by C. L. Moore
"I hate paradoxes," Fletcher said firmly. "This isn't a story. I wish it were. I'd know what to do then. But in life you just fumble around, you're not sure. I'm not equipped to listen in on phone calls from the future."
Cynthia's eyes were glowing. "Or you may be Korys yourself—with amnesia! And the Voice is really talking to you, though you don't know it."
"Be quiet. Stop that. There'll be another call tomorrow morning—"
"Don't answer it."
"Ha!" Fletcher said scornfully, and there was a small silence.
"You see," he went on presently, "I figure we take the future for granted, in an abstract sort of way. We expect there'll be super-stuff, but we know it'll come gradually. When it impinges concretely, we don't want it."
"Afraid?"
"Thoroughly afraid," Fletcher agreed. "The temptation's too great. I might copy some equation, try it out, and turn into a blob of protoplasm. There are too many unknown factors. And I'm not going to get myself hurt."
"So?"
"I'm going to keep my nose clean, that's all. Fairy gold!" He grinned crookedly. "I know what it would turn to. But I've got the answer. I'm not going to take anything they offer. I'm not going to cheat. All I'll do is listen in. No harm in that."
"They might mention your death."
"I know I'm going to die sometime. I'm ready. Death and taxes aren't both certain; the existence of one precludes the existence of the other—pro tem. As long as I just listen—as long as I don't try to conquer the world or build death rays—I'm O.K."
"It reminds me of the old story about the guy who took a short cut through a haunted forest on Hallowe'en," Cynthia said. "He was thinking that he'd always been on the level, and if devils could get him just because he was in the forest, there just wasn't any justice."
"And?"
"And then a voice behind him said, 'there isn't,' " Cynthia said pleasantly. "That's all."
"I run no risks," Fletcher declared.
"And I haven't believed a word you've been saying. But it's a new line, anyhow. Pay for the drinks and let's go somewhere and eat."
Fletcher reached for his wallet.
-
Quite safe. He hadn't copied any of the instructions or equations the Voice dictated to Korys. Somewhere, in the misty abyss of the future, the Voice lived in his unimaginable world, checking his temporal maps as men today check spatial charts. There were test-tube babies and a rather incredible university and a Polar Weather Station. And Daki had been rescued from the Inquisition, by means of something the Voice referred to casually as a yofleec. "Yofleec is ceelfoy spelled backwards," Fletcher reflected. "Animal, vegetable, or mineral? I don't care!"
His interest became purely impersonal; he had forced it into those channels. It was a tremendous relief to know that he wouldn't be tempted to steal from the future, as the unhappy Dr. Sawtelle had tried to do. There had been some hesitation about the hangover cure; it seemed harmless enough, but Fletcher wasn't sure about its possible toxic effects on a man of his era. It might eventually ossify him. He destroyed the recipe and refused to remember the ingredients.
Meanwhile, he followed the career of Korys with interest. These distorted glimpses into the future were fascinating. Remembering Cynthia's warning, he half expected the Voice to mention that a guy named Jerry Fletcher had been run down by a helicopter, but that never happened. The rules of inevitability didn't apply.
Why should they? He wasn't interfering. He wasn't sticking his neck out. He was following paths of cold logic; a spectator at a play was seldom shot by one of the actors.
John Wilkes Booth—
This wasn't a play. It was a movie. The actors were removed by temporal distances. Nevertheless he never interrupted the Voice now, and was careful to lift and replace the receiver very gently.
It went on for a month. Finally he learned that Korys was preparing to return to his original time-sector. The field work was almost completed. President Browning had been elected; the Dodgers had won the pennant; a lunar rocket base had been established. Fletcher wondered. 1950? 1960? Or later?
Cynthia steadily refused to visit his apartment and listen to the Voice. She contended that it was just a line. "It's better than etchings," she admitted, "but it's a little too outré to be convincing." But Fletcher thought that Cynthia was less skeptical than she admitted.
He didn't care. The affair would end soon, anyhow. His work at the office had not suffered; there was a raise and a promotion in sight, and his hypochondria had lapsed into a passive state. Occasionally he suspected his feeling of well-being and ate vitamin pills as a preventive measure, but not often.
He hadn't even taken notes of the Voice's words. In a way, it was a taboo—the same principle as avoiding stepping on the cracks in the sidewalk, so it won't rain.
"He should be leaving tomorrow," Fletcher told Cynthia one night at dinner.
"Who?"
"Korys, of course."
"Good. Then you may stop talking about him. Unless you get a new bee in your bonnet. What do you expect next? A tame leprechaun?"
Fletcher grinned. "I can't afford it."
"They eat cream, don't they? I mean drink it."
"Mine won't. He'll drink rye and like it."
"I like this chicken cacciatore," Cynthia said, masticating. "If you promise to feed me this well all the time, I may reconsider my refusal to marry you."
It was the most hopeful sign she had shown so far. Fletcher became immersed in daydreams. Later, on a roof garden, they paused between dances to stand at the parapet and look out over the great, glittering city. The immensity of the night was made larger by the lights below.
"A rocket base on the Moon," Fletcher said softly.
Cool winds brushed his cheek. He put his arm about Cynthia and drew her close. He was very glad, suddenly, that he had not stepped on the cracks in the sidewalk. He had taken no chances. The future—the unknown—was dangerous, because it was the unknown.
And that peril could lie fearfully close. Here, now—two steps could carry him to the top of the parapet and over. Luckily men were conditioned against taking those two steps.
"It's cold," he said. "Let's go in, Cynthia. We don't want pneumonia—especially now."
-
The telephone rang. Fletcher had awakened with another headache this morning. Probably a hangover. He put down his cigarette in an ashtray and gently lifted the receiver. This might be the last call.
The Voice said, "All ready, Korys?"
Pause.
"Half an hour, then. But what caused the delay?"
Another, longer pause.
"Oh, really? I must make a note of that. But neuroses were common in that time. There was a touch of it in Embryo Korys, you know, but it was ironed out. Incidentally, his mother is on furlough. You'll be able to meet her in a few hours—But about this man. He knew who you were?"
Pause.
"I don't see how he could have known. Or located you. If he was as incoherent as all that, he shouldn't have been outside a sanitorium. What was his name?"
Pause.
"Fletcher. Gerald Fletcher? I'll check, but I'm sure there's no record. He's not one of ours. Too bad. Had he escaped from a sanatorium or ... Oh, I see. Well, he's in safe hands now, I suppose. Yes, a mental sanatorium they called it in those days. Your research hasn't covered the medical field—such as it was! Curious that he should have known you. I can't understand—"
Pause.
"Called you by name? Not Korys? Really. How could he possibly have known? This is very interesting indeed. Just when did he first appear?"
Pause.
"Crowded—well, naturally. Riding a horse into the Waldorf-Astoria isn't done every day. But I told you there'd be no trouble; every paid off eccentric election bet in those days—Well, if he actually dragged you off the horse and called you by name—it's very curious. Obviously he was mad, but how he knew—No, it couldn't be ESP, could it? There's no actual evidence that the insane are more s
ensitive than—What did you find out about him?"
Pause.
"I see. Anxiety neurosis, of course, at the start. Something was bothering him—dread of the future, perhaps; that's common enough in such cases. The doctors said ... oh! Then he had escaped from a sanatorium. That sort of thing was interesting—probably started as nothing but hypochondria—built on some recurrent ailment, headaches or—Anyhow, it could increase over a long period into a genuine psychosis. How old a man was he?"
The humming void held only silence. And presently—
"Um-m-m. Typical, I'd say, at that age. Nothing we can do now, though—it's a pity. The man's hopelessly insane. It would be interesting to know what it was that set him off on the wrong track originally. I wonder what a man of that time and that type would worry about enough to drive him off balance? Such things start from a basis of hypochondria often enough, as you've described it, but why was he so sure he was going to become insane? Naturally, if you're convinced you're becoming psychotic and brood over it for years—well! Still, we can discuss the case in more detail personally. Half an hour, then?"
Pause.
"Fine. I'm glad you didn't felk the sorkins, boy!" The Voice laughed jovially. There was a click.
Fletcher watched his hand move forward and drop the receiver into its black cradle.
He felt the walls close in.
The End
THE FAIRY CHESSMEN
Astounding Science Fiction - January-February 1946
with Henry Kuttner
(as by Lewis Padgett)
Contents
I.
II.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
IX.
X.
XI.
XII.
XIII.
-
The weirdest weapon ever conceived attacked not the mighty defensive screens, but the defending technical minds. It was a simple idea—but simply devastating. All it did was deny the basis of the scientific method!
-
I.
The doorknob opened a blue eye and looked at him. Cameron stopped moving. He didn't touch the knob. He pulled back his hand and stood motionless, watching.
Then, when nothing happened, he stepped to one side. The black pupil of the eye swiveled in that direction. It watched him.
Deliberately he turned his back and walked slowly toward a window valve. The circular pane lightened to transparency as he approached. In a moment he stood before it, two fingers checking his pulse beat, while he automatically counted his respiration.
The window showed a green, rolling countryside, checkered with the shadows of drifting clouds. Golden sunlight brightened the spring flowers on the slopes. A helicopter moved silently across the blue sky.
The big, gray-haired man finished checking his pulse and waited, not wanting to turn around just yet. He stared at the peaceful landscape. Then, with a faint sound of impatience, he touched a stud. The pane swung aside into the wall.
Beyond the gap was red darkness, and the sound of thunder.
Shapes swam out of the gloom of the underground city, immense, blocky colossi of stone and metal. Somewhere a deep, rhythmic breathing made a distant roar; a mechanical rales rasped in the titan pump's beat. Static lightnings flickered occasionally, their duration too brief to show much of Low Chicago.
Cameron leaned forward, tilting his head back. Far above he could see only a deepening of the shadow, except when the necklaces of pallid lightning raced across the stone sky. And below was nothing but a pit of blackness.
Still, this was reality. The solid, sensible machines in the cavern made a sound foundation to logic, the logic on which the world was built today. A little heartened, Cameron drew back and closed the pane. Again blue skies and green hills were apparently outside the window.
He turned. The doorknob was a doorknob, nothing more. It was plain, solid metal.
He rounded the desk and walked quickly forward. His hand reached out and closed firmly on the metal.
His fingers sank into it. It was half-solid jelly.
-
Robert Cameron, Civilian Director of Psychometrics, went back to his desk and sat down. He pulled a bottle from his desk and poured himself a shot. His gaze wasn't steady. It kept shifting around the desk, never settling steadily on any one object. Presently he pushed a button.
Ben DuBrose, Cameron's confidential secretary, came in, a short, heavy-set man of thirty, with pugnacious blue eyes and untidy taffy-colored hair. He seemed to have no trouble with the doorknob. Cameron didn't meet the gaze of those blue eyes.
He said sharply, "I just noticed my televisor's off. Did you do that?"
DuBrose grinned. "Why, chief—it doesn't matter, does it? All the incoming calls come through my board anyway."
"Not all of them," Cameron said. "Not the ones from GHQ. You're getting too smart. Where's Seth?"
"I don't know," DuBrose said, frowning faintly. "Wish I did. He—"
"Shut up." Cameron had turned the visor to Receive. A hysterical buzzing sounded. The director looked up accusingly. DuBrose noticed the lines of tension about the older man's eyes, and cold, frantic panic struck into his stomach. He wondered if he could smash the visor—but that wouldn't help now. Where was Seth?
"Scrambler," a voice said.
"Scrambler on," Cameron grunted. His strong, big-knuckled hands moved lightly over switches. A face checkered in on the screen.
The Secretary of War said, "Cameron? What's wrong with that office of yours? I've been trying to locate you—"
"Well, now you've got me. Since you're using this call number, it must be important. What's up?"
"I can't tell you over the visor. Not even through the scrambler. Perhaps I made a mistake in explaining as much as I did to your man—DuBrose. Is he trustworthy?"
Cameron met DuBrose's blank stare. "Yes," he said slowly. "Yes, DuBrose is all right. Well?"
"I'll have a man pick you up in half an hour. There's something I want you to see. Usual precautions. This is priority emergency. All right?"
"I'll be ready, Kalender," the director said, and broke the contact. He laid his hands flat on the desk and watched them.
"All right, have me court-martialed," DuBrose said.
"When did Kalender drop in?"
"This morning. Look, chief—I've got a reason. A good one. I tried to explain it to Kalender, but he's a brass hat. I didn't have enough stars on my shoulder to impress him."
"What did he tell you?"
"Something I don't think you should know yet. Seth would back me up on that, too. You'd trust him. And—look, I passed my psych tests with honors or I wouldn't be here with you. There's a psychological problem here and the factors indicate that you shouldn't know the set-up until—"
"Until what?"
DuBrose bit a thumbnail. "Anyway till I check with Seth. It's important that you shouldn't get mixed up in this affair right now. The whole thing's paradoxical. I may be all wrong, but if I'm right—you don't know how right that is!"
Cameron said, "So you think Kalender's making a mistake in approaching me directly. Why?"
"That's exactly what I don't want to tell you. Because if I did, it would—screw things up."
Cameron sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Forget it," he said, his voice tired. "I'm the guy in charge of this department, Ben. It's my responsibility." He stopped and looked sharply at DuBrose. "That word must have a plenty high emotional index to you."
"What word?" DuBrose said flatly.
"Responsibility. You reacted plenty."
"A flea bit me."
"So. Well, it's the truth. If there's a priority emergency in psych, it's my business to know about it. The war won't stop while I take a recess."
DuBrose picked up the bottle and shook it.
"Buy yourself one," Cameron said, shoving the cup forward. The secretary poured out amber fluid. He managed to dr
op the pill into the whiskey without attracting Cameron's attention.
But he didn't drink. He lifted the cup, sniffed, and set it down again. "Too early for me, I guess. I do my best drinking at night. Do you know where I can reach Seth?"
"Oh, shut up," Cameron said. He sat staring at the cup without seeing it. DuBrose went to the window and looked at the projected landscape there.
"Looks like rain."
"Not under here," Cameron said. "Nohow."
"On the surface, however ... look. Let me go along, anyhow."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because you make me sick," Cameron said tersely. DuBrose shrugged and went out. As he reached for the doorknob he felt the director's eyes upon him, but he didn't turn.
He went quickly to the communications board, ignoring the receptive smile of the girl who sat before the flickering panel.
"Get hold of Seth Pell," DuBrose said, curiously conscious of the tone of flat hopelessness in his voice. "Try everywhere. Keep trying."
"Important?"
"Yeah ... plenty!"
"General broadcast?"
"I ... no," DuBrose said. He ruffled his yellow hair distractedly. "I can't. No authorization. You'd think those pot-heads in charge would allow for—"
"The chief would O.K. it."
"That's what you think. No dice, Sally. Just try your best, that's all. I may be going out, but I'll call back. Find out where I can reach Seth, anyhow."
"Something must be up," Sally hinted. DuBrose gave her a thin, crooked smile and turned away. Praying silently, he went back to Cameron's office.
-
The director had the window open and was staring out at the red-lit darkness. DuBrose slanted a quick glance at the desk. The cup was empty of whiskey, and an uncontrollable tremor of relief shook him. Though even now—
Cameron didn't turn. He said, "Who is it?" A layman would not have noticed a difference in the director's voice, but DuBrose was no layman. He could tell that the alkaloid had already reached Cameron's brain, via the bloodstream.
"It's Ben."
"Oh."
DuBrose watched the slight swaying of the big figure at the window. That should wear off soon, though. The disorientation period was very brief. He blessed the lucky chance that he had had a package of Pix in his pocket. Not that it was a coincidence; most warmen carried them. When you work on desperately overtime schedules, the slow process of getting drunk is a nuisance and hangovers are an occupational risk. Some bright chemist had taken time off to fool around with alkaloids and create Pix, tiny, tasteless pills that had all the impact of 100 proof Scotch. They created and maintained that roseate glow of synthetic euphoria which has been popular since man first noticed grapes fermenting. It was one of the reasons why war workers were willing to plug away at their interminable jobs indefinitely, in the long deadlock that had existed since both nations decentralized and dug in. The population in general, oddly enough, seemed to live a more secure and contented life than before the war; the actual job of battle planning and operation was limited to GHQ and its subsidiaries. In extremely specialized warfare, there is room only for specialists, especially since neither country used troops any more. Even PFCs were made of metal.
