A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  “Motor Racing, however, gave a much greater opportunity for the Tragic Accidents so exciting to the spectator. One of the most famed old speedways, Indianapolis, where many drivers and spectators alike ended as bloody Tragi-Accs, is today the nation’s racing shrine. Motor Racing was already then held all over the world, sometimes with Scores reaching the hundred mark, and long-distance races were popular.

  “The modern Race makes it possible for the entire population to . . .” Willie switched off the radio. Why did they always have to stress the Score? Time was important too. The speed—and the endurance. That was part of an Ace Racer as well as his scoring ability. He took an Energene Tab.

  They were entering Kansas City.

  The check point officials told Willie that there were three Racers with better Time than he, and one had tied his Score. “The Bull” stayed just long enough in the check point pit for Hank to make a quick engine inspection—then they took off again. It was 1818 hours, CST, when they left the city limits behind. They’d been driving over nine hours.

  About 50 miles along the Thruway to Denver, just after passing through a little town called Lawrence, Willie suddenly slowed down. Hank, who’d been dozing, sat up in alarm.

  “What’s the matter?” he cried, “what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Willie said irritably. “Relax. You seem to be good at that.”

  “But why are you slowing down?”

  “You heard the check point record. Our Score’s already been tied.

  We’ve got to better it,” Willie answered grimly.

  The plastirubber tires screeched on the concrete speedway as Willie turned down an exit leading to a Class II road.

  “Why down here?” asked Hank. “You can only go about 80 MPH.”

  A large lumi-sign appeared on the side of the road ahead LONE STAR 11 Miles it announced.

  Willie pointed. “That’s why,” he said curtly.

  In a few minutes Lone Star came into view. It was a small village.

  Willie was traveling as fast as he could on the secondary road. He plowed through a flock of chickens, hurtled over a little mongrel dog, which crawled yelping towards the safety of a house and the waiting arms of a little girl, and managed to graze the leg of a husky youth who vaulted a high wooden fence—then they were through Lone Star.

  Hank activated the little dashboard screen which gave them a rear view.

  “That’s not going to do much for our Score,” he remarked sourly .

  “Oh, shut up!” Willie explode;., surprising both himself and Hank .

  What was the matter with him? He couldn’t be getting tired already.

  He swallowed a No-Sleep. That’d help.

  Hank was quiet as they sped through Topeka and took the Thruway to Oklahoma City, but out of the corner of his eyes he was looking speculatively at Willie, hunched over the wheel.

  It was getting dusk. Willie switched on his powerful headbeams. They had a faint reddish tint because of the coloring of “The Bull’s” eyes.

  They had just whizzed through a little burg named Perry, when there was a series of sharp cracks. Willie started.

  “There they go again!” chortled Hank. “Those dumb hinterland hicks will never learn they can’t hurt us with their fly-poppers.”

  He knocked the plastiglass dome affectionately. “Takes atomic pellets to get through this baby.”

  Of course! He must be on edge to be taken by surprise like that. He’d run into the Anti-racers before. Just a handful of malcontents. The Racing Commission had already declared them illegal. Still—at every race they took pot shots at the Racers; a sort of pathetic defiance.

  Why should anyone want to do away with Racing?

  They were entering the outskirts of Oklahoma City. Willie killed his headbeams. No need to advertise.

  Suddenly Hank grabbed his arm. Wordlessly he pointed. There—garish and gaudy—gleamed the neon sign of a theater . . .

  Willie slowed to a crawl. He pulled over to the curb and the dark car melted into the shadows. He glanced at the clock. 2203 hours.

  Perhaps . . .

  Down the street a man cautiously stuck his head out from the theater entrance. Warily he emerged completely, looking up and down the street carefully. He did not see “The Bull.” Presently he ventured out into the center of the roadway. He stood still listening for a moment.

  Then he turned and beckoned towards the theater. Immediately a small group of people emerged at a run.

  Now!

  The acceleration slammed the Racers back in their seats. “The Bull” shot forward and bore down on the little knot of petrified people with appalling speed.

  This time there was no mistaking the hits. A quick succession of pars had Willie calling upon all his driving skill to keep from losing control. Hank pressed the Clean-Spray button to wash the blood off the front of the dome.

  He sat with eyes glued to the rear view screen.

  “Man, oh man,” he murmured. “What a record! What a Score!” He turned to Willie. “Please,” he said, “please stop. Let’s get out. I know it’s against regulations, but I’ve just gotta see how we did. It won’t take long. We can afford a couple of minutes’ Time now!”

  Suddenly Willie felt he had to get out too. This was the biggest Tragi-Acc he’d ever had. He had a vague feeling there was something he wanted to do.

  He brought the car to a stop. They stepped out.

  Within seconds the deserted street was swarming with people. Now the Racers were out of their car they felt safe. And curious. A few of them pressed forward to take a look at Willie. Naturally he was recognized. His photo had been seen in one way or another by everyone.

  Willie was gratified by this obvious adulation. He looked about him.

  There were many people in the street now. But—but they were not all fawning and beaming upon him. Willie frowned. Most of them looked grim—even hostile.

  Why? What was wrong? Wasn’t he one of their greatest Racers? And hadn’t he just made a record Score? Given them a Tragi-Acc they wouldn’t soon forget?

  What was the matter with those hicks?

  Suddenly the crowd parted. Slowly a young girl walked up to Willie.

  She was beautiful—even with the terrible anger burning on her face.

  In her arms she held the still body of a child. She looked straight at Willie with loathing in her eyes. Her voice was low but steady when she said: “Butcher!”

  Someone in the crowd called: “Careful, Muriel!” but she paid no heed.

  Turning from him she walked on through the crowd, parting for her.

  Willie was stunned.

  “Come on, let’s get out of here,” Hank said anxiously.

  Willie didn’t answer. He was looking back through the crowd to the scene of his Tragi-Acc. Never before had he stopped. Never before had he been this close. He could hear the moaning and sobbing of the Maims over the low murmur of the crowd. It made him uneasy. Back there they worked hurriedly to get the Tragi-Accs off the street. There were so many of them . . .

  Butcher . . .?

  All at once he was conscious of Hank pulling at him.

  “Let’s get roaring! Let’s go!”

  Quickly he turned and entered the car. Almost at once the street was empty. He turned on his headbeams and started up. Faster—and faster.

  The street was dead—empty . . .

  No! There! Someone! Holding a . . .

  It was butcher—no, Muriel. She stood rooted to the spot in the middle of the street holding the child in her arms. In the glaring headlights her face was white, her eyes terrible, burning, dark . . .

  Willie did not let up. The car hurtled down upon the lone figure—and passed . . .

  They’d lost 13 minutes. Now they were on their way to El Paso, Texas.

  The nagging headache Willie’d suffered the whole week of planning before the race had returned. He reached for a No-Sleep, hesitated a second, then took another.

  Hank glanced at
him, worriedly. “Easy, boy!”

  Willie didn’t answer.

  “That Anti-Racer get under your skin?” Hank suggested. “Don’t let it bother you.”

  “Butcher,” she’d said. “Butcher!”

  Willie was staring through the plastiglass dome at the racing pool of light from the headbeams. “The Bull” was tearing along the Thruway at almost 180 MPH.

  What was that? There—in the light? It was a face—terrible, dark eyes—getting larger—larger—Muriel! It was butcher—no, Muriel!

  No—it was a Racer—a Racing Car with Muriel’s face, shrieking down upon him—closer—closer . . .

  He threw his arms in front of his face. Dimly he heard Hank shout “Willie!” He felt the car lurch. Automatically he tightened his grip on the wheel. They had careened close to the shoulder of the speedway.

  Willie sat up. Ahead of him the road was clear—and empty.

  It was still dark when they hit El Paso. The radio told them their Oklahoma Score. Five and eight. Five Kills—eight Maims! Hank was delighted. They were close to setting a record. He’d already begun to spend his $25,000.

  Willie was uneasy. His headache was worse. His hands were clammy. He kept hearing Muriel’s voice saying: “Butcher”—“Butcher”—“Butcher!”

  But he was not a butcher. He was a Racer! He’d show them. He’d win this race.

  El Paso was a disappointment. Not a soul in sight. Phoenix next.

  The clock said 0658 hours, MST, when they roared into Phoenix. The streets were clear. Willie had to slow down to take a corner. As he sped into the new street he saw her. She was running to cross the roadway. Hank whooped.

  “Go, Willie! Go!”

  The girl looked up an instant in terror.

  Her face!

  It was the old woman with the cat! No!—it was Muriel. Muriel with the big, dark eyes . .

  In the last split second Willie touched the power steering. “The Bull” responded immediately, and shot past the girl as she scampered to safety.

  “What the hell is the matter with you?” Hank roared at Willie. “You could’ve scored! Are you out of your head?”

  “We don’t need her. We’ll win without her. I—I—” Yes, why hadn’t he scored? It wasn’t Muriel. Muriel was back in butcher—in—Oklahoma City. Damn this headache!

  “Maybe so,” said Hank angrily. “But I wanna be sure. And what about the bonus for setting a record? Ten thousand apiece. And we’re close.” He looked slyly at Willie. “Or—maybe you’ve lost your nerve.

  Wonder what the Commission will say to that?”

  “I’ve got plenty of nerve,” Willie snapped.

  “Prove it!” said Hank quickly. He pointed to the dashboard map slowly tracing their progress. “There. See that village? With the screwy name?

  Wikieup! Off the Thruway. Let’s see you score there!”

  Willie said nothing. He hadn’t lost his nerve, he knew that. He was the best of the Racers. No one could drive like he could; constant top speed, and the stamina it took, the split-second timing, the unerring judgment “Well?”

  “All right,” Willie agreed.

  They hadn’t even reached Wikieup when they spotted the farmer. He didn’t have a chance. “The Bull” came charging down upon him. But in the last moment the car veered slightly. One of the horns ripped the man’s hip open.

  In the rear view screen Willie saw him get up and hobble off the road.

  “You could’ve made it a ill,” Hank growled accusingly. “Why didn’t you?”

  “Bad road,” Willie said. “The wheel slipped on a stone.”

  That’s what must have happened, he thought. He didn’t consciously veer away from the man. He was a good Racer. He couldn’t help a bad road.

  Needles was left behind at 1045 hours, PST. No one had been out. Hank turned on the radio to a Needles station:

  “. . . has just left the city going West. No other Racer is reported within twenty minutes of the city. We repeat: A Racer has just left . . .”

  Hank clicked it off. “Hear that?” he said excitedly. “Twenty minutes. They don’t expect anyone for twenty minutes!” He took hold of Willie’s arm. “Turn around! Here’s where we can get ourselves that Record Score. Turn around, Willie!”

  “We don’t need it.”

  “I do! I want that bonus!”

  Willie made no answer.

  “Listen to me, you two-bit Racer!” Hank’s tone was menacing. “You or nobody else is going to cheat me out of that bonus. You’ve been acting mighty peculiar. More like an Anti-Racer! Ever since you stopped at that Tragi-Acc back there. Yeah! That girl—that Anti-Racer who called you a—a butcher. Listen! You get that Record Score, or I’ll report you to the Commission for having snooped around a Tragi-Acc.

  You’ll never race again!”

  Never race again! Willie’s brain was whirling. But he was a Racer.

  Not a butcher. A Racer. Record Score? Yes—that’s what he had to do.

  Set a record. Be the best damned Racer of them all.

  Without a word he turned the car. In minutes they were back at the Needles suburbs. That building. A school house. And there-marching orderly in two rows with their teacher, a class, a whole class of children . . .

  “The Bull” came charging down the street. Only a couple of hundred feet now to that Record Score . . .

  But what was that—it was . . . they were Muriel—they were all Muriel.

  Terrible, dark eyes. No!—they were children—the child in Muriel’s arms.

  They were all he child in Muriel’s arms! Were they already moaning and screaming? Butcher! Butcher! No! He couldn’t butcher them—he was a Racer—not a butcher. Not a butcher! Deliberately he swung the car to the empty side of the street.

  Suddenly he felt Hank’s hands up on the wheel.

  “You—dirty-lousy—Anti-Racer!” the mechanic snarled as he struggled for the wheel.

  The car lurched. The two men fought savagely for control. They were only yards from the fleeing children.

  With a violent wrench Willie turned the wheel sharply. The car was going 165 miles an hour when it struck the school house and crashed through the wall into the empty building.

  The voices came to Willie through thick wads of cotton—and they kept fading in and out.

  “. . . dead instantaneously. But the Racer is still . . .”

  It sounded like the voice of Muriel. Muriel . . .

  “. . . keeps calling for . . .”

  Willie tried to open his eyes. Everything was milky white. Why was there so much fog? A face was bending over him. Muriel? No—it was not Muriel. He lost consciousness again.

  When he opened his eyes once more he knew he was not alone. He turned his head. A girl was sitting at his bedside. Muriel . . .

  It was Muriel.

  He tried to sit up.

  “It’s you! But—but, how . . .?”

  The girl put her hand on his arm.

  “The radio. They said you kept calling for ‘Muriel.’ I knew. Never mind that now.”

  She looked steadily at him. Her eyes were not terrible—not burning—only dark, and puzzled.

  “Why did you call for me?” she asked earnestly.

  Willie struggled to sit up.

  “I wanted to tell you,” he said, “to tell you—I—I am not a butcher!

  “The girl looked at him for a long moment. Then she leaned down and whispered to him: “Nor a Racer!”

  THE LAST QUESTION

  Isaac Asimov

  No problem is insoluble in ALL conceivable circumstances!

  THE LAST QUESTION was asked for the first time, half in jest, on May 21, 2061, at a time when humanity first stepped into the light. The question came about as a result of a five-dollar bet over highballs, and it happened this way:

  Alexander Adell and Bertram Lupov were two of the faithful attendants of Multivac. As well as any human beings could, they knew what lay behind the cold, clicking, flashing face—miles and miles of
face—of that giant computer. They had at least a vague notion of the general plan of relays and circuits that had long since grown past the point where any single human could possibly have a firm grasp of the whole.

  Multivac was self-adjusting and self-correcting. It had to be, for nothing human could adjust and correct it quickly enough or even adequately enough. So Adell and Lupov attended the monstrous giant only lightly and superficially, yet as well as any men could. They fed it data, adjusted questions to its needs and translated the answers that were issued. Certainly they, and all others like them, were fully entitled to share in the glory that was Multivac’s.

  For decades, Multivac had helped design the ships and plot the trajectories that enabled man to reach the Moon, Mars, and Venus, but past that, Earth’s poor resources could not support the ships. Too much energy was needed for the long trips. Earth exploited its coal and uranium with increasing efficiency, but there was only so much of both.

  But slowly Multivac learned enough to answer deeper questions more fundamentally, and on May 14, 2061, what had been theory, became fact.

  The energy of the sun was stored, converted, and utilized directly on a planet-wide scale. All Earth turned off its burning coal, its fissioning uranium, and flipped the switch that connected all of it to a small station, one mile in diameter, circling the Earth at half the distance of the Moon. All Earth ran by invisible beams of sunpower.

  Seven days had not sufficed to dim the glory of it and Adell and Lupov finally managed to escape from the public function, and to meet in quiet where no one would think of looking for them, in the deserted underground chambers, where portions of the mighty buried body of Multivac showed. Unattended, idling, sorting data with contented lazy clickings, Multivac, too, had earned its vacation and the boys appreciated that. They had no intention, originally, of disturbing it.

  They had brought a bottle with them, and their only concern at the moment was to relax in the company of each other and the bottle.

  “IT’S AMAZING when you think of it,” said Adell. His broad face had lines of weariness in it, and he stirred his drink slowly with a glass rod, watching the cubes of ice slur clumsily about. “All the energy we can possibly ever use for free. Enough energy, if we wanted to draw on it, to melt all Earth into a big drop of impure liquid iron, and still never miss the energy so used. All the energy we could ever use, forever and forever and forever.”