by Jerry eBooks
He never spoke a truer sentence, the colonel thought. He said gently,” Look, Bill. I’m sorry, but I’ll have to pull a little rank. I’m getting Donaldson in.”
Major Malcolm Donaldson, M.D., Ph.D., shifted his untidy bulk uneasily on the surface of the hard straight chair, took off his thick-lensed glasses and massaged his brows with a thumb and forefinger. Uncovered, his soft brown eyes looked tired and weak.
The colonel said, “Is that all clear, Donaldson?”
“Oh, sure. Sure, colonel,” His voice was tenor in pitch, but strong and firm. “Go ahead, will you, Bill? Give us the rest of it.” His brown eyes flashed n reassuring twinkle at the colonel.
“Right, sir.” With the psychiatrist present, the captain was choosing his words carefully. “They knew, then, the danger as well as the utility of atomic power. They used to use it themselves, long ago; before they developed whatever it is they use now. They had their wars then; wars that almost destroyed their civilization. Now they have out-lawed war throughout the sectors of space they patrol, and anywhere else they can reach. Wherever their detector system picks up traces of an atomic explosion, they send a patrol—with certain preventive powers. We’ve exploded—five, is it?—atomic bombs. Maybe seven. Plenty, anyway, for them to get a fix. They came. They found wars and rumors of wars. Factories busily turning out atomic weapons. So they quarantined us. This intergalactic board of health decided we were infected with a communicable disease. They sealed us off from the rest of space until we were well. That’s good medical practice, isn’t it, major?”
The major got up from his chair and came to stand beside the pilot, placing one pink hand on the sinewy wrist. The colonel started to speak, but the psychiatrist was first, firmly. “All right. Bill. Try to tell it straight—and keep the voice down, eh?”
There was silence for a moment, then the young captain began to speak again, “Right. Here it is, then. Out there—about a hundred miles out—they’ve spread a layer of—l don’t know what to call it. I couldn’t quite grasp—— Anyway, it’s there, miles deep; and it’s there to stay. When an atomic bomb is exploded anywhere on this earth and the mushroom cloud of radioactive particles rises up, fission products will infiltrate into this layer. Greatly dispersed, of course, only a few will ever get so high—but they’ve allowed for that. And that will be it. We will then have had it.”
“Easy, Bill,” said the major.
“Easy? Sure. The easiest thing you know. Because when the radioactivity in this layer of—whatever—rises above the normal level of cosmic activity, its particles will begin to fission. And, gentlemen and brothers, we will then have the damnedest galactic Fourth of July celebration of all time. In the time it takes that watch you’re using to count my pulse, major, in the little piece of time it takes to tick just once—just once—this spinning globe will be a roaring ball of flame that will pale the sun. Colonel, your men from Mars will have to run for cover to keep from getting their hair singed. How do you like it, gentlemen?”
The rotund major fumbled a black case from his pocket and the overhead light struck a gleam from the hypodermic in his hand. “All right, Bill. Let’s get your coat off and roll up your sleeve.”
The pilot’s breathing was harsh. He said, “We can forget about those atomic-powered spaceships, too, colonel. You see that, don’t you? Unless we can figure out some way to shield the exhaust. On second thought, we won’t last long enough for that to become a problem. Just forget it. That’s best.” The colonel said, “Take it easy, Bill.” The major put a hand on his arm.
He shook it off. “No. That’s the story. The whole thing. They finished with me, I heard the harp twang again—and I was in the plane gliding back down. You saw me land. Now, colonel, with your permission, I’m going over to the club and tie one on.”
The colonel said, “No. Sorry, Bill, but not tonight. Let Donaldson give you the hypo.”
“No. I’ve got a drink coming. Several drinks.”
“Don’t be an ass, Bill, I can make it an order. Go to lied, get some sleep. You’ve got leave coming, you can get as drunk as you like later.”
The pilot stripped off his blouse silently. He said, watching the bright needle bite into his arm, “What are we going to do? I-I hadn’t thought that far. What, are we going to do?”
The colonel reached forward and laid a long hand on the lean forearm. “It’s out of your hands now, Bill. For tonight, anyway. You don’t have to worry about it. I’ll draw up a summary of what you’ve told me; tomorrow we’ll go over it together. The most we can do is make a report and try to push it right to the top. Well, that’s my job, Bill. It’s out of your hands. So you get some sleep, and tomorrow we’ll go over it. Okay?”
“Okay.” Suddenly he was tired. And the colonel would handle it. Good old Hank. The vision of a roaring, swirling mass of flame, the crackling apocalyptic thunder that he had conjured up in his mind was fading. It was still there, but faint now.
He waved a drowsy good night and stumbled outdoors.
The colonel walked after him, watched his progress toward his quarters. When the pilot was out of earshot, the colonel spoke to a soldier near the doorway, “Sergeant! Take a man and go to the captain’s quarters. See him into bed and watch him all night.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Keep your eye on his pistol. He’s been under the hell of a strain.”
“Yes, colonel. Nothing will happen, sir.”
[Record for file . . . record for file. Xeglon, commanding Patrolship S2J3, to Sector Commander Zxyl, Galactic Guard, Sector K.
[Patrol Commander Pgot informed me that you requested this early, informal report on Mission S2K-C5-3 and I prepared it at once.
The technical reports in detail prepared by the various teams involved in the operation will be in your hands shortly.
[Planet C5-3 was located by Patrol S2J about the 32nd time-period out of headquarters. Our nine ships went into an orbit at slow speed and confirmation of Central Council’s report was found immediately. There were definite traces of fission products impregnating areas or the upper atmosphere. Commander Pgot designated this ship to complete the mission while he returned to station with the remainder of his patrol.
[Need for the quarantine having been established by our preliminary observations, our twofold problem was (1) its nature and duration and (2) communication of the necessary warning to the planet’s inhabitants. The first was, of course, a matter of comprehensive but simple tests carried out by the technicians. The second was far more difficult, owing to tile fact that the creatures employ a method of communication not heretofore found. Their range approaches zero and there is utmost no directional factor. They do haves means of distance-communication by mechanically generated impulses or waves but, though these were not difficult to intercept, we failed entirely at interpreting them. Our earliest attempts at communication resulted in jamming and even destroying the nerve paths of the specimens we selected. Naturally, we attempted to choose the most highly organized and stable individuals, but, working over the necessary distance, selection was not easy. Obviously a landing was out of the question. We should have had to destroy thousands of them in order to seize one and might even have suffered some losses ourselves. You know the problem of regeneration with no greater facilities than our patrolship carry.
[Computing, on the Pheng scale, such observations as our psycho-team was able to make, we were led to expect an intelligence factor between four and five plus. Emotional stability, however, ran completely off the scale at the minus end. In spite of the high intelligence level, their almost complete lack of social organization is thus explained.
[Through the really brilliant work of the team, we finally managed to locate an area where the stability factor ran to as much as plus eight over the norm we had established. Intelligence was not at the highest, but was also above the norm. To make it even simpler, the creatures were here engaged in testing operations with their aircraft, one-man ships that we observed making grea
ter and greater speeds, climbing to higher and higher altitudes. Briefly, the time came when one of them reached a sufficient speed at a high enough altitude that we could use the scoop on him without much danger of injury.
[It was now that our psycho-men really distinguished themselves. With their previous observations added to estimations of brain convolutions and mass, they set up a mechanical hypnotor that established contact on the very first try. Only two serious blocks were encountered. One was a systemic syndrome resulting in increase of body temperature, increased speed and power of movement, and an almost complete Stoppage of the intellectual processes. This seems to be an automatic reaction and is probably a survival factor in such a poorly organized society. It was easily overcome. The other block encountered was a complete mental rejection of the situation. Our team worked patiently at this for some time and were despairing of getting through when to our surprise, the creature broke it down himself.
[To judge from this one sample, they have an instinctive and involuntary censor that closes the mind to whatever is outside previous experience. Fortunately for them, this censor appears to be in constant conflict with such logic as they employ and is frequently defeated. Otherwise, of course, even such technological and sociological development as they enjoy would have been impossible.
[Having made contact, we fixed the creature’s mind, implanting the necessary warning as to the nature of the quarantine, the reasons for it, the conditions under which it may be lifted. His grasp of the entire concept at last complete, we released him, close to the pick-up point, and traced him to the surface.
[In the meantime, tests had determined that Catalyst X in a concentration of .003 negatively charged, would accomplish our task, remaining active for approximately one hundred m the planet’s orbit-periods. This, being longer than the inhabitants’ life cycle, should allow time for re-education and retraining of new general ions-provided they heed our warning. Intermittent observation patrols and a renewal of the quarantine if need is determined are, of course, recommended.
[We proceeded now to sow the catalyst in the predetermined depth and, mission accomplished, to depart for our station. Two time-periods out from the planet, we switched to space drive. Message ends. XEGLON.]
When the colonel turned back into the room, the major had resumed his seat. He was holding up the shining hypodermic needle, moving it to catch the glimmering reflections.
The colonel barked, “Put that thing away!”
“Certainly, colonel. Sorry.”
“No, Donaldson. I’m sorry. I beg your pardon.”
Not at all, sir. It’s damned tough, I know. He’s one of the best.”
The colonel sat, wearily. “He’s the best, Donaldson. That combination of guts, loyalty and lightning reflexes comes about one in ten million. Oh, well. I’ve plenty of good men, as far as that goes. It’s the kid himself I——How does it look to you?”
“I can’t tell yet. It may be a week six months—six years. It may be gone by tomorrow morning. I’ll need a whole lot of time with him before I can say.”
The colonel banged his fist on the desk. If this thing holds up his promotion, I’ll go to Washington personally! He’s been due for major for six months now. He needs it too. His wife’s having another baby, you know.”
The psychiatrist nodded. “How many’s that make?”
“It’s his third.”
“These boys run to large families for some reason. I’ve wondered about that. It’s living on the ragged edge of danger does it I suppose. Ha!” His little snort of laughter made the colonel look up in surprise. “Sorry, colonel. It just occurred to me-if the captain’s little fantasy were true and the word got around-brother! Would the population curve begin to shoot up! Or would it?” He was suddenly thoughtful.
The colonel said, “Well, Donaldson, we’d better get some sleep too.”
The major stood up. “Right, colonel. It’s going to be tough, telling his wife. Well, maybe it won’t be necessary. He’s a good strong boy, best nerves I’ve seen. I’d say things will be all right.
He wandered toward the doorway.
He was reluctant to go and he wondered why. It was cozy in the little office. Outside it was dark and the desert cold was creeping down over the field. Suddenly the major wished it were daylight. He didn’t want to see the stars.
He shrugged and said good night.
Good night, Major Donaldson.”
He turned, his hand on the open door. “Oh, colonel. There is one thing. It’s outside my field, but I’m curious. How did he keep that plane in the air for ten hours—with only ten minutes’ fuel?”
The two men stared at each other and, through the open door, the freezing desert cold began to seep into the little room. THE END
The Report on the Barnhouse Effect
Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
LET ME BEGIN by saying that I don’t know any more about where Professor Arthur Barnhouse is hiding than anyone else does. Save for one short, enigmatic message left in my mailbox on Christmas Eve, I have not heard from him since his disappearance a year and a half ago.
What’s more, readers of this article will be disappointed if they expect to learn how they can bring about the so-called “Barnhouse Effect.” If I were able and willing to give away that secret, I would certainly be something more important than a psychology instructor.
I have been urged to write this report because I did research under the professor’s direction and because I was the first to learn of his astonishing discovery. But while I was his student I was never entrusted with knowledge of how the mental forces could be released and directed. He was unwilling to trust anyone with that information.
I would like to point out that the term “Barnhouse Effect” is a creation of the popular press, and was never used by Professor Barnhouse. The name he chose for the phenomenon was “dynamopsychism,” or force of the mind.
I cannot believe that there is a civilized person yet to be convinced that such a force exists, what with its destructive effects on display in every national capital. I think humanity has always had an inkling that this sort of force does exist. It has been common knowledge that some people are luckier than others with inanimate objects like dice. What Professor Barnhouse did was to show that such “luck” was a measurable force, which in his case could be enormous.
By my calculations, the professor was about fifty-five times more powerful than a Nagasaki-type atomic bomb at the time he went into hiding. He was not bluffing when, on the eve of “Operation Brainstorm,” he told General Honus Barker: “Sitting here at the dinner table, I’m pretty sure I can flatten anything on earth—from Joe Louis to the Great Wall of China.”
There is an understandable tendency to look upon Professor Barnhouse as a supernatural visitation. The First Church of Barnhouse in Los Angeles has a congregation numbering in the thousands. He is godlike in neither appearance nor intellect. The man who disarms the world is single, shorter than the average American male, stout, and averse to exercise. His I.Q. is 143, which is good but certainly not sensational. He is quite mortal, about to celebrate his fortieth birthday, and in good health. If he is alone now, the isolation won’t bother him too much. He was quiet and shy when I knew him, and seemed to find more companionship in books and music than in his associations at the college.
Neither he nor his powers fall outside the sphere of Nature. His dynamopsychic radiations are subject to many known physical laws that apply in the field of radio. Hardly a person has not now heard the snarl of “Barnhouse static” on his home receiver. The radiations are affected by sunspots and variations in the ionosphere.
However, they differ from ordinary broadcast waves in several important ways. Their total energy can be brought to bear on any single point the professor chooses, and that energy is undiminished by distance. As a weapon, then, dynamopsychism has an impressive advantage over bacteria and atomic bombs, beyond the fact that it costs nothing to use: it enables the professor to single out crit
ical individuals and objects instead of slaughtering whole populations in the process of maintaining international equilibrium.
As General Honus Barker told the House Military Affairs Committee: “Until someone finds Barnhouse, there is no defense against the Barnhouse Effect.” Efforts to “jam” or block the radiations have failed. Premier Slezak could have saved himself the fantastic expense of his “Barnhouseproof” shelter. Despite the shelter’s twelve-foot-thick lead armor, the premier has been floored twice while in it.
There is talk of screening the population for men potentially as powerful dynamopsychically as the professor. Senator Warren Foust demanded funds for this purpose last month, with the passionate declaration: “He who rules the Barnhouse Effect rules the world!” Commissar Kropotnik said much the same thing, so another costly armaments race, with a new twist, has begun.
This race at least has its comical aspects. The world’s best gamblers are being coddled by governments like so many nuclear physicists. There may be several hundred persons with dynamopsychic talent on earth, myself included. But, without knowledge of the professor’s technique, they can never be anything but dice-table despots. With the secret, it would probably take them ten years to become dangerous weapons. It took the professor that long. He who rules the Barnhouse Effect is Barnhouse and will be for some time.
Popularly, the “Age of Barnhouse” is said to have begun a year and a half ago, on the day of Operation Brainstorm. That was when dynamopsychism became significant politically. Actually, the phenomenon was discovered in May, 1942, shortly after the professor turned down a direct commission in the Army and enlisted as an artillery private. Like X-rays and vulcanized rubber, dynamopsychism was discovered by accident.
From time to time Private Barnhouse was invited to take part in games of chance by his barrack mates. He knew nothing about the games, and usually begged off. But one evening, out of social grace, he agreed to shoot craps. It was either terrible or wonderful that he played, depending upon whether or not you like the world as it now is.
