by C. L. Moore
"Well, rice wine."
"Yeah. Rice—hey! We missed n! We gotta start over now from a!"
Gallegher dissuaded the alderman with some trouble, and succeeded only after fascinating Cuff with the exotic name ng ga po. They worked on, through sazeracs, tail-spins, undergrounds, and vodka. w meant whiskey.
"x?"
They looked at each other through alcoholic fogs. Gallegher shrugged and stared around. How had they got into this swanky, well-furnished private clubroom, he wondered. It wasn't the Uplift, that was certain. Oh, well—
"x?" Cuff insisted. "Don't fail me now, pal."
"Extra whiskey," Gallegher said brilliantly;
"That's it. Only two left. y and ... and—what comes after y?"
"Fatty. Remember?"
"Ol' Fatty Smith," Cuff said, beginning to laugh immoderately. At least, it sounded like Smith. "Fatty just suits him."
"What's his first name?" Gallegher asked.
"Who?"
"Fatty."
"Never heard of him," Cuff said, and chuckled. A page boy came over and touched the alderman's arm.
"Someone to see you, sir. They're waiting outside."
"Right. Back in a minute, pal. Everybody always knows where to find me—'specially here. Don't go 'way. There's still y and ... and ... and the other one."
He vanished. Gallegher put down his untasted drink, stood up, swaying slightly, and headed for the lounge. A televisor booth there caught his eye, and, on impulse, he went in and 'vised his lab.
"Drunk again," said Narcissus, as the robot's face appeared on the screen.
"You said it," Gallegher agreed. "I'm ... urp ... high as a kite. But I got a clue, anyway."
"I'd advise you to get a police escort," the robot said. "Some thugs broke in looking for you, right after you left."
"S-s-some what? Say that again."
"Three thugs," Narcissus repeated patiently. "The leader was a thin, tall man in a checkered suit with yellow hair and a gold front tooth. The others—"
"I don't want a description," Gallegher snarled. "Just tell me what happened?"
"Well, that's all. They wanted to kidnap you. Then they tried to steal the machine. I chased them out. For a robot, I'm pretty tough."
"Did they hurt the machine?"
"What about me?" Narcissus demanded plaintively. "I'm much more important than that gadget. Have you no curiosity about my wounds?"
"No," Gallegher said. "Have you some?"
"Of course not. But you could have demonstrated some slight curiosity—"
"Did they hurt that machine?"
"I didn't let them get near it," the robot said. "And the hell with you."
"I'll ring you back," Gallegher said. "Right now I need black coffee."
He beamed off, stood up, and wavered out of the booth. Max Cuff was coming toward him. There were three men following the alderman.
One of them stopped short, his jaw dropping. "Cripes!" he said. "That's the guy, boss. That's Gallegher. Is he the one you been drinking with?"
Gallegher tried to focus his eyes. The man swam into clarity. He was a tall, thin chap in a checkered suit, and he had yellow hair and a gold front tooth.
"Conk him," Cuff said. "Quick, before he yells. And before anybody else comes in here. Gallegher, huh? Smart guy, huh?"
Gallegher saw something coming at his head, and tried to leap back into the visor booth like a snail retreating into its shell. He failed. Spinning flashes of glaring light dazzled him.
He was conked.
-
The trouble with this social culture, Gallegher thought dreamily, was that it was suffering both from overgrowth and calcification of the exoderm. A civilization may be likened to a flowerbed. Each individual plant stands for a component part of the culture. Growth is progress. Technology, that long-frustrated daffodil, had had b1 concentrate poured on its roots, the result of wars that forced its growth through sheer necessity. But no world is satisfactory unless the parts are equal to the whole.
The daffodil shaded another plant that developed parasitic tendencies. It stopped using its roots. It wound itself around the daffodil, climbing up on its stem and stalks and leaves, and that strangling liana was religion, politics, economics, culture—outmoded forms that changed too slowly, outstripped by the blazing comet of the sciences, riding high in the unlocked skies of this new era. Long ago writers had theorized that in the future—their future—the sociological pattern would be different. In the day of rocketships such illogical mores as watered stock, dirty politics, and gangsters would not exist. But those theorists had not seen clearly enough. They thought of rocketships as vehicles of the far distant future.
Ley landed on the moon before automobiles stopped using carburetors.
The great warfare of the early twentieth century gave a violent impetus to technology, and that growth continued. Unfortunately most of the business of living was based on such matters as man hours and monetary fixed standards. The only parallel was the day of the great bubbles—the Mississippi Bubble and its brothers. It was, finally, a time of chaos, reorganization, shifting precariously from old standards to new, and a seesaw bouncing vigorously from one extreme to the other. The legal profession had become so complicated that batteries of experts needed Pedersen Calculators and the brain machines of Mechanistra to marshal their farfetched arguments, which went wildly into uncharted realms of symbolic logic and—eventually—pure nonsense. A murderer could get off scot-free provided he didn't sign a confession. And even if he did, there were ways of discrediting solid, legal proof. Precedents were shibboleths. In that maze of madness, administrators turned to historical solidities—legal precedents—and these were often twisted against them.
Thus it went, all down the line. Later sociology would catch up with technology. It hadn't, just yet. Economic gambling had reached a pitch never before attained in the history of the world. Geniuses were needed to straighten out the mess. Mutations eventually provided such geniuses, by natural compensation; but a long time was to pass until that satisfactory conclusion had been reached. The man with the best chance for survival, Gallegher had realized by now, was one with a good deal of adaptability and a first-class all-around stock of practical and impractical knowledge, versed in practically everything. In short, in matters vegetable, animal or mineral—
-
Gallegher opened his eyes. There was little to see, chiefly because, as he immediately discovered, he was slumped face down at a table. With an effort Gallegher sat up. He was unbound, and in a dimly lighted attic that seemed to be a storeroom; it was littered with broken-down junk. A fluorescent burned faintly on the ceiling. There was a door, but the man with the gold tooth was standing before it. Across the table sat Max Cuff, carefully pouring whiskey into a glass.
"I want some," Gallegher said feebly.
Cuff looked at him. "Awake, huh? Sorry Blazer socked you so hard."
"Oh, well. I might have passed out anyway. Those alphabetical pub-crawls are really something."
"Heigh-ho," Cuff said, pushing the glass toward Gallegher and filling another for himself. "That's the way it goes. It was smart of you to stick with me—the one place the boys wouldn't think of looking."
"I'm naturally clever," Gallegher said modestly. The whiskey revived him. But his mind still felt foggy. "Your ... uh ... associates, by which I mean lousy thugs, tried to kidnap me earlier, didn't they?"
"Uh-huh. You weren't in. That robot of yours—"
"He's a beaut."
"Yeah. Look, Blazer told me about the machine you had set up. I'd hate to have Smith get his hands on it."
Smith—Fatty. Hm-m-m. The jigsaw was dislocated again. Gallegher sighed.
If he played the cards close to his chest—
"Smith hasn't seen it yet."
"I know that," Cuff said. "We've been tapping his visor beam. One of our spies found out he'd told du he had a man working on the job—you know? Only he didn't mention the man's name. All we could do
was shadow Smith and tap his visor till he got in touch with you. After that—well, we caught the conversation. You told Smith you'd got the gadget."
"Well?"
"We cut in on the beam, fast, and Blazer and the boys went down to see you. I told you I didn't want Smith to keep that contract."
"You never mentioned a contract," Gallegher said.
"Don't play dumb. Smith told 'em, up at du, that he'd laid the whole case before you."
Maybe Smith had. Only Gallegher had been drunk at the time, and it was Gallegher Plus who had listened, storing the information securely in the subconscious. "So?"
Cuff burped. He pushed his glass away suddenly. "I'll see you later. I'm tight, damn it. Can't think straight. But—I don't want Smith to get that machine. Your robot won't let us get near it. You'll get in touch with him by visor and send him off somewhere, so the boys can pick up your gadget. Say yes or no. If it's no, I'll be back."
"No," Gallegher said. "On account of you'd kill me anyway, to stop me from building another machine for Smith."
Cuff's lids drew down slowly over his eyes. He sat motionless, seemingly asleep, for a time. Then he looked at Gallegher blankly and stood up.
"I'll see you later, then." He rubbed a hand across his forehead; his voice was a little thick. "Blazer, keep the lug here."
The man with the gold tooth came forward. "You O.K.?"
"Yeah. I can't think—" Cuff grimaced. "Turkish bath. That's what I need." He went toward the door, pulling Blazer with him. Gallegher saw the alderman's lips move. He read a few words.
"—drunk enough ... vise that robot ... try it—"
Then Cuff went out. Blazer came back, sat opposite Gallegher, and shoved the bottle toward him. "Might as well take it easy," he suggested. "Have another; you need it."
Gallegher thought: Smart guys. They figure if I get stinko, I'll do what they want. Well—
There was another angle. When Gallegher was thoroughly under the influence of alcohol, his subconscious took over. And Gallegher Plus was a scientific genius—mad, but good.
Gallegher Plus might be able to figure a way out of this.
"That's it," Blazer said, watching the liquor vanish. "Have another. Max is a good egg. He wouldn't put the bee on you. He just can't stand people helixing up his plans."
"What plans?"
"Like with Smith," Blazer explained.
"I see." Gallegher's limbs were tingling. Pretty soon he should be sufficiently saturated with alcohol to unleash his subconscious. He kept drinking.
Perhaps he tried too hard. Usually Gallegher mixed his liquor judiciously. This time, the factors of the equation added up to a depressing zero. He saw the surface of the table moving slowly toward his nose, felt a mild, rather pleasant bump, and began to snore. Blazer got up and shook him.
"One half so precious as the stuff they sell," Gallegher said thickly. "High-piping Pehlevi, with wine, wine, wine, wine. Red wine."
"Wine he wants," Blazer said. "The guy's a human blotter." He shook Gallegher again, but there was no response. Blazer grunted, and his footsteps sounded, growing fainter.
Gallegher heard the door close. He tried to sit up, slid off the chair, and banged his head agonizingly against a table leg.
It was more effective than cold water. Wavering, Gallegher crawled to his feet. The attic room was empty except for himself and other jetsam. He walked with abnormal carefulness to the door and tried it. Locked. Reinforced with steel, at that.
"Fine stuff," Gallegher murmured. "The one time I need my subconscious, it stays buried. How the devil can I get out of here?"
There was no way. The room had no windows, and the door was firm. Gallegher floated toward the piles of junk. An old sofa. A box of scraps. Pillows. A rolled carpet. Junk.
Gallegher found a length of wire, a bit of mica, a twisted spiral of plastic, once part of a mobile statuette, and some other trivia. He put them together. The result was a thing vaguely resembling a gun, though it had some resemblance to an egg beater. It looked as weird as a Martian's doodling.
After that, Gallegher returned to the chair and sat down, trying, by sheer will power, to sober up. He didn't succeed too well. When he heard footsteps returning, his mind was still fuzzy.
The door opened. Blazer came in, with a swift, wary glance at Gallegher, who had hidden the gadget under the table.
"Back, are you? I thought it might be Max."
"He'll be along, too," Blazer said. "How d'you feel?"
"Woozy. I could use another drink. I've finished this bottle." Gallegher had finished it. He had poured it down a rat hole.
Blazer locked the door and came forward as Gallegher stood up. The scientist missed his balance, lurched forward, and Blazer hesitated. Gallegher brought out the crazy egg-beater gun and snapped it up to eye level, squinting along its barrel at Blazer's face.
The mug went for something, either his gun or his sap. But the eerie contrivance Gallegher had leveled at him worried Blazer. His motion was arrested abruptly. He was wondering what menace confronted him. In another second he would act, one way or another—perhaps continuing that arrested smooth motion toward his belt.
Gallegher did not wait. Blazer's stare was on the gadget. With utter disregard for the Queensbury Rules, Gallegher kicked his opponent below the belt. As Blazer folded up, Gallegher followed his advantage by hurling himself headlong on the thug and bearing him down in a wild, octopuslike thrashing of lanky limbs. Blazer kept trying to reach his weapon, but that first foul blow had handicapped him.
Gallegher was still too drunk to co-ordinate properly. He compromised by crawling atop his enemy and beating the man repeatedly on the solar plexus. Such tactics proved effective. After a time, Gallegher was able to wrench the sap from Blazer's grasp and lay it firmly along the thug's temple.
That was that.
With a glance at the gadget, Gallegher arose, wondering what Blazer had thought it was. A death-ray projector, perhaps. Gallegher grinned faintly. He found the door key in his unconscious victim's pocket, let himself out of the attic, and warily descended a stairway. So far, so good.
A reputation for scientific achievements has its advantages. It had, at least, served the purpose of distracting Blazer's attention from the obvious.
What now?
The house was a three-story, empty structure near the Battery. Gallegher escaped through a window. He did not pause till he was in an airtaxi, speeding uptown. There, breathing deeply, he flipped the wind filter and let the cool night breeze cool his perspiring cheeks. A full moon rode high in the black autumn sky. Below, through the earth-view transparent panel, he could see the brilliant ribbons of streets, with slashing bright diagonals marking the upper level speedways.
Smith. Fatty Smith. Connected with du, somehow—
With an access of caution, he paid off the pilot and stepped out on a rooftop landing in the White Way district. There were televisor booths here, and Gallegher called his lab. The robot answered.
"Narcissus—"
"Joe," the robot corrected. "And you've been drinking some more. Why don't you sober up?
"Shut up and listen. What's been happening?"
"Not much."
"Those thugs. Did they come back?"
"No," Narcissus said, "but some officers came to arrest you. Remember that summons they served you with today? You should have appeared in court at 5 p.m."
Summons. Oh, yeah. Dell Hopper—one thousand credits.
"Are they there now?"
"No. I said you'd taken a powder."
'Why?" asked Gallegher.
"So they wouldn't hang around. Now you can come home whenever you like—if you take reasonable precautions."
"Such as what?"
"That's your problem," Narcissus said. "Get a false beard. I've done my share."
Gallegher said, "All right, make a lot of black coffee. Any other calls?"
"One from Washington. A commander in the space police unit. He didn't give his name."
"Space police! Are they after me, too? What did he want?"
"You," the robot said. "Good-by. You interrupted a lovely song I was singing to myself."
"Make that coffee," Gallegher ordered as the image faded. He stepped out of the booth and stood for a moment, considering, while he stared blankly at the towers of Manhattan rising around him, with their irregular patterns of lighted windows, square, oval, circular, crescent, or star-shaped.
A call from Washington.
Hopper cracking down.
Max Cuff and his thugs.
Fatty Smith.
Smith was the best bet. He tried the visor again, calling du.
"Sorry, we have closed for the day."
"This is important," Gallegher insisted. "I need some information. I've got to get in touch with a man—"
"I'm sorry."
"S-m-i-t-h," Gallegher spelled. "Just look him up in the file or something, won't you? Or do you want me to cut my throat while you watch?" He fumbled in his pocket.
"If you will call tomorrow—"
"That'll be too late. Can't you just look it up for me? Please. Double please."
"Sorry."
"I'm a stockholder in du," Gallegher snarled. "I warn you, my girl!"
"A ... oh. Well, it's, irregular, but—S-m-i-t-h? One moment. The first name: is what?"
"I don't know. Give me all the Smiths."
The girl disappeared and came back with a file box labeled smi. "Oh, dear," she said, riffling through the cards. "There must be several hundred Smiths."
Gallegher groaned. "I want a fat one," he said wildly. "There's no way of checking on that, I suppose."
The secretary's lips tightened. "Oh, a rib. I see. Good night!" She broke the connection.
Gallegher sat staring at the screen. Several hundred Smiths. Not so good. In fact, definitely bad.
Wait a minute. He had bought du stock when it was on the skids. Why? He must have expected a rising market. But the stock had continued to fall, according to Arnie.
There might be a lead there.
He reached Arnie at the broker's home and was insistent. "Break the date. This won't take you long. Just find out for me why du's on the skids. Call me back at my lab. Or I'll break your neck. And make it fast! Get that dope, understand?"
