A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  On the far end of the workbench two wires ran from an electric motor, an incandescent lamp, and a buzzer connected in parallel to terminals on the generator. Nielson soldered a connection in place, then stood up and surveyed his work with evident satisfaction.

  “It won’t work,” said the boy, abruptly.

  “Eh?” Nielson turned around. “What won’t work?”

  “The machine,” the boy looked distracted.

  “Why not?”

  “Because—it just won’t work.” the boy reiterated from his seat on an orange-crate.

  Nielson thoughtfully closed the switch. Where there should be a light, the brrr of a door buzzer, the purr of a motor, there was—nothing. Nelson remembered the blueprint. He turned to Donny.

  The boy was gazing thoughtfully into space.

  “Donny.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me why it won’t work?”

  “The ’lectricity. It isn’t running the right way. From the plu—from the big lead box.”

  Nielson reversed the leads to the lead-enclosed fission pile. The light lit; the buzzer rang; the motor whirred softly. He shut off the current, turned toward the boy.

  “It’s at your home—in the third drawer in your bureau, under the cam’ra,” said Donny Slade.

  “What is, kid?”

  “Your cig’rette lighter.”

  “I didn’t say anything about my lighter.”

  “You were thinkiin’ it, though. You were wonderin’ if I cud tell you—”

  Nielson cut him off. “Come on . . . we’re going to see the boss!” He scribbled something on the blueprint and rolled it up. “That mistake would have taken me a week’s calculation to locate; you did it for me in a minute. They’ll let you name your salary, Donny Slade! Let’s get going!”

  “JA!” Nielson cried. “This boy—it’s amazing! He—”

  “Amazing, eh? You’ll be amazed when you see the latest bulletin from the Board. Nielson, we’re three days behind our promises!” Boss Conner matched Nielson’s enthusiasm with a choleric irritability.

  “But it’s incredible, Conner! This boy—”

  “Credible, shmedible! Forget the boy-oyoyoyoy—BOY!”

  “Yes sir, he—”

  “I don’t care if he spits gold bricks. Do you think this is a nursery? This is a private office—GED THAT BOY OUDDA HERE!”

  “Wait in the outer office, Donny,” murmured Nielson.

  Donny obediently retreated. Conner glared at Nielson. Hard.

  “Mis-ter Nielson!” The older man’s breathing labored. His cheeks were puffy. “Do you think my reasoning faculties are in any way impaired?”

  “Why—no, sir.”

  “Do you think I am stupid? Unreasonable?”

  “Er—No—”

  “Then I’m sure you’ll agree with me that it’s not unreasonable to prohibit ten-year-old boys from running around in the private offices of Atomic Industries, Incorporated.”

  “But this particular boy—”

  “Boy, shmoy. What about a particular atomic generator we promised the government would be ready three days ago?”

  “Oh, that’s all ready. You can have Jennings draw up blueprints from my model.”

  “Jenn—I thought you were building the model from Jennings blueprints.”

  “Uh huh. ’Till I found out they were wrong.”

  “Nielson, I don’t care whose fault it was—now. We’ve got the generator, and that’s the important thing. It isn’t every company that gets a government contract to design and build the first manned space-ship. We pulled that contract right out from under the noses of International Atomics, and we’re going to keep it.” He reached across the desk and shook hands in a business-like fashion. “Congratulations, Nielson, I’m giving you a pay raise and transferring you as of today to the Jet division. But wait’ll you see that bulletin. I tell you, that ato-generator means everything to us.” He rummaged in his desk. “Now, where did I put that damned—”

  “Mister Nielson!” Donny called from the outer office.

  “Excuse me, J.A.,” muttered Nielson. “I’ll be right back.” He vanished into the outer office. A minute later he was back. He took out a cigarette and lit it with a paper match.

  “The bulletin’s in your bottom left drawer. It’s locked, and you have the key in your vest pocket.”

  “Eh?” said Conner. “How did you know?”

  “Look and see,” replied Nielson calmly.

  Conner reached into his vest pocket and changed color. He took out the key, unlocked the specified drawer, rummaged, and withdrew the bulletin, looking at Nielson queerly.

  “Nielson, how did you know all that?”

  Nielson exhaled streamers of smoke. “Donny told me.”

  “Don . . .” Conner looked toward the outer office, the question in his eyes. Nielson nodded.

  “Call him in here,” Conner muttered.

  Donny came before Nielson could get the words out. “The telephone’s going to ring,” he volunteered.

  It rang.

  Nielson looked at Conner; Conner nodded. Then he picked up the phone.

  THE spaceship gleamed a ruddy copper-color in the setting sun, as the last of the workmen filed through the gate. Donny Slade and Rod Nielson stood by the fence, admiring the sleekness of her, the triumph of her, Mankind’s challenge to the stars. Nielson laid his hand on Donny’s shoulder.

  “You did it, Donny,” he said. “She belongs to you, really.” Donny’s eyes shone. “You did the work, Mister Nielson. I didn’t do nothin’ really, ’cept tell you what would happen. It wasn’t work.”

  “We’d still be struggling with her now, if it hadn’t been for you, Donny.”

  “Are you goin’ to the moon in her, Mister Nielson?”

  “The moon first; then Mars, Venus—everywhere, Donny. And you’re going, too. We’ll need you, Donny, out in space.”

  Donny said, “Mister Nielson, can I look inside her again?”

  “Sure, Donny.” Nielson watched the small form dart off toward the hatch-ladder. He thought, “ ‘And a small child shall lead them!’ ”

  “Mister Nielson!” Nielson looked up and saw Donny about halfway up to the hatch. “Mister Nielson! Help! The ladder’s goin’ to break!” It shuddered. “Mister Nielson!”

  Nielson ran. He was a good fifty yards away, and already the ladder was quivering. Donny was about twenty feet up. If he fell—Nielson ran harder.

  “Mister Nielson! You’re gonna be too late! It’s breakin’—”

  The ladder cracked. He pelted toward the small form falling through the air. It hit the ground with a dull thump.

  * * *

  The doctor came out of the company infirmary emergency office. He came toward Nielson.

  “How is he, Doc? Is he hurt?”

  “No, the boy’s okay. Miraculously, there’re no broken bones—only a few cuts and bruises. He’s conscious now.”

  Thank God. “Can I see him? He’ll still be able to go along to the moon?”

  “No,” Doctor Phelps voice was kindly. “He’ll never be able to see the moon—now. You see, that blow on the head jarred something in his brain. He’s lost his ESP.”

  “But he can still—”

  “. . . See? No, Mr. Nielson. That was never possible anyway.” Sympathy shone in the doctor’s gray eyes, “Donny has been blind from birth.”

  THE END

  FOG

  William Campbell Gault

  A Razor’s Edge Divides Treason From—Heroism!

  IT CAME on the second Tuesday in May, blanketing the city, shrouding the harbor, grounding everything at the airport. This city had known May fogs before, and its inhabitants took the first few days of it in stride. It had been a depressing winter, and there was some grumbling, naturally—but fog was expected in May.

  Thursday of that week Elmer Naper, a painter by trade, of 1365 North Ellemore, committed suicide. His wife found him in the backyard when she came home from
a card party. He’d blown most of his head off with a twelve gauge shotgun. He’d been complaining about the fog.

  The backyard and the fog were not connected in the minds of the officers investigating the suicide. The backyard and the shotgun were logical. Elmer didn’t want to mess up the house.

  There had been suicides before.

  On Friday morning there was another, a postal clerk named Servies, He hanged himself from a rafter in his garage. On Friday afternoon there were three, two men and one woman, in scattered sections of the city.

  Suicides come in waves, the police knew. But four in one day—none of them in the house—all of them outside? There was nothing in the records like that.

  In Washington the Old Man sent for Curt. He had a big map on his desk, and he pointed at the spot which marked the fogbound city. Curt nodded and looked at the Old Man questioning.

  The Old Man shrugged his thin shoulders, and his big head swiveled around to look out the window. In Washington it was clear and sunny.

  “Why there?” Curt asked. “Why that city among all the others? You’re apparently assuming it’s not a natural fog.”

  “I’m not assuming anything, Curt. If I assume that, I assume an enemy. And who in this world is left to fight us?”

  Who indeed? Russia was a desolate wasteland, still radioactive. England was a nation of shopkeepers again. The South American republics were finally allied, their mutual animosity confined to the legislative floor. Who on this earth . . .

  Curt said, “Nobody on this planet. You’re right.”

  THERE had been no interplanetary travel yet. There was equipment for it—there was knowledge of life on Mars—but on all of Earth there was only one strong country from a military standpoint, and its strength was only relative.

  The Old Man said wearily, “Oh, Curt—Martians?” His smile was cynical.

  “Venerians?” Curt suggested. “I was thinking of Venus, fogbound Venus.”

  “You weren’t really thinking at all. You were dreaming, perhaps, Curt. You’re serious, I hope.”

  “I’m serious. We’re so afraid of the unknown that we’re living in the Middle Ages. We’re so sick of war that we’re not allowing our natural curiosity to grow. Why haven’t they shot a ship to Mars? What are they waiting for?”

  “For a resolute, united people, free from confusion. We haven’t had that since 1929.”

  “And we’re not getting any closer to it,” Curt snapped. “Because the people can’t catch up to science, science is retarded to their level I can’t think of a better weapon than fog. They’ve been living in it for fifty years.”

  “They?” the Old Man asked. “You’ve some distinction in your mind, Curt? We aren’t people?”

  Curt faced his superior squarely, “Not in the ordinary sense, I hope. Not like—like those jerks who read cowboy stories and pay seven bucks to see a football game. I hope I’m not.”

  “Well,” the Old Man said. “Well, Curt.” He shook his head. “You’ll have us under fire by a loyalty board. Personal troubles, lad? Love or money, maybe?”

  Curt expelled his breath and sat down, his face in his hands. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Overwork, maybe,” the Old Man sighed. “The department has a tendency to overload lads of your savvy, Curt. Overwork, we’ll call it Take a month.”

  Curt put his hands down. “No, I’ll go, sir. It was—adolescent, that outburst. I’m all right. I’ll go.”

  The Old Man shook his head.

  “Please, sir. It’s important to me. I like to think it’s important to the department, too—and to the world.” The Old Man’s lined face was grave. His big head, with its tangled thatch of gray hair, seemed too heavy for his thin body. He looked almost grotesque. “Are you trying to tell me something, Curt?”

  “I—don’t understand you, sir.”

  “All right. You’ve been close to me, Curt. I never married, and my parents died when I was a child. You’ve been—like my family. If there’s anything troubling you . . .”

  “Nothing, sir, nothing personal. Just an unreasonable resentment at the state of the world. I’m not Atlas, I realize now. You’ll arrange transportation, sir?”

  “Navy X-one-seven-D.” The Old Man smiled. “You’ll actually get there, traveling west, before you leave here. It’s hardly off the drafting boards, that model. That make you feel better?”

  “Some. I’m all right. I’m fine.”

  “Okay. Don’t contact me tonight. I won’t be home.”

  He was smiling. “The Redskins are playing the Rams under the lights, and I wangled a pair of tickets from Judge Aarons.”

  “Me and my big mouth!” Curt groaned.

  “I’m an old man and senile. Luck, Curt.”

  In his apartment, Curt packed leisurely, thinking of his outburst in the Old Man’s office. What was happening to him? He’d almost given the whole show away. He’d actually told the Old Man the true story. And the old boy had smiled.

  Smiled—Curt paused in his packing. And wasn’t it coincidental that he, of all the agents, should be called in? He didn’t underestimate the Old Man. Very little escaped him—and this “coincidence” was too far out of the realm of possibility.

  He sat down on the bed suddenly, his knees weak. The Old Man knew. He had to know. It didn’t make sense otherwise.

  The red light at the foot of his bed was flashing. When the buzzer sounded, he was at the door. He opened it, and Vera stood there.

  She was a beautiful girl, slim, smooth-skinned, and vibrant. Her dark, oriental eyes were mocking Curt. “You’re going to the Coast.”

  He nodded. “Come in, darling. How did you know?”

  “It was arranged, my dear. Did you think it was a coincidence?”

  “Something more than that,” Curt said. “I’d forgotten about your—your thought control.”

  “To put it simply—we don’t control people of that mental level, Curt.” She was smiling. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

  HER lips were soft, her body pressing firmly into his. Curt drew away after a moment. “You don’t control people of that mental level? You mean that in the department there are other . . .?” He didn’t finish.

  “Traitors?” She finished for him. “Is that the word you were going to use?”

  “Is that what I’m considered on your planet?”

  “No. Curt, if you’re doubtful, if you feel some affinity with these—these comic-strip readers—you can—”

  “Quit? Can I really, dear?”

  She was silent, her dark eyes studying him. He said, “I’ve only got a couple hours and I don’t imagine I’ll see you on the Coast. Come here, you temptress.”

  “I’ll be out there,” she said. “But there’s now and that’s all we can be sure of today.” She came over to him.

  * * * * *

  The Old Man hadn’t lied about the X17D. It was a smoothly contoured duralyte ship, resembling a saucer more than anything else. The entire outer shell revolved, rotated by the blast ports along its chromolux rim. The pilot’s soundproofed compartment was gyroscopically leveled, cushioned against the tremor of its supersonic blast speed.

  There was room for one other besides the pilot and this one other, on tonight’s western trip, was Agent Curt Belfast of the Department of Science.

  The pilot was Tom Allis. “Long time no see, Curt,” he said. “How do you like my new baby?”

  “She looks sleek. Moves?”

  “Moves. Remember, when we were kids and used to skip stones on a pond? That’s the way she moves through space, only a little quicker, of course. She should do over nineteen hundred.”

  “We’ll be at the Coast before we leave here,” Curt said. “I’d have legal grounds for two suppers on the swindle sheet. All set, Tom?”

  “If you are I am. Nervous, Curt?”

  “No. Should I be?”

  “No. But I am. And I’m the pilot. You always were a cold potato, laddie. Let’s go.”

  They went.
The take-off was all sound and fury but once in flight there was no sensation whatever. There was no vision except the radar-III screen; the controls were all automatic.

  In their oxylite chairs Tom and Curt watched the red band of the rameter. Curt said, after a few minutes, “What did you mean, Tom, by cold potato?”

  “Forget it. Maybe I was annoyed because you weren’t nervous.”

  “No, I’m serious. Do you think I’m cold—I mean, without social consciousness?”

  “Whatever the hell that is. I think you could live on an uninhabited island the rest of your life without fretting too much.”

  “Oh, no. No, I couldn’t.”

  “Well, with a blonde or two and an equipped lab then.”

  “Oh, hell yes. Couldn’t you? Changing the lab for a really hot air-buggy and the blondes for whatever you relish in that field. Couldn’t you then, Tom?”

  “Nope—I like people. I really do. All kinds of people. Even you, Curt, when you let your hair down.”

  The red worm of the rameter crawled along its channel, almost a fourth of the trip already gone. It was at the halfway mark when Tom said, “What gives with this fog?”

  “What fog?”

  “Cut it out,” Tom said. “Science sends a man out tonight. State sent one out this afternoon to say nothing of the lads the Department of Agriculture’s got out there. What’s the gimmick?”

  “I don’t know what they’re doing there. I’m going out to see my girl.”

  “Sure, sure. All right, I’m just a chauffeur. All the medals won’t change that. And I was so proud of them.” He held a hand up for silence, watching the rameter ribbon. It was almost at the end of its long channel.

  There was the sound of a buzzer, and Tom said into his phone, “Special Flight S, Special Flight S. Priority Top A.”

  They were ground-controlled from here in.

  The oxylite chairs rocked gently. Tom said, “I should have a change-maker and a blue uniform with brass buttons. And one of those gadgets to punch tickets. They don’t need a flier for this.”