haven't been doing any
talking, have you?"
He described the interview with the Psionics and Parapsychology
people.
"That was all right.... Was there a man with a mustache, in a
brown tweed suit, with them?"
"Yes. I didn't catch his name...."
"It's Cutler. He's an Army major; Central Intelligence. His
crowd's interested in whether you had any real advance
information on this. He was in to see me, just a while ago. I
have the impression he'd like to see this whole thing played
down, so he'll be on our side, more or less and for the time
being. I'll be around to your place about eight; in the
meantime, don't do any more talking than you have to. I hope we
can get this straightened out, this evening. I'll have to go to
Reno in a day or so to see a client there...."
The meeting in Whitburn's office had been set for eight-thirty;
Weill saw to it that they arrived exactly on time. As they got
out of his car at Administration Center and crossed to the
steps, Chalmers had the feeling of going to a duel, accompanied
by his second. The briefcase Weill was carrying may have given
him the idea; it was flat and square-cornered, the size and
shape of an old case of dueling pistols. He commented on it.
"Sound recorder," Weill said. "Loaded with a four-hour spool. No
matter how long this thing lasts, I'll have a record of it, if I
want to produce one in court."
Another party was arriving at the same time�the two Psionics and
Parapsychology people and the Intelligence major, who seemed to
have formed a working partnership. They all entered together,
after a brief and guardedly polite exchange of greetings. There
were voices raised in argument inside when they came to
Whitburn's office. The college president was trying to keep
Handley, Tom Smith, and Max Pottgeiter from entering his private
room in the rear.
"It certainly is!" Handley was saying. "As faculty members, any
controversy involving establishment of standards of fitness to
teach under a tenure-contract concerns all of us, because any
action taken in this case may establish a precedent which could
affect the validity of our own contracts."
A big man with iron-gray hair appeared in the doorway of the
private office behind Whitburn; James Dacre.
"These gentlemen have a substantial interest in this, Doctor
Whitburn," he said. "If they're here as representatives of the
college faculty, they have every right to be present."
Whitburn stood aside. Handley, Smith and Pottgeiter went through
the door; the others followed. The other three members of the
trustees' committee were already in the room. A few minutes
later, Leonard Fitch arrived, also carrying a briefcase.
"Well, everybody seems to be here," Whitburn said, starting
toward his chair behind the desk. "We might as well get this
started."
"Yes. If you'll excuse me, Doctor." Dacre stepped in front of
him and sat down at the desk. "I've been selected as chairman of
this committee; I believe I'm presiding here. Start the
recorder, somebody."
One of the other trustees went to the sound recorder beside the
desk�a larger but probably not more efficient instrument than
the one Weill had concealed in his briefcase�and flipped a
switch. Then he and his companions dragged up chairs to flank
Dacre's, and the rest seated themselves around the room. Old
Pottgeiter took a seat next to Chalmers. Weill opened the case
on his lap, reached inside, and closed it again.
"What are they trying to do, Ed?" Pottgeiter asked, in a loud
whisper. "Throw you off the faculty? They can't do that, can
they?"
"I don't know, Max. We'll see...."
"This isn't any formal hearing, and nobody's on trial here,"
Dacre was saying. "Any action will have to be taken by the board
of trustees as a whole, at a regularly scheduled meeting. All
we're trying to do is find out just what's happened here, and
who, if anybody, is responsible...."
"Well, there's the man who's responsible!" Whitburn cried,
pointing at Chalmers. "This whole thing grew out of his behavior
in class a month ago, and I'll remind you that at the time I
demanded his resignation!"
"I thought it was Doctor Fitch, here, who gave the story to the
newspapers," one of the trustees, a man with red hair and a
thin, eyeglassed face, objected.
"Doctor Fitch acted as any scientist should, in making public
what he believed to be an important scientific discovery," the
elder of the two Parapsychology men said. "He believed, and so
do we, that he had discovered a significant instance of
precognition�a case of real prior knowledge of a future event.
He made a careful and systematic record of Professor Chalmers'
statements, at least two weeks before the occurrence of the
event to which they referred. It is entirely due to him that we
know exactly what Professor Chalmers said and when he said it."
"Yes," his younger colleague added, "and in all my experience
I've never heard anything more preposterous than this man
Whitburn's attempt, yesterday, to deny the fact."
"Well, we're convinced that Doctor Chalmers did in fact say what
he's alleged to have said, last month," Dacre began.
"Jim, I think we ought to get that established, for the record,"
another of the trustees put in. "Doctor Chalmers, is it true
that you spoke, in the past tense, about the death of Khalid
ib'n Hussein in one of your classes on the sixteenth of last
month?"
Chalmers rose. "Yes, it is. And the next day, I was called into
this room by Doctor Whitburn, who demanded my resignation from
the faculty of this college because of it. Now, what I'd like to
know is, why did Doctor Whitburn, in this same room, deny,
yesterday, that I'd said anything of the sort, and accuse my
students of concocting the story after the event as a hoax."
"One of them being my son," Dacre added. "I'd like to hear an
answer to that, myself."
"So would I," Stanly Weill chimed in. "You know, my client has a
good case against Doctor Whitburn for libel."
Chalmers looked around the room. Of the thirteen men around him,
only Whitburn was an enemy. Some of the others were on his side,
for one reason or another, but none of them were friends. Weill
was his lawyer, obeying an obligation to a client which, at
bottom, was an obligation to his own conscience. Handley was
afraid of the possibility that a precedent might be established
which would impair his own tenure-contract. Fitch, and the two
men from the Institute of Psionics and Parapsychology were
interested in him as a source of study-material. Dacre resented
a slur upon his son; he and the others were interested in
Blanley College as an institution, almost an abstraction. And
the major in mufti was probably worrying about the consequences
to military security of having a prophet at large. Then a hand
gripped his shoulder, and a voice whispered in his ear:
"That's good, Ed; don't let them scare you!"
Old Max Pottgeiter, at least, was a friend.
"Doctor Whitburn, I'm asking you, and I expect an answer, why
did you make such statements to the press, when you knew
perfectly well that they were false?" Dacre demanded sharply.
"I knew nothing of the kind!" Whitburn blustered, showing, under
the bluster, fear. "Yes, I demanded this man's resignation on
the morning of October Seventeenth, the day after this incident
occurred. It had come to my attention on several occasions that
he was making wild and unreasonable assertions in class, and
subjecting himself, and with himself the whole faculty of this
college, to student ridicule. Why, there was actually an
editorial about it written by the student editor of the campus
paper, the Black and Green. I managed to prevent its
publication...." He went on at some length about that. "If I
might be permitted access to the drawers of my own desk," he
added with elephantine sarcasm, "I could show you the editorial
in question."
"You needn't bother; I have a carbon copy," Dacre told him.
"We've all read it. If you did, at the time you suppressed it,
you should have known what Doctor Chalmers said in class."
"I knew he'd talked a lot of poppycock about a man who was still
living having been shot to death," Whitburn retorted. "And if
something of the sort actually happened, what of it? Somebody's
always taking a shot at one or another of these foreign
dictators, and they can't miss all the time."
"You claim this was pure coincidence?" Fitch demanded. "A
ten-point coincidence: Event of assassination, year of the
event, place, circumstances, name of assassin, nationality of
assassin, manner of killing, exact type of weapon used, guards
killed and wounded along with Khalid, and fate of the assassin.
If that's a simple and plausible coincidence, so's dealing ten
royal flushes in succession in a poker game. Tom, you figured
that out; what did you say the odds against it were?"
"Was all that actually stated by Doctor Chalmers a month ago?"
one of the trustees asked, incredulously.
"It absolutely was. Look here, Mr. Dacre, gentlemen." Fitch came
forward, unzipping his briefcase and pulling out papers. "Here
are the signed statements of each of Doctor Chalmers'
twenty-three Modern History Four students, all made and dated
before the assassination. You can refer to them as you please;
they're in alphabetical order. And here." He unfolded a sheet of
graph paper a yard long and almost as wide. "Here's a tabulated
summary of the boys' statements. All agreed on the first point,
the fact of the assassination. All agreed that the time was
sometime this year. Twenty out of twenty-three agreed on Basra
as the place. Why, seven of them even remembered the name of the
assassin. That in itself is remarkable; Doctor Chalmers has an
extremely intelligent and attentive class."
"They're attentive because they know he's always likely to do
something crazy and make a circus out of himself," Whitburn
interjected.
"And this isn't the only instance of Doctor Chalmers'
precognitive ability," Fitch continued. "There have been a
number of other cases...."
Chalmers jumped to his feet; Stanly Weill rose beside him,
shoved the cased sound-recorder into his hands, and pushed him
back into his seat.
"Gentlemen," the lawyer began, quietly but firmly and clearly.
"This is all getting pretty badly out of hand. After all, this
isn't an investigation of the actuality of precognition as a
psychic phenomenon. What I'd like to hear, and what I haven't
heard yet, is Doctor Whitburn's explanation of his contradictory
statements that he knew about my client's alleged remarks on the
evening after they were supposed to have been made and that, at
the same time, the whole thing was a hoax concocted by his
students."
"Are you implying that I'm a liar?" Whitburn bristled.
"I'm pointing out that you made a pair of contradictory
statements, and I'm asking how you could do that knowingly and
honestly," Weill retorted.
"What I meant," Whitburn began, with exaggerated slowness, as
though speaking to an idiot, "was that yesterday, when those
infernal reporters were badgering me, I really thought that some
of Professor Chalmers' students had gotten together and given
the Valley Times an exaggerated story about his insane
maunderings a month ago. I hadn't imagined that a member of the
faculty had been so lacking in loyalty to the college...."
"You couldn't imagine anybody with any more intellectual
integrity than you have!" Fitch fairly yelled at him.
"You're as crazy as Chalmers!" Whitburn yelled back. He turned
to the trustees. "You see the position I'm in, here, with this
infernal Higher Education Faculty Tenure Act? I have a madman on
my faculty, and can I get rid of him? No! I demand his
resignation, and he laughs at me and goes running for his
lawyer! And he is a madman! Nobody but a madman would talk the
way he does. You think this Khalid ib'n Hussein business is the
only time he's done anything like this? Why, I have a list of a
dozen occasions when he's done something just as bad, only he
didn't have a lucky coincidence to back him up. Trying to get
books that don't exist out of the library, and then insisting
that they're standard textbooks. Talking about the revolt of the
colonies on Mars and Venus. Talking about something he calls the
Terran Federation, some kind of a world empire. Or something he
calls Operation Triple Cross, that saved the country during some
fantastic war he imagined...."
"What did you say?"
The question
HTML https://soberthinking.createaforum.com/gallery/soberthinking/1-220522191040.bmpout like a string of pistol shots. Everybody turned. The quiet man
in the brown tweed suit had spoken; now he looked as though he
were very much regretting it.
"Is there such a thing as Operation Triple Cross?" Fitch was
asking.
"No, no. I never heard anything about that; that wasn't what I
meant. It was this Terran Federation thing," the major said, a
trifle too quickly and too smoothly. He turned to Chalmers. "You
never did any work for PSPB; did you ever talk to anybody who
did?" he asked.
"I don't even know what the letters mean," Chalmers replied.
"Politico-Strategic Planning Board. It's all pretty hush-hush,
but this term Terran Federation is a tentative name for a
proposed organization to take the place of the U. N. if that
organization breaks up. It's nothing particularly important, and
it only exists on paper."
It won't exist only on paper very long, Chalmers thought. He was
wondering what Operation Triple Cross was; he had some notes on
it, but he had forgotten what they were.
"Maybe he did pick that up from somebody who'd talked
indiscreetly," Whitburn conceded. "But the rest of this
tommyrot! Why, he was talking about how the city of Reno had
been destroyed by an explosion and fire, literally wiped off the
map. There's an example for you!"
He'd forgotten about that, too. It had been a relatively minor
incident in the secret struggle of the Subwar; now he remembered
having made a note about it. He was sure that it followed
closely after the assassination of Khalid ib'n Hussein. He
turned quickly to Weill.
"Didn't you say you had to go to Reno in a day or so?" he asked.
Weill hushed him urgently, pointing with his free hand to the
recorder. The exchange prevented him from noticing that Max
Pottgeiter had risen, until the old man was speaking.
"Are you trying to tell these people that Professor Chalmers is
crazy?" he was demanding. "Why, he has one of the best minds on
the campus. I was talking to him only yesterday, in the back
room at the Library. You know," he went on apologetically, "my
subject is Medieval History; I don't pay much attention to
what's going on in the contemporary world, and I didn't
understand, really, what all this excitement was about. But he
explained the whole thing to me, and did it in terms that I
could grasp, drawing some excellent parallels with the Byzantine
Empire and the Crusades. All about the revolt at Damascus, and
the sack of Beirut, and the war between Jordan and Saudi Arabia,
and how the Turkish army intervened, and the invasion of
Pakistan...."
"When did all this happen?" one of the trustees demanded.
Pottgeiter started to explain; Chalmers realized, sickly, how
much of his future history he had poured into the trusting ear
of the old medievalist, the day before.
"Good Lord, man; don't you read the papers at all?" another of
the trustees asked.
"No! And I don't read inside-dope magazines, or science fiction.
I read carefully substantiated facts. And I know when I'm
talking to a sane and reasonable man. It isn't a common
experience, around here."
Dacre passed a hand over his face. "Doctor Whitburn," he said,
"I must admit that I came to this meeting strongly prejudiced
against you, and I'll further admit that your own behavior here
has done very little to dispel that prejudice. But I'm beginning
to get some idea of what you have to contend with, here at
Blanley, and I find that I must make a lot of allowances. I had
no idea.... Simply no idea at all."
"Look, you're getting a completely distorted picture of this,
Mr. Dacre," Fitch broke in. "It's precisely as I believed;
Doctor Chalmers is an unusually gifted precognitive percipient.
You've seen, gentlemen, how his complicated chain of
precognitions about the death of Khalid has been proven
veridical; I'd stake my life that every one of these
precognitions will be similarly verified. And I'll stake my
professional reputation that the man is perfectly sane. Of
course, abnormal psychology and psychopathology aren't my
subjects, but...."
"They're not my subjects, either," Whitburn retorted, "but I
know a lunatic by his ravings."
"Doctor Fitch is taking an entirely proper attitude," Pottgeiter
said, "in pointing out that abnormal psychology is a specialized
branch, outside his own field. I wouldn't dream, myself, of
trying to offer a decisive opinion on some point of Roman, or
Babylonian, history. Well, if the question of Doctor Chalmers'
sanity is at issue here, let's consult somebody who specializes
in insanity. I don't believe that anybody here is qualified even
to express an opinion on that subject, Doctor Whitburn least of
all."
Whitburn turned on him angrily. "Oh, shut up, you doddering old
fool!" he shouted. "Look; there's another of them!" he told the
trustees. "Another deadhead on the faculty that this Tenure Law
keeps me from getting rid of. He's as bad as Chalmers, himself.
You just heard that string of nonsense he was spouting. Why, his
courses have been noted among the students for years as snap
courses in which nobody ever has to do any work...."
Chalmers was on his feet again, thoroughly angry. Abuse of
himself he could take; talking that way about gentle, learned,
old Pottgeiter was something else.
"I think Doctor Pottgeiter's said the most reasonable thing I've
heard since I came in here," he declared. "If my sanity is to be
questioned, I insist that it be questioned by somebody qualified
to do so."
Had the sane restrained the insane, or was it the other way
around?
Had the sane restrained the insane, or was it the other way
around?
Weill set his recorder on the floor and jumped up beside him,
trying to haul him back into his seat.
"For God's sake, man! Sit down and shut up!" he hissed.
Chalmers shook off his hand. "No, I won't shut up! This is the
only way to settle this, once and for all. And when my sanity's
been vindicated, I'm going to sue this fellow...."
Whitburn started to make some retort, then stopped short. After
a moment, he smiled nastily.
"Do I understand, Doctor Chalmers, that you would be willing to
submit to psychiatric examination?" he asked.
"Don't agree; you're putting your foot in a trap!" Weill told
him urgently.
"Of course, I agree, as long as the examination is conducted by
a properly qualified psychiatrist."
"How about Doctor Hauserman at Northern State Mental Hospital?"
Whitburn asked quickly. "Would you agree to an examination by
him?"
"Excellent!" Fitch exclaimed. "One of the best men in the field.
I'd accept his opinion unreservedly."
Weill started to object again; Chalmers cut him off. "Doctor
Hauserman will be quite satisfactory to me. The only question
is, would he be available?"
"I think he would," Dacre said, glancing at his watch. "I wonder
if he could be reached now." He got to his feet. "Telephone in
your outer office, Doctor Whitburn? Fine. If you gentlemen will
excuse me...."
It was a good fifteen minutes before he returned, smiling.
"Well, gentlemen, it's all arranged," he said. "Doctor Hauserman
is quite willing to examine Doctor Chalmers�with the latter's
consent, of course."
"He'll have it. In writing, if he wishes."
"Yes, I assured him on that point. He'll be here about noon
tomorrow�it's a hundred and fifty miles from the hospital, but
the doctor flies his own plane�and the examination can start at
two in the afternoon. He seems familiar with the facilities of
the psychology department, here; I assured him that they were at
his disposal. Will that be satisfactory to you, Doctor
Chalmers?"
"I have a class at that time, but one of the instructors can
take it over�if holding classes will be possible around here
tomorrow," he said. "Now, if you gentlemen will pardon me, I
think I'll go home and get some sleep."
Weill came up to the apartment with him. He mixed a couple of
drinks and they went into the living room with them.
"Just in case you don't know what you've gotten yourself into,"
Weill said, "this Hauserman isn't any ordinary couch-pilot; he's
the state psychiatrist. If he gets the idea you aren't sane, he
can commit you to a hospital, and I'll bet that's exactly what
Whitburn had in mind when he suggested him. And I don't trust
this man Dacre. I thought he was on our side, at the start, but
that was before your friends got into the act." He frowned into
his drink. "And I don't like the way that Intelligence major was
acting, toward the last. If he thinks you know something you are
not supposed to, a mental hospital may be his idea of a good
place to put you away."
"You don't think this man Hauserman would allow himself to be
influenced ...? No. You just don't think I'm sane. Do you?"
"I know what Hauserman'll think. He'll think this future history
business is a classical case of systematized schizoid delusion.
I wish I'd never gotten into this case. I wish I'd never even
heard of you! And another thing; in case you get past Hauserman
all right, you can forget about that damage-suit bluff of mine.
You would not stand a chance with it in court."
"In spite of what happened to Khalid?"
"After tomorrow, I won't stay in the same room with anybody who
even mentions that name to me. Well, win or lose, it'll be over
tomorrow and then I can leave here."
"Did you tell me you were going to Reno?" Chalmers asked. "Don't
do it. You remember Whitburn mentioning how I spoke about an
explosion there? It happened just a couple of days after the
murder of Khalid. There was�will be�a trainload of high
explosives in the railroad yard; it'll be the biggest
non-nuclear explosion since the Mont Blanc blew up in Halifax
harbor in World War One...."
Weill threw his drink into the fire; he must have avoided
throwing the glass in with it by a last-second exercise of
self-control.
"Well," he said, after a brief struggle to master himself. "One
thing about the legal profession; you do hear the damnedest
things!... Good night, Professor. And try�please try, for the
sake of your poor harried lawyer�to keep your mouth shut about
things like that, at least till after you get through with
Hauserman. And when you're talking to him, don't, don't, for
heaven's sake, don't, volunteer anything!"
The room was a pleasant, warmly-colored, place. There was a
desk, much like the ones in the classrooms, and six or seven
wicker armchairs. A lot of apparatus had been pushed back along
the walls; the dust-covers were gay cretonne. There was a couch,
with more apparatus, similarly covered, beside it. Hauserman was
seated at the desk when Chalmers entered.
He rose, and they shook hands. A man of about his own age,
smooth-faced, partially bald. Chalmers tried to guess something
of the man's nature from his face, but could read nothing. A
face well trained to keep its owner's secrets.
"Something to smoke, Professor," he began, offering his
cigarette case.
"My pipe, if you don't mind." He got it out and filled it.
"Any of those chairs," Hauserman said, gesturing toward them.
They were all arranged to face the desk. He sat down, lighting
his pipe. Hauserman nodded approvingly; he was behaving calmly,
and didn't need being put at ease. They talked at random�at
least, Hauserman tried to make it seem so�for some time about
his work, his book about the French Revolution, current events.
He picked his way carefully through the conversation, alert for
traps which the psychiatrist might be laying for him. Finally,
Hauserman said:
"Would you mind telling me just why you felt it advisable to
request a psychiatric examination, Professor?"
"I didn't request it. But when the suggestion was made, by one
of my friends, in reply to some aspersions of my sanity, I
agreed to it."
"Good distinction. And why was your sanity questioned? I won't
deny that I had heard of this affair, here, before Mr. Dacre
called me, last evening, but I'd like to hear your version of
it."
He went into that, from the original incident in Modern History
IV, choosing every word carefully, trying to concentrate on
making a good impression upon Hauserman, and at the same time
finding that more "memories" of the future were beginning to
seep past the barrier of his consciousness. He tried to dam them
back; when he could not, he spoke with greater and greater care
lest they leak into his speech.
"I can't recall the exact manner in which I blundered into it.
The fact that I did make such a blunder was because I was
talking extemporaneously and had wandered ahead of my text. I
was trying to show the results of the collapse of the Ottoman
Empire after the First World War, and the partition of the
Middle East into a loose collection of Arab states, and the
passing of British and other European spheres of influence
following the Second. You know, when you consider it, the
Islamic Caliphate was inevitable; the surprising thing is that
it was created by a man like Khalid...."
He was talking to gain time, and he suspected that Hauserman
knew it. The "memories" were coming into his mind more and more
strongly; it was impossible to suppress them. The period of
anarchy following Khalid's death would be much briefer, and much
more violent, than he had previously thought. Tallal ib'n Khalid
would be flying from England even now; perhaps he had already
left the plane to take refuge among the black tents of his
father's Bedouins. The revolt at Damascus would break out before
the end of the month; before the end of the year, the whole of
Syria and Lebanon would be in bloody chaos, and the Turkish army
would be on the march.
"Yes. And you allowed yourself to be carried a little beyond the
present moment, into the future, without realizing it? Is that
it?"
"Something like that," he replied, wide awake to the trap
Hauserman had set, and fearful that it might be a blind, to
disguise the real trap. "History follows certain patterns. I'm
not a Toynbean, by any manner of means, but any historian can
see that certain forces generally tend to produce similar
effects. For instance, space travel is now a fact; our
government has at present a military base on Luna. Within our
lifetimes�certainly within the lifetimes of my students�there
will be explorations and attempts at colonization on Mars and
Venus. You believe that, Doctor?"
"Oh, unreservedly. I'm not supposed to talk about it, but I did
some work on the Philadelphia Project, myself. I'd say that
every major problem of interplanetary flight had been solved
before the first robot rocket was landed on Luna."
"Yes. And when Mars and Venus are colonized, there will be the
same historic situations, at least in general shape, as arose
when the European powers were colonizing the New World, or, for
that matter, when the Greek city-states were throwing out
colonies across the Aegean. That's the sort of thing we call
projecting the past into the future through the present."
Hauserman nodded. "But how about the details? Things like the
assassination of a specific personage. How can you extrapolate
to a thing like that?"
"Well...." More "memories" were coming to the surface; he tried
to crowd them back. "I do my projecting in what you might call
fictionalized form; try to fill in the details from imagination.
In the case of Khalid, I was trying to imagine what would happen
if his influence were suddenly removed from Near Eastern and
Middle Eastern, affairs. I suppose I constructed an imaginary
scene of his assassination...."
He went on at length. Mohammed and Noureed were common enough
names. The Middle East was full of old U. S. weapons. Stoning
was the traditional method of execution; it diffused
responsibility so that no individual could be singled out for
blood-feud vengeance.
"You have no idea how disturbed I was when the whole thing
happened, exactly as I had described it," he continued. "And
worst of all, to me, was this Intelligence officer showing up; I
thought I was really in for it!"
"Then you've never really believed that you had real knowledge
of the future?"
"I'm beginning to, since I've been talking to these Psionics and
Parapsychology people," he laughed. It sounded, he hoped, like a
natural and unaffected laugh. "They seem to be convinced that I
have."
There would be an Eastern-inspired uprising in Azerbaijan by the
middle of the next year; before autumn, the Indian Communists
would make their fatal attempt to seize East Pakistan. The
Thirty Days' War would be the immediate result. By that time,
the Lunar Base would be completed and ready; the enemy missiles
would be aimed primarily at the rocketports from which it was
supplied. Delivered without warning, it should have
succeeded�except that every rocketport had its secret duplicate
and triplicate. That was Operation Triple Cross; no wonder Major
Cutler had been so startled at the words, last evening. The
enemy would be utterly overwhelmed under the rain of missiles
from across space, but until the moon-rockets began to fall, the
United States would suffer grievously.
"Honestly, though, I feel sorry for my friend Fitch," he added.
"He's going to be frightfully let down when some more of my
alleged prophecies misfire on him. But I really haven't been
deliberately deceiving him."
And Blanley College was at the center of one of the areas which
would receive the worst of the thermonuclear hell to come. And
it would be a little under a year....
"And that's all there is to it!" Hauserman exclaimed, annoyance
in his voice. "I'm amazed that this man Whitburn allowed a thing
like this to assume the proportions it did. I must say that I
seem to have gotten the story about this business in a very
garbled form indeed." He laughed shortly. "I came here convinced
that you were mentally unbalanced. I hope you won't take that
the wrong way, Professor," he hastened to add. "In my
profession, anything can be expected. A good psychiatrist can
never afford to forget how sharp and fine is the knife-edge."
"The knife-edge!" The words startled him. He had been thinking,
at that moment, of the knife-edge, slicing moment after moment
relentlessly away from the future, into the past, at each slice
coming closer and closer to the moment when the missiles of the
Eastern Axis would fall. "I didn't know they still resorted to
surgery, in mental cases," he added, trying to cover his break.
"Oh, no; all that sort of thing is as irrevocably discarded as
the whips and shackles of Bedlam. I meant another kind of
knife-edge; the thin, almost invisible, line which separates
sanity from non-sanity. From madness, to use a deplorable lay
expression." Hauserman lit another cigarette. "Most minds are a
lot closer to it than their owners suspect, too. In fact,
Professor, I was so convinced that yours had passed over it that
I brought with me a commitment form, made out all but my
signature, for you." He took it from his pocket and laid it on
the desk. "The modern equivalent of the lettre-de-cachet, I
suppose the author of a book on the French Revolution would call
it. I was all ready to certify you as mentally unsound, and
commit you to Northern State Mental Hospital."
Chalmers sat erect in his chair. He knew where that was; on the
other side of the mountains, in the one part of the state
completely untouched by the H-bombs of the Thirty Days' War.
Why, the town outside which the hospital stood had been a
military headquarters during the period immediately after the
bombings, and the center from which all the rescue work in the
state had been directed.
"And you thought you could commit me to Northern State!" he
demanded, laughing scornfully, and this time he didn't try to
make the laugh sound natural and unaffected. "You�confine me,
anywhere? Confine a poor old history professor's body, yes, but
that isn't me. I'm universal; I exist in all space-time. When
this old body I'm wearing now was writing that book on the
French Revolution, I was in Paris, watching it happen, from the
fall of the Bastile to the Ninth Thermidor. I was in Basra, and
saw that crazed tool of the Axis shoot down Khalid ib'n
Hussein�and the professor talked about it a month before it
happened. I have seen empires rise and stretch from star to star
across the Galaxy, and crumble and fall. I have seen...."
Doctor Hauserman had gotten his pen out of his pocket and was
signing the commitment form with one hand; with the other, he
pressed a button on the desk. A door at the rear opened, and a
large young man in a white jacket entered.
"You'll have to go away for a while, Professor," Hauserman was
telling him, much later, after he had allowed himself to become
calm again. "For how long, I don't know. Maybe a year or so."
"You mean to Northern State Mental?"
"Well.... Yes, Professor. You've had a bad crack-up. I don't
suppose you realize how bad. You've been working too hard;
harder than your nervous system could stand. It's been too much
for you."
"You mean, I'm nuts?"
"Please, Professor. I deplore that sort of terminology. You've
had a severe psychological breakdown...."
"Will I be able to have books, and papers, and work a little? I
couldn't bear the prospect of complete idleness."
"That would be all right, if you didn't work too hard."
"And could I say good-bye to some of my friends?"
Hauserman nodded and asked, "Who?"
"Well, Professor Pottgeiter...."
"He's outside now. He was inquiring about you."
"And Stanly Weill, my attorney. Not business; just to say
good-bye."
"Oh, I'm sorry, Professor. He's not in town, now. He left almost
immediately after.... After...."
"After he found out I was crazy for sure? Where'd he go?"
"To Reno; he took the plane at five o'clock."
Weill wouldn't have believed, anyhow; no use trying to blame
himself for that. But he was as sure that he would never see
Stanly Weill alive again as he was that the next morning the sun
would rise. He nodded impassively.
"Sorry he couldn't stay. Can I see Max Pottgeiter alone?"
"Yes, of course, Professor."
Old Pottgeiter came in, his face anguished. "Ed! It isn't true,"
he stammered. "I won't believe that it's true."
"What, Max?"
"That you're crazy. Nobody can make me believe that."
He put his hand on the old man's shoulder. "Confidentially, Max,
neither do I. But don't tell anybody I'm not. It's a secret."
Pottgeiter looked troubled. For a moment, he seemed to be
wondering if he mightn't be wrong and Hauserman and Whitburn and
the others right.
"Max, do you believe in me?" he asked. "Do you believe that I
knew about Khalid's assassination a month before it happened?"
"It's a horribly hard thing to believe," Pottgeiter admitted.
"But, dammit, Ed, you did! I know, medieval history is full of
stories about prophecies being fulfilled. I always thought those
stories were just legends that grew up after the event. And, of
course, he's about a century late for me, but there was
Nostradamus. Maybe those old prophecies weren't just ex post
facto legends, after all. Yes. After Khalid, I'll believe that."
"All right. I'm saying, now, that in a few days there'll be a
bad explosion at Reno, Nevada. Watch the papers and the telecast
for it. If it happens, that ought to prove it. And you remember
what I told you about the Turks annexing Syria and Lebanon?" The
old man nodded. "When that happens, get away from Blanley. Come
up to the town where Northern State Mental Hospital is, and get
yourself a place to live, and stay there. And try to bring
Marjorie Fenner along with you. Will you do that, Max?"
"If you say so." His eyes widened. "Something bad's going to
happen here?"
"Yes, Max. Something very bad. You promise me you will?"
"Of course, Ed. You know, you're the only friend I have around
here. You and Marjorie. I'll come, and bring her along."
"Here's the key to my apartment." He got it from his pocket and
gave it to Pottgeiter, with instructions. "Everything in the
filing cabinet on the left of my desk. And don't let anybody
else see any of it. Keep it safe for me."
The large young man in the white coat entered.
THE END
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