by Jerry eBooks
The problem now was to play on his weakness, to keep him so preoccupied that he would not remember the peril-laden push button. He must be caused to center the venom of his twisted outlook on Gaines, to the exclusion of every other thought.
But he must not goad him too carelessly, or a shot from across the room might put an end to Gaines, and to any chance of avoiding a bloody, wasteful struggle for control of the road.
GAINES chuckled. “Van,” he said, “you are a pathetic little shrimp. That was a dead giveaway. I understand you perfectly—you’re a third-rater, Van, and all your life you’ve been afraid that someone would see through you, and send you back to the foot of the class. Director—pfui! If you are the best the Functionalists can offer, we can afford to ignore them—they’ll fold up from their own rotten inefficiency.” He swung around in his chair, deliberately turning his back on Van Kleeck and his gun.
Van Kleeck advanced on his tormentor, halted a few feet away, and shouted: “You . . . I’ll show you . . . I’ll put a bullet in you; that’s what I’ll do!”
Gaines swung back around, got up, and walked steadily toward him. “Put that popgun down before you hurt yourself.”
Van Kleeck retreated a step. “Don’t you come near me!” he screamed. “Don’t you come near me . . . or I’ll shoot you . . . see if I don’t!”
“This is it,” thought Gaines, and dived.
The pistol went off alongside his ear. Well, that one didn’t get him. They were on the floor. Van Kleeck was hard to hold, for a little man.
Where was the gun? There! He had it. He broke away.
Van Kleeck did not get up. He lay sprawled on the floor, tears streaming out of his closed eyes, blubbering like a frustrated child.
Gaines looked at him with something like compassion in his eyes, and hit him carefully behind the ear with the butt of the pistol. He walked over to the door, and listened for a moment, then locked it cautiously.
The cord from the push button led to the control board. He examined the hookup, and disconnected it carefully. That done, he turned to the televisor at the control desk, and called Fresno.
“O.K., Dave,” he said, “let ’em attack now—and for the love of Pete, hurry!” Then he cleared the screen, not wishing his watch officer to see how he was shaking.
BACK in Fresno the next morning Gaines paced around the main control room with a fair degree of contentment in his heart. The roads were rolling—before long they would be up to speed again. It had been a long night. Every engineer, every available cadet, had been needed to make the inch-by-inch inspection of Sacramento Sector which he had required. Then they had to cross-connect around two wrecked subsector control boards. But the roads were rolling—he could feel their rhythm up through the floor.
He stopped beside a haggard, stubbly-bearded man. “Why don’t you go home, Dave?” he asked. “McPherson can carry on from here.”
“How about yourself, chief? You don’t look like a June bride.”
“Oh, I’ll catch a nap in my office after a bit. I called my wife, and told her I couldn’t make it. She’s coming down here to meet me.”
“Was she sore?”
“Not very. You know how women are.” He turned back to the instrument board, and watched the clicking busybodies assembling the data from six sectors. San Diego Circle, Angeles Sector, Bakersfield Sector, Fresno Sector, Stockton—Stockton? Stockton! Good grief—Blekinsop! He had left a cabinet minister of Australia cooling his heels in the Stockton office all night long!
He started for the door, while calling over his shoulder: “Dave, will you order a car for me? Make it a fast one!” He was across the hall, and had his head inside his private office before Davidson could acknowledge the order.
“Dolores!”
“Yes, Mr. Gaines.”
“Call my wife, and tell her I had to go to Stockton. If she’s already left home, just have her wait here. And, Dolores—”
“Yes, Mr. Gaines?”
“Calm her down.”
She bit her lip, but her face was impassive. “Yes, Mr. Gaines.”
“That’s a good girl.” He was out and started down the stairway. When he reached road level, the sight of the rolling strips warmed him inside and made him feel almost cheerful.
He strode briskly way toward a door marked, “Access Down,” whistling softly to himself. He opened the door, and the rumbling, roaring rhythm from down inside seemed to pick up the tune even as it drowned out the sound of his whistling.
“Hie! Hie! Hee!
The rotor men are we—
Check off your sectors loud and strong!
ONE! TWO! THREE!
Anywhere you go
You are bound to know
That your roadways go rolling along!”
Universe
Robert A. Heinlein
A NOVA story of the strangest world in space—a world where men could not learn the laws of Nature for they did not apply!
The Proxima Centauri Expedition, sponsored by the Jordan Foundation in 2119, was the first recorded attempt to reach the nearer stars of this galaxy. Whatever its unhappy fate we can only conjecture.
—Quoted from “The Romance of Modern Astrography”, by Franklin Buck, published by Lux Transcriptions, Ltd., 3.50 cr.
“THERE’S a mutie! Look out!”
At the shouted warning, Hugh Hoyland ducked, with nothing to spare. An egg-sized iron missile clanged against the bulkhead just above his scalp with force that promised a fractured skull. The speed with which he crouched had lifted his feet from the floor plates. Before his body could settle slowly to the deck, he planted his feet against the bulkhead behind him and shoved. He went shooting down the passageway in a long, flat dive, his knife drawn and ready.
He twisted in the air, checked himself with his feet against the opposite bulkhead at the turn in the passage from which the mutie had attacked him, and floated lightly to his feet. The other branch of the passage was empty. His two companions joined him, sliding awkwardly across the floor plates.
“Is it gone?” demanded Alan Mahoney.
“Yes,” agreed Hoyland. “I caught a glimpse of it as it ducked down that hatch. A female, I think. Looked like it had four legs.”
“Two legs or four, we’ll never catch it now,” commented the third man.
“Who the Huff wants to catch it?” protested Mahoney.
“I don’t.”
“Well, I do, for one,” said Hoyland. “By Jordan, if its aim had been two inches better, I’d be ready for the Converter.”
“Can’t either one of you two speak three words without swearing?” the third man disapproved. “What if the Captain could hear you?” He touched his forehead reverently as he mentioned the Captain.
“Oh, for Jordan’s sake,” snapped Hoyland, “don’t be so stuffy, Mort Tyler. You’re not a scientist yet. I reckon I’m as devout as you are; there’s no grave sin in occasionally giving vent to your feelings. Even the scientists do it. I’ve heard ’em.”
Tyler opened his mouth as if to expostulate, then apparently thought better of it. Mahoney touched Hoyland on the arm. “Look, Hugh,” he pleaded, “let’s get out of here. We’ve never been this high before. I’m jumpy; I want to get back down to where I can feel some weight on my feet.”
Hoyland looked longingly toward the hatch through which his assailant had disappeared while his hand rested on the grip of his knife, then be turned to Mahoney. “OK, kid,” he agreed, “It’s along trip down anyhow.”
He turned and slithered back toward the hatch, whereby they had reached the level where they now were, the other two following him. Disregarding the ladder by which they had mounted, he stepped off into the opening and floated slowly down to the deck fifteen feet below, Tyler and Mahoney close behind him. Another hatch, staggered a few feet from the first, gave access to a still lower deck. Down, down, down, and still farther down they dropped, tens and dozens of decks, each silent, dimly lighted, mysterious. Each time they fell a little f
aster, landed a little harder. Mahoney protested at last, “Let’s walk the rest of the way, Hugh. That last jump hurt my feet.”
“All right. But it will take longer. How far have we got to go? Anybody keep count?”
“We’ve got about seventy decks to go to reach farm country,” answered Tyler.
“How d’you know?” demanded Mahoney suspiciously.
“I counted them, stupid. And as we came down I took one away for each deck.”
“You did not. Nobody but a scientist can do numbering like that. Just because you’re learning to read and write you think you know everything.”
Hoyland cut in before it could develop into a quarrel. “Shut up, Alan. Maybe he can do it. He’s clever about such things. Anyhow, it feels like about seventy decks—I’m heavy enough.”
“Maybe he’d like to count the blades on my knife.”
“Stow it, I said. Dueling is forbidden outside the village. That is the Rule.” They proceeded in silence, running lightly down the stairways until increasing weight on each succeeding level forced them to a more pedestrian pace. Presently they broke through into a level that was quite brilliantly lighted and more than twice as deep between decks as the ones above it. The air was moist and warm; vegetation obscured the view.
“Well, down at last,” said Hugh. “I don’t recognize this farm; we must have come down by a different line than we went up.”
“There’s a farmer,” said Tyler. He put his little fingers to his lips and whistled, then called, “Hey! Shipmate! Where are we?”
The peasant looked them over slowly, then directed them in reluctant monosyllables to the main passageway which would lead them back to their own village.
A BRISK WALK of a mile and a half down a wide tunnel moderately crowded with traffic: travelers, porters, an occasional pushcart, a dignified scientist swinging in a litter borne by four husky orderlies and preceded by his master-at-arms to clear the common crew out of the way. A mile and a half of this brought them to the common of their own village, a spacious compartment three decks high and perhaps ten times as wide. They split up and went their own ways, Hugh to his quarters in the barracks of the cadets, young bachelors who do not live with their parents. He washed himself and went thence to the compartments of his uncle, for whom he worked for his meals. His aunt glanced up as he came in, but said nothing, as became a woman.
His uncle said, “Hello, Hugh. Been exploring again?”
“Good eating, Uncle. Yes.”
His uncle, a stolid, sensible man, looked tolerantly amused. “Where did you go and what did you find?”
Hugh’s aunt had slipped silently out of the compartment, and now returned with his supper which she placed before him. He fell to; it did not occur to him to thank her. He munched a bite before replying.
“Up. We climbed almost to the level-of-no-weight. A mutie tried to crack my skull.”
His uncle chuckled. “You’ll find your death In those passageways, lad. Better you should pay more attention to my business against the day when I die and get out of your way.”
Hugh looked stubborn. “Don’t you have any curiosity, Uncle?”
“Me? Oh, I was prying enough when I was a lad. I followed the main passage all the way around and back to the village. Right through the Dark Sector I went, with muties tagging my heels. See that scar?”
Hugh glanced at it perfunctorily. He had seen it many times before and heard the story repeated to boredom. Once around the Ship, pfft! He wanted to go everywhere, see everything, and find out the why of things. Those upper levels now: if men were not intended to climb that high, why had Jordan created them?
But he kept his own counsel and went on with his meal. His uncle changed the subject. “I’ve occasion to visit the Witness. John Black claims I owe him three swine. Want to come along?”
“Why, no, I guess not—Wait! I believe I will.”
“Hurry up, then.”
THEY STOPPED at the cadets’ barracks, Hugh claiming an errand. The Witness lived in a small, smelly compartment directly across the Common from the barracks, where he would be readily accessible to any who had need of his talents. They found him leaning in his doorway, picking his teeth with a fingernail. His apprentice, a pimply-faced adolescent with an intent nearsighted expression, squatted behind him.
“Good eating.” said Hugh’s uncle.
“Good eating to you, Edard Hoyland. D’you come on business, or to keep an old man company?”
“Both,” Hugh’s uncle returned diplomatically, then explained his errand.
“So,” said the Witness. “Well—the contract’s clear enough:
Black John delivered ten bushels of oats,
Expecting his pay in a pair of shoats;
Ed brought his sow to breed for pig;
John gets his pay when the pigs grow big.
“How big are the pigs now, Edard Hoyland?”
“Big enough,” acknowledged Hugh’s uncle, “but Black John claims three instead of two.”
“Tell him to go soak his head. The Witness has spoken.”
He laughed in a thin, high cackle.
The two gossiped for a few minutes, Edard Hoyland digging into his recent experiences to satisfy the old man’s insatiable liking for details. Hugh kept decently silent while the older men talked. But when his uncle turned to go he spoke up. “I’ll stay awhile, Uncle.”
“Eh? Suit yourself. Good eating, Witness.”
“Good eating, Edard Hoyland.”
“I’ve brought you a present, Witness,” said Hugh, when his uncle had passed out of hearing.
“Let me see it.”
Hugh produced a package of tobacco which he had picked up from his locker at the barracks. The Witness accepted it without acknowledgment, then tossed it to his apprentice, who took charge of it.
“Come inside,” invited the Witness, then directed his speech to his apprentice. “Here, you, fetch the cadet a chair.”
“Now, lad,” he added as they sat themselves down, “tell me what you have been doing with yourself.”
Hugh told him, and was required to repeat In detail all the incidents of his more recent explorations, the Witness complaining the meanwhile over his inability to remember exactly everything he saw.
“You youngsters have no capacity,” he pronounced. “No capacity. Even that lout—” he jerked his head toward the apprentice, “he has none, though he’s a dozen times better than you. Would you believe it, he can’t soak up a thousand lines a day, yet he expects to sit in my seat when I am gone. Why, when I was apprenticed, I used to sing myself to sleep on a mere thousand lines. Leaky vessels—that’s what you are.”
HUGH did not dispute the charge, but waited for the old man to go on, which he did in his own time.
“You had a question to put to me, lad?”
“In a way, Witness.”
“Well? Out with it. Don’t chew your tongue.”
“Did you ever climb all the way up to no-weight?”
“Me? Of course not. I was a Witness, learning my calling. I had the lines of all the Witnesses before me to learn, and no time for boyish amusements.”
“I had hoped you could tell me what I would find there.”
“Well, now, that’s another matter. I’ve never climbed, but I hold the memories of more climbers than you will ever see. I’m an old man. I knew your father’s father, and his grandsire before that. What is it you want to know?”
“Well . . .” What was it be wanted to know? How could he ask a question that was no more than a gnawing ache in his breast? Still . . .
“What is it all for, Witness? Why are there all those levels above us?”
“Eh? How’s that? Jordan’s name, son, I’m a Witness, not a scientist.”
“Well—I thought you must know. I’m sorry.”
“But I do know. What you want is the Lines from the Beginning.”
“I’ve heard them.”
“Hear them again. All your answers are in there, if
you’ve the wisdom to see them. Attend me. No, this is a chance for my apprentice to show off his learning. Here, you! The Lines from the Beginning—and mind your rhythm.”
The apprentice wet his lips with his tongue and began:
“In the Beginning there was Jordan, think-
ing His lonely thoughts alone.
In the Beginning there was darkness, form-
less, dead, and Man unknown.
Out of the loneness came a longing,
out of the longing came a vision,
Out of the dream there came a planning,
out of the plan there came decision:
Jordan’s hand was lifted and the Ship was
born.
Mile after mile of snug compartments,
tank by tank for the golden corn,
Ladder and passage, door and locker, fit for
the needs of the yet unborn.
He looked on His work and found it pleas-
ing, meet for a race that was yet to be.
He thought of Man; Man came into being
—checked his thought and searched for
the key.
Man untamed would shame his Maker,
Man unruled would spoil the Plan;
So Jordan made the Regulations, orders to
each single man,
Each to a task and each to a station, serv-
ing a purpose beyond their ken,
Some to speak and some to listen—order
came to the ranks of men.
Crew He created to work at their stations,
scientists to guide the Plan.
Over them all He created the Captain, made
him judge of the race of Man.
Thus it was in the Golden Age!
Jordan is perfect, all below him lack per-
fection in their deeds.
Envy, Greed, and Pride of Spirit sought for
minds to lodge their seeds.
One there was who gave them lodging—ac
cursed Huff, the first to sin!
His evil counsel stirred rebellion, planted
doubt where it had not been;
Blood of martyrs stained the floor plates,
Jordan’s Captain made the Trip.
