COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works, page 272
"So ... he discovered a means of neutralizing gravity ... and the shock of it ... no. Because he'd be expecting just such results. If he'd been working on—say—a bombsight, and suddenly found himself floating up off the floor—" Cameron scowled. "But how can a man—"
"He can't," the physicist said from the stepladder. "He just can't do it. Even theoretical antigravity requires machines. My instruments must be bollixed up."
Cameron said, "How?"
The technician held up a gauge. "It's registering—see the needle? Now watch." He touched a metal-tipped wire to M-204's temple. The needle flipped back to zero. Then it shot wildly to the limit, wavered there, and subsided back to the zero mark again.
The technician descended. "Fine. My instruments don't work when I use them on that guy. They work all right elsewhere. But—I don't know. Maybe he's suffered some chemical or physical change. Though even then I should be able to make a qualitative analysis. It's crazy." Muttering, he repacked his equipment.
Cameron said, "It's theoretically possible for an object to float in air, though, isn't it?"
"You mean an object heavier than air. Sure. Helium will inflate a dirigible. Magnetism will hold up a chunk of iron. Theoretically it's quite possible for this man to float. That isn't the problem at all. Theoretically practically anything's possible. But there's got to be a logical reason. How can I find a reason when my instruments don't work?"
He made a despairing gesture, his wrinkled, gnomish face twisted in angry lines. "They want me to work blind, anyway. I've got to find out what this man was working on. That's where I'll find the explanation. Not here!"
Brann looked at Cameron. "Any questions?"
"No. Not yet, anyhow."
"Then let's go back to my office."
Locke was still waiting when they came in. He stood up impatiently.
"Ready, Mr. Cameron?"
"What next?"
"The secretary of War."
DuBrose groaned inaudibly.
-
III.
Within the next four hours—
A rocket engineer traced a circuit for the ninety-fourth time, sat back, and started to laugh. His laughter changed to a shrill, incessant screaming. The infirmary doctor finally shot apomorphine into the man's arm, before painting the raw throat. But when the engineer woke up he instantly began screaming again. As long as he made noises he was safe.
The circuit the engineer had been tracing was part of a gadget the enemy had dropped in quantity. Four of these gadgets exploded, killing seven technicians and wrecking valuable equipment. The ones that exploded were the Duds.
A physicist rose from the papers on his desk, went quietly to his workroom, and rigged up an effective high-voltage circuit. Then he electrocuted himself.
Robert Cameron, a portfolio under his arm, returned to Low Chicago and hurried to his office. The doorknob felt normal as he touched it. He went to his desk and opened the portfolio, spreading out the photostats and charts. He looked at the clock and saw the hands standing at one minute to seven. He compared it with his wrist watch.
Cameron waited for the seven musical strokes. They did not come. Again he glanced up at the white, numbered dial.
A mouth had opened there. It said, "Seven o'clock."
-
Seth Pell was Cameron's aide and alter ego. He was thirty-four, had white hair, and a round, fresh face that might have belonged to a teenager. Next to the director, Pell was probably the most competent man in the psychometric field—probably better in neuropathology, though without Cameron's broader knowledge of technology.
He walked into his office with a reassuring smile for DuBrose. "What'll you have?" he asked. "A sedative or a stiff drink?"
DuBrose couldn't match that airy lightness. There was a dull pounding behind his eyes.
"Seth. If you hadn't shown up—"
"I know. The world would have come to an end."
"Did the chief tell you what happened?"
"I didn't let him," Pell said. "I persuaded him to take a dose of Deep Sleep and he settled for ten minutes' worth. Then I got psychonamical. He's thoroughly hypnotized by now."
DuBrose breathed deeply. Pell perched on the edge of his desk and began paring his fingernails.
"O.K.," he said. "I've taken your word that it's necessary to get the chief under hypnosis fast. You're the only guy I'd trust enough to do that blind. I don't usually buy a pig in a poke. So?"
DuBrose felt weak. If he couldn't convince Seth now—but he was certain he could. The danger was too real, too evident for misunderstandings.
He said, "The Secretary of War—Kalender, you know—came this morning. The chief was busy, so I asked Kalender if I could do anything. He was plenty upset or he wouldn't have talked to me, even though he knows I've got the chief's confidence. He talked a little—not much, but enough for me to smell trouble. There's a problem. But—here's the catch. Everyone who's tried to solve it has gone insane."
"Yeah," Pell said without looking up.
"I don't want the chief to go insane," DuBrose said flatly. "I managed to slip a Pix pill into his whiskey before Kalender got hold of him. It was all I could do. But it'll help if you think artificial amnesia is necessary."
"Mnemonic work is up my alley," Pell said. "However—let's go see." He slid off the desk.
DuBrose followed him. "Kalender wouldn't let me in when he talked to the chief a while ago. So I don't know what they discussed."
"We'll find out. Come on."
Cameron lay relaxed on the couch in his office, the Deep Sleep plate still pulled out from the wall. His breathing was slow and regular. Pell picked up the unconscious man's wrist, while DuBrose brought chairs.
"All right. Now for the mumbo-jumbo. Cameron—can you hear me?"
It didn't take long. Pell was an expert psychonamics man, and he had Cameron's complete confidence, which helped. Soon Pell leaned back, crossing his legs.
"What's all this about Secretary Kalender, Bob?"
"He—"
"You know who I am?"
"Seth. Yes. He ... told me—"
"What?"
Cameron didn't open his eyes. "You have to walk in the other direction to meet the Red Queen," he said. "The White Knight is sliding down the poker."
Pell was startled. DuBrose whispered. "He balances very badly."
That drew a response. Cameron murmured, "Something on that order. Is that you, Seth?"
"Sure," Pell said. "What about Kalender?"
"It's big trouble. We've got hold of a formula that doesn't seem to mean anything. It means a lot to the enemy, though. I still don't know how the equation fell into our hands. Espionage, probably. But it's important, and it's got to be solved, and it doesn't make sense."
"What does it deal with?"
"There are general and specific applications. Like the law of gravitation. There are constants involved, but ... the sum of the parts doesn't seem to equal the whole. The equation in toto doesn't make sense. In partis it does. You can suspend the laws of logic, apparently. And the enemy is doing just that. They've dropped some bombs that can pierce force-shells. Which is impossible. When the bombs were examined, they didn't make sense either. But they tied up with that equation. The technicians are trying to solve that equation. But—they go crazy."
"Why?"
Cameron didn't answer directly. "M-204 was one of the first to work on the thing. He didn't solve it. He learned how to neutralize gravity, and went insane. Or the other way around. We've got to find a solution, Seth. I've been glancing over the equation ... it's on my desk—"
Pell jerked his thumb; DuBrose rose and collected the papers, shuffling them into a compact stack. He gave them to Pell, who didn't look at them.
"We've got to find the answer," Cameron said. "Or else. The enemy will have unlimited power—"
"Have they solved the equation?"
"I doubt it. Partially, that's all. But they'll do it, unless we forestall them."
Pell was grinning, but DuBrose noticed diamonds of perspiration on the man's forehead below the silvery hair.
"We've got to solve it," Cameron said.
-
Pell stood up and beckoned DuBrose into his office. "Nice going," he said. "You did the smart thing."
"That takes a load off my mind. I wasn't sure—"
Pell said, "If a man's wife breaks her leg, he's half nuts till the doctor arrives. Then it's all right—he can shift the responsibility to more competent hands and relax. It isn't his job any more. But the doctor is equipped to handle a broken leg. The responsibility won't bother him."
"And in this case—we're not equipped?"
"I haven't looked at the equation," Pell said, tossing the sheets on his desk, "and I'm not sure I'm going to. I can just imagine what that fool Kalender told the chief. Fate of the nation rests in your hands. You're responsible for finding somebody to solve the problem. If you don't, you'll have lost the war for us. So. That shovels the responsibility right into the chief's lap—and he's got to solve the equation or go nuts. That the way you figured it?"
"More or less." DuBrose chewed his lip. "That case—M-204—he learned how important the thing was, and took refuge in insanity. Paranoia in his case, you said. He must have solved part of it, and it couldn't have made much sense. The equation is the weapon, not its by-products."
"If nobody worked on it, the enemy might solve it first. Even as it is, they can penetrate force-fields. What they might do if they got all the answers... ! No, we've got to keep working, but not the way Kalender has in mind. That idiot thinks you can cure leprosy with an order of the day."
DuBrose said slowly, "I figured we could erase the chief's memories of what's happened today. Implant pseudo-memories, harmless ones. And then present the problem to him after we've yanked out the poison fangs."
"Smart boy," Pell nodded. "The trick will be to keep the chief from realizing his responsibility. That'll be our job, I'm not sure just yet—" He glanced at his watch, "The first thing is to treat the chief. Wait for me."
He went out. DuBrose moved to the desk and shuffled the photostats and papers. Some of the symbols made sense; others didn't. Still, he noticed that pi had been assigned an arbitrary and erroneous value. Was that a basic?
Better not look. He tried one of the windows, but the landscape blurred before his eyes. Could an equation cause insanity?
Of course. The equation was simply the concrete symbol of the abstract problem. The old test of the white rat and the anxiety neurosis. Slam the doors shut when the rat doesn't expect it, so he can't get at the food. After a while the rat simply huddles down and shivers. Nervous breakdown.
To have this interminable, unending war over might be a blessing. But to lose it—!
Not to the enemy. Generations of indoctrination had made that unthinkable. Men were conditioned to war now. They didn't even hate the enemy. But they knew, very thoroughly, that they must not lose.
Bombs dropped on both sides. The robots waged their pitched battles. But the real warriors were the technicians who moved the chessmen and created new gambits. There were no more diplomats; there was no need for them. There was no communication with the enemy, except the sudden messages that roared out of the sky.
Messages were received—and sent. But they were not convincing enough. Aerial torpedoes could not harm the protected nerve-centers of either country.
-
The annunciator said "Mr. Pell. A courier from the Secretary of War."
"Mr. Pell's busy," DuBrose said. "Have him wait."
"He says it's an emergency."
"Have him wait!"
There was a brief silence. Then—
"Mr. DuBrose, he won't. He wanted to see the director, but Mr. Pell ordered all messages relayed through his office, so—"
"Send him in here," DuBrose said, and turned to the door as it opened.
The courier's brown-and-black uniform meant something; he was Secret Service. Men who wore the arrow insignia on their lapels were rare—and got their authority directly from GHQ. This man—
He was sturdily built, neckless, and with cropped bronze hair that glistened metallically in the cool light. But it was his eyes that held DuBrose. They held an odd look of restrained excitement, of joyous, wild exultation held rigidly in leash. The thin mouth was well under control. Only the black eyes were betraying.
He held out his disk. "Daniel Ridgeley," DuBrose read, and automatically compared the portrait with the man's face. That was scarcely necessary; when an identification badge was removed from the wrist of its owner, it went blank permanently.
"Mr. Ridgeley," DuBrose said. "Mr. Pell will be free in a few minutes."
Ridgeley's deep, slow voice held impatience, "Priority. Where is he?"
"I told you—"
The courier glanced at the door and took a step toward it. DuBrose barred his way. The strange, febrile excitement flamed behind the jet eyes.
"You can't go in there."
"Get out of my way. I have my orders."
DuBrose didn't move. The courier made a quick, apparently casual motion, and the secretary went staggering across the room. He didn't try to intercept Ridgeley; instead, he plunged toward Pell's desk and jerked open a drawer. A vibropistol was there, a lovely, intricate mechanism of sturdy crystal and shining metal.
DuBrose's hands felt clumsy, like mush-filled gloves, as he fumbled with the weapon. He felt ridiculously melodramatic; odd that in this war of attrition men had so little experience with physical combat. As far as he knew, this vibropistol had never been used.
He leveled it at the courier and said, "Take it easy!"
Ridgeley was facing him, the heavy shoulders bent, the stocky body crouched a little. That inexplicable devil of half-mocking delight burned behind the man's eyes, and with it was something like fast, icy calculation.
Then Ridgeley walked toward DuBrose.
He shifted catlike on his feet as he moved, and four feet from the secretary he stopped, quite motionless, his expression blank and intent. DuBrose felt sweat trickle coldly down his ribs.
Ridgeley said, "I've my orders."
"You can wait."
"No," the courier said. "I can't." And his whole body seemed to draw inward, like a huge cat gathering itself together. Though he was holding no weapon, he seemed more formidable than the armed DuBrose.
A lock clicked. The door to Pell's consultation room opened. On the threshold stood a young man of about twenty, thin, pale and stooped in his wrinkled tunic and shorts. His eyes were closed. He was making a hacking, unpleasant noise in his throat, moving his lips jerkily as the sound rose and fell without cessation.
"K-k-k-k-k-k-kuk!"
He came forward. There was a chair in his way. He walked around it and avoided the desk, though his eyes were still tightly shut.
"K-k-k-k-kuk! Kuk-kkkkk!"
DuBrose moved too late. The vibropistol was deftly jerked from his grip. Ridgeley stepped back, his gaze flashing from DuBrose to the young man.
"Who's that?" he asked.
DuBrose said, "I don't know. I didn't know Pell had a patient—he must be a patient. But—"
"K-k-k-k-k-kuk!"
The boy's excitement was rising. He stopped, his whole body beginning to shake uncontrollably. That unpleasant sound rose to a harsh thick croaking.
"Kuk-k-k-k-k-kuk!"
"Well," Ridgeley said, "I've got to see the director. Is he in there?"
"He's busy," Seth Pell said. "You can talk to me. I'm second in charge."
-
The aide was standing by Cameron's door, smiling casually, ignoring the vibropistol in Ridgeley's hand. "Ben," he said, "will you take that patient back in his room? Give him a light shot if necessary. But a sedative should be enough."
DuBrose gulped, nodded, and took the boy's arm.
"K-k-k-kkkk!"
He led the jerking, shaking figure back into the examining office and swiftly got him on the table. A heated blanket, a pink pill, and the boy lay quiet, his shivering subsiding. DuBrose adjusted an alarm to ring if the patient got off the table and hurriedly returned to Pell's office.
The vibropistol lay on the desk. Ridgeley was arguing quietly. Pell hadn't moved.
"—my orders. I'm to deliver this case to the director. The Secretary of War told me that himself."
