Complete Fiction (Jerry eBooks)

by Everett B. Cole

  As the last car entered the twisting streets of Pilgroum, the crowd relaxed. It would be a while before the leaders came into sight again, winding through the valley and coming up the long hill road to the finish line. Vendors hurried through the crowd, taking quick advantage of the chance to quench thirsts or to satisfy desires for even more souvenirs.

  Cars appeared at the shoulder of the hill, slid perilously around the curves, dipped into the valley again. Varon checked the numbers, then exclaimed in surprise. Twelve was no longer leading. Cenro looked, then waved his glasses frantically.

  “He’s out of the money, chief,” he wailed. “What happened back there?” Varon was still looking at the cars. Twelve was gaining, but there was very little time left. “I don’t know,” he said. “Doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with the car.”

  The leaders screamed eagerly up the twisted hill road, slid around the S curve by the tavern, and cut their speed as the starter stabbed at them with his flag. Cenro kicked unhappily at the wall. “Second!” he complained. “My fault, too. I shoulda set them up like you said.” His footsteps dragged as he followed Varon downstairs into the courtyard.

  Number Twelve rolled in through the arch. The driver cut his valves and climbed out, removing helmet and goggles. “Sorry, chief,” he apologized, “she got away from me on the switch-back outa Pilgroum. Like to went over the side, and three cars passed me.” He turned to Cenro. “Better check the tubes,” he added. “I let her get too hot catching up. Nearly scorched her out, I think.”

  Harl Varon looked at Cenro. One eyebrow lifted a little, and he twisted his mouth. Cenro grinned, then nodded.

  “Well,” he said, “can’t win ’em all, at that. Come on, Val, gimme a hand loading her. Chief’s gotta go to the Association ball tonight, remember?”

  “Too bad you’re not driving any more, Varon.” The officer looked down at his ornately decorated blouse, then glanced up again. “I remember some years ago when you were one of the top drivers.”

  Harl smiled. “You get: older, you know,” he commented easily. “Can’t figure them so close.” Actually, he knew he was the youngest person in t he room. Not in years, of course, but these were all mature people of their culture. He was still a schoolboy, playing truant, lessons incomplete. Some day, he hoped, they would come for him, but how old would he be then? How long would he have to restrain his questing senses to avoid injuring those around him? He forced his attention back to his companion, who was discoursing on turbo-car racing and design. The man knew his subject, but even so, the problems he discussed sounded elementary. Varon agreed with him, made a few comments, and got away. He strolled about the room, greeting friends, stopping to exchange a few words, then going on. A snatch of conversation attracted his attention.

  “. . . And such an insight. He’s one of the world’s great thinkers, actually. Pity he never married.”

  He turned away again. Yes, that was another thing. Sooner or later he might have—An elderly man touched his shoulder.

  “Varon, what do you think of the theories of this man, Yeldar?” The old hands clasped pontifically. “Now, personally, I think he—”

  In truth, Harl thought, Welin Yeldar was a confused man. He had started with something valuable. A thin, shining thread of pure reason was there, but the man had used it to bind together such a confused mass of predjudiced ideology and fallacious opinion as to tangle it beyond use. Then, he had forced the entire mass into a wrapping of cumbersome, ambiguous verbiage. The Yeldar theories, Harl had decided, really became whatever an interpreter felt he should make them. Here was a retreat, rather than an advance in philosophy. He knew it would do little good, however, to express this opinion. After all, the old gentleman was almost as confused as Yeldar. He made a few mild criticisms of Yeldar’s writings, complimented the elder on his penetrating analysis, and walked out on the balcony.

  For a few minutes, he looked down at the glittering lights of the city. It spread out in the valley, extending almost to the distant line of rolling hills which outlined themselves darkly against the sky. It was a good city, he knew. Of course, there were inequalities. Progress was uneven. Many people were unable to grow to their fullest capabilities, and others were rewarded far beyond their intrinsic value, but it would grow and mature. The whole civilization would grow, though that growth would be painful at times and violent at others.

  One line of lights stretched out beyond the city, to disappear in the hills. He traced its course, then looked up into the sky. The far away stars twinkled a little near the horizon, then the ones toward zenith became hard, sharp points of light. He picked out the small point which was a great cluster, where space liners crossed between the stars, where small personal ships cut through the void, bearing their owners to distant planets, or perhaps homeward.

  “Homeward,” he murmured. “Some day, maybe.”

  He turned, looking inside. They were dancing, some of them. Others were talking. Still others were crowded around the refreshment tables. He could go in there, mingle with them, join their conversations. They would welcome him. He was accepted, trusted, even respected here. He had made a place for himself in the city of Bardon and in the Menosian nation.

  But he was lonely.

  From the city rose a faint, formless sound, the resultant of all the activities of a busy center of population. It was composed of many things. There were the thuds of heavy machinery, the calls of people, the cries of pets, occasional crashes as something was dropped or broken, but overriding all was the whine of turbo-cars. Day and night, the voice of Bardon was characterized by this whine, which varied in pitch and intensity from hour to hour, but always dominated other noises. Varon looked along the avenues, watching the long lines of moving lights, listening to the throbbing whine, and recalling the pungent smell of exhaust gases. It was, he thought,

  the smell and sound of immature development. He remembered an article he had read, which claimed that the exhausts of turbo-cars and trucks actually raised the temperature of Bardon several degrees above that of the surrounding countryside.

  He leaned over the rail. The heat could be used, the wasted fuel didn’t have to be wasted. The noise could be minimized. Much of the excess heat could be converted to power. Fuel mixtures could be controlled. Simple neutralization would bring quiet to the turbos, and the extraneous field set up by neutralization could be—

  He paused, looking into the sky, then glanced into the ballroom. No, the extraneous field could be dissipated into space. One unit would make very little impression, but thousands could join their screams to span the far reaches. It would be unintelligible, but it would not be ignored. He took a last look at the sky, waved, and turned to re-enter the ballroom.

  For a while, he talked casually to various people, then he walked downstairs.

  The doorman looked up as he approached. “Good evening, Citizen Varon,” he greeted. “Leaving so early?”

  “Yes, I think so. Thought of a way to improve that car of mine, and I think I’ll be at it before I forget.”

  The doorman nodded. “I saw the race today, sir. Too bad your man had that accident. He’d have won otherwise.” He touched a button. “Citizen Varon’s car,” he ordered.

  Varon grinned. “Wait till you see what we do next year,” he prophesied confidently.

  The low sportster pulled up to the door, and Cenro started to get out. Varon waved. “Never mind, Cenro,” he instructed. “Just move over. I’ll take her.” He slid into the seat back of the control rod, closed the door, and pulled back the handle. The car slid smoothly away, emitting a satisfied purr. As he reached the street, Varon paused, then pulled the rod back and to the left. The purr changed to an eager scream as the car sprang around in a curve, then straightened and arrowed down the street.

  Cenro sat back, watching the road for a few minutes, then looked over at Varon, who was sitting in a relaxed position, handling the control with one hand. Occasionally, his left hand darted out to make an adjustment on the
control board. Cenro shook his head wonderingly. How anyone could sense the engine action without checking the gauges, he had never been able to understand. Varon never took his eyes off the road, and never missed an adjustment. When he drove, there was no trail of smoke, no trace of overheating, no skip in the constant scream of the blower and turbine. Cenro had asked about it, but the only answer he had gotten was, “Oh, I just drive by ear, I guess.” He looked back at the street. There was something besides keen hearing involved here, and he knew it.

  The car slowed, then swept into the drive and stopped at the shop entrance. Cenro got out to open the door. Varon put the car away, then came out.

  “Let’s go inside,” lie said.

  Cenro followed him through the living room, into the study, then took the indicated chair and waited. Varon sat down before his desk, then leaned back.

  “Dorn,” he asked, “just how efficient are these turbo-cars?”

  “Why, I don’t know. I always thought they were pretty good.”

  “No, that’s not exactly what I mean. What is the percentage of fuel heat that they actually deliver as road power?”

  Cenro thought for a moment. “I think they’d average out at about sixteen per cent,” he said. “There’s a lot of lost heat.”

  “Suppose we grabbed up another ten per cent or so, and turned it into useful power?”

  Cenro grinned. “Dornath’d be after the patent.”

  Varon nodded. “I think we can do just that,” he announced, reaching for a sheet of paper. “Right now, we’re using a steam turbine for a power source. We blow air in under pressure, the fuel expands as it burns, and we lead the gases through a series of pipes to an exhaust. Somewhere along the line, we use a portion of the heat produced to make steam, which expands and drives a turbine. We then steal a lot of the turbine’s power to drive the blower and pump fuel. What’s left, we use to drive the car. Right?”

  “It figures. But where are we going to save any of it?”

  Harl sketched rapidly. “Gas turbine, right here,” he explained. “Use up the expansion energy of the gases, as well as their heat. The flow’d be something like this.”

  Cenro took the paper, examining it thoughtfully. He sat for a few minutes, thinking, then crossed the room to the bookshelves. Varon watched him silently. The mechanic selected a book, leafed through it, then stopped to read. He looked back at the sketch, then seized a pen and did some rapid figuring. Finally, he looked at his employer.

  “It might work, at that,” he said. “We could drive the auxiliaries with the gas turbine.”

  “Exactly.” Varon nodded. “Maybe with a little power left over. You’re the chief mechanic here. We’ve set up quite a shop by now, so you have something to work with. Work it out, we’ll get a patent, and I think Lord Dornath’ll be very happy to offer you his protection as an independent citizen.” Cenro shook his head. “It’s your idea,” he objected.

  “Not after you get through working on it,” Harl told him. “By that time, it’ll be all yours.” He paused. “Remember, you’ll be doing all the development. I’m just a writer. You’re the engineer on this project.”

  As Cenro went out, Varon nodded to himself slowly. This operation would accomplish several purposes. He reached for more paper.

  “Now,” he told himself, “if I can just remember my sub-etheric theory.” He sketched for a while, humming softly to himself, then leaned back, holding the sheet up and studying it critically. “Yes,” he said, “a good example of undamped Ricora neutralization.” He stood up, putting the papers into a folder.

  The shop was filled with the high-pitched whine of a blower working at maximum. Underlying and accentuating it was the hissing roar of an unmuffled exhaust. As Varon touched his shoulder, Cenro looked around. He closed valves and the exhaust roar died. Slowly, the whine dropped in pitch, becoming a growl, and finally fading as Cenro closed another valve. “How’s it coming, Dorn?”

  “It’s going to work, chief.” Cenro gestured toward the motor on the test block. “Weight power ratio’s down five per cent, and the fuel efficiency’s up twelve per cent. This thing’s going to go!”

  “Wind her up again,” said Varon. “I want to see this.”

  Cenro glanced at the gauges, then cracked a valve. The motor started turning. He opened the fuel valve, punched the igniter button, and waited as the exhaust roar built up. Automatic clutches operated, and the blower whine started rising in pitch. Presently, he pulled the throttle, and as the room filled with noise, engaged the drive to the dynamometer. Varon watched with him as the indicators rose to a constant reading.

  “Starts easier then the old ones, too,” shouted Cenro. “Put in a pressure booster for the starter and some automatics while I was at it.”

  Varon was still checking readings. Finally, he straightened, and drew a finger across his throat. Cenro shut, the machine down, and the din subsided.

  “Noisy, isn’t it?”

  Cenro shrugged. “Just as much racket as any of ’em,” he agreed. “I’ll have to stick on a muffler and some soundproofing in the engine compartment, of course, before we can put it on the road. Lose some power that, way.

  Harl shook his head and gestured with a thumb. “I think I can fix that,” he grinned. “I’ve been fooling around a little, too. Come on over here.”

  He led the way to the small room he had ordered partitioned off. Inside, two small motors were mounted on test stands, side by side. Cenro looked at them curiously. Other than a few unconventional fittings, they looked like ordinary turbo units. Varon walked over to them, going through the starting routine.

  “I thought I’d try neutralizing the sound instead of muffling it,” he explained, pointing to the fittings. “These are for cross connections at various points. Now, listen to the results.”

  The two motors started to build up speed until the room was deafeningly full of the characteristic sound of turbo drives at full load. Varon started crossconnecting the fittings. As he added rods and tubes, and opened valves, the noise changed in character. At first, a throb appeared, then the whine changed, to develop a hesitant, rasping quality. As Varon opened the last valve, the noise suddenly subsided. He fastened a few rods to the exhaust systems, opened more valves, and the motors were virtually silent. A faint hum indicated activity, but the usual whine and roar were gone.

  Cenro looked at the assembly in surprise, then examined the dynamometer. The power had fallen off a little, but not so much as it would have with conventional sound deadening. Curiously, he reached out and felt a few rods and tubes. There was a slight vibration. Varon chuckled a little as he watched.

  “I think I’ve got a new principle,” he commented.

  Cenro was still touching rods and tubes. Finally, he reached to scratch his head. “Yeah,” he agreed, “it’s new, all right. I see it. It works. But I still don’t believe it. What goes on?”

  “Sound neutralization,” he was told. “It seemed like a good idea, so I started playing with it a while ago. I got it to working by rule of thumb, then I started figuring it out. Now, I think I can make it work on any multiple system, and I can explain some of the basic theory so that an engineer can build new equipment, but I still don’t understand all the theory back of the thing.” He picked up an instrument. “The general idea,” he added, “is to phase all the sound from both systems so that they cancel each other without any out-of-phase reinforcement. I found the nodes and peaks with this indicating stethoscope, then I started interconnecting until I got cancellation, “With careful design, a prototype can be built, the thing can be figured for predetermined placements, and silencers can be built in at the factory. I’ll go into the practical design with you, and maybe we can adapt it to work with your new motor. Then, we can put the whole thing in a car that should take the rest of the Association jobs like a sportster taking a miniature family sedan.”

  Cenro smiled wolfishly. “The specialty meet at Noralmo is coming up pretty soon,” he mused. “Chief, if we c
an put this thing into a street sportster, leave on the lights, fenders, and everything, and still mop up that bunch of radicals, we’ll have something.”

  The usual dust and smoke enveloped Dargfor, but the whine and roar was missing. As usual, space was at a premium. Mechanics were busily making their final adjustments, but the cries of the vendors were plainly audible, competing only with one another. As the cars rushed away from the starting line, an Association official strolled over to join Varon and Cenro.

  “You know,” he said, “these new motors of yours are a marvelous piece of engineering, but there’s still one flaw’.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, and I’ve a personal objection, too.” The official gestured around the village. “It’s too quiet,” he added. “That’s the personal objection. The flaw is those neutralizing rods. They’re too short-lived. I’ve never seen one last half a year. The tubes stand up all right, but the rods seem to get brittle and shatter.”

  Varon nodded. “Yes, I know,” he agreed. “Of course, they don’t cost much, and they’re easy to replace, but it is a nuisance, I’ll admit. Cenro and I’ve been working on it for some time now, ever since the first ones gave way. I think we have an answer. We’re trying it out on Number Twelve in this race, and it’s been on the test block for some time.”

  He smiled inwardly. Of course, there was an answer. He had worked that out along with the original sound neutralization, and this was its first public test. Of course the rods were breaking. They were giving up their substance—their very life—to provide power for a sub-etheric disturbance that cried to the stars. He looked at the cars as they came to the top of the ridge. These, and thousands of other turbo-cars were devoting a small percentage of their power to a signal. No one of them would be able to penetrate the reaches of space, but when you considered the thousands of cars using the Cenro-Varon motor, you were contemplating tremendous power. He looked at Number Twelve, the only car in Menosia, and possibly one of the very few on the planet not radiating a screaming signal. The little nullifying crossarms would feed the lost power back into the motors, giving a little more punch to the driving wheels. The nullified silencer bars would outlast the motor, and no one would have any clues to lead him into frustrating research. All that would come later—generations later.