Off The Main Sequence

by Robert A. Heinlein

  The thing was drawn in and in. The ungrown stumps of its legs folded against its thick torso.

  The head ducked down against the chest to escape the unrelenting pressure. For a single instant it gathered its enormous perverted power and fought back. Joan was disconcerted, momentarily nauseated, by the backwash of evil.

  But Howe withstood it without change of expression; the sphere shrank again. The eyeless skull split. At once, the sphere shrank to the least possible dimension.

  A twenty-inch ball hung in the air, a ball whose repulsive superficial details did not invite examination.

  Howe held the harmless, disgusting mess in place with a fraction of his mind, and inquired — “Are you all right, my dear?"

  — “Yes, Senior. Master Ling helped me once when I needed it."

  — “That I anticipated. Now for the others." Speaking aloud he said, “Which do you prefer: To join your leader, or to forget what you know?" He grasped air with his fingers and made a squeezing gesture.

  The man with the cigar screamed.

  “I take that to be an answer," said Howe. “Very well, Joan, pass them to me, one at a time."

  He operated subtly on their minds, smoothing out the patterns of colloidal gradients established by their corporal experience.

  A few minutes later the room contained four sane, but infant adults — and a gory mess on the rug.

  Coburn stepped into a room to which he had not been invited.

  “School’s out, boys," he announced cheerfully. He pointed a finger at one occupant. “That goes for you." Flame crackled from his finger tip, lapped over his adversary. “Yes, and for you." The flames spouted forth a second time. “And for you." A third received his final cleansing.

  Brother Artemis, “God’s Angry Man," faced the television pick — up. “And if these things be not true," he thundered, “then may the Lord strike me down dead!"

  The coroner’s verdict of heart failure did not fully account for the charred condition of his remains.

  A political rally adjourned early because the principal speaker failed to show up. An anonymous beggar was found collapsed over his pencils and chewing gum. A director of nineteen major corporations caused his secretary to have hysterics by breaking off in the midst of dictating to converse with the empty air before lapsing into cheerful idiocy. A celebrated stereo and television star disappeared. Obituary stories were hastily dug out and completed for seven members of Congress, several judges, and two governors.

  The usual evening sing at Camp Mark Twain took place that night without the presence of Camp Director Moulton. He was attending a full conference of the adepts, assembled all in the flesh for the first time in many years.

  Joan looked around as she entered the hall. “Where is Master Ling?" she inquired of Howe.

  He studied her face for a moment. For the first time since she had first met him nearly two years before she thought he seemed momentarily at a loss. My dear," he said gently, “you must have realized that Master Ling remained with us, not for his own benefit, but for ours. The crisis for which he waited has been met; the rest of the work we must do alone."

  A hand went to her throat. “You — you mean — ?"

  “He was very old and very weary. He had kept his heart beating, his body functioning, by continuous control for these past forty-odd years."

  “But why did he not renew and regenerate?"

  “He did not wish it. We could not expect him to remain here indefinitely after he had grown up."

  “No." She bit her trembling lip. “No. That is true. We are children and he has other things to do — but — Oh, Ling! Ling! Master Ling!" She buried her head on Howe’s shoulder.

  — “Why are you weeping, Little Flower?"

  Her head jerked up. — “Master Ling!"

  — “Can that not be which has been? Is there past or future? Have you learned my lessons so poorly? Am I not now with you, as always?"

  She felt in the thought the vibrant timeless merriment, the gusto for living which was the hallmark of the gentle Chinese. With a part of her mind she squeezed Howe’s hand. “Sorry," she said. “I was wrong." She relaxed as Ling had taught her, let her consciousness flow in the revery which encompasses time in a single deathless now.

  Howe, seeing that she was at peace, turned his attention to the meeting.

  He reached out with his mind and gathered them together into the telepathic network of full conference.. — “I think that you all know why we meet," he thought. — “I have served my time; we enter another and more active period when other qualities than mine are needed. I have called you to consider and pass on my selection of a successor."

  Huxley was finding the thought messages curiously difficult to follow. I must be exhausted from the effort, he thought to himself.

  But Howe was thinking aloud again. — “So be it; we are agreed." He looked at Huxley. “Philip, will you accept the trust?"

  “What?!!"

  “You are Senior now — by common consent"

  “But … but — I am not ready."

  “We think so," answered Howe evenly. “Your talents are needed now. You will grow under responsibility."

  — “Chin up, pal!" It was Coburn, in private message.

  — “It’s all right, Phil." Joan, that time.

  For an instant he seemed to hear Ling’s dry chuckle, his calm acceptance.

  “I will try!" he answered.

  On the last day of camp Joan sat with Mrs. Draper on a terrace of the Home on Shasta, overlooking the valley. She sighed. Mrs. Draper looked up from her knitting and smiled. “Are you sad that the camp is over?"

  “Oh, no! I’m glad it is."

  “What is it, then?"

  “I was just thinking … we go to all this effort and trouble to put on this camp. Then we have to fight to keep it safe. Tomorrow those boys go home — then they must be watched, each one of them, while they grow strong enough to protect themselves against all the evil things there are still in the world. Next year there will be another crop of boys, and then another, and then another. Isn’t there any end to it?"

  “Certainly there is an end to it. Don’t you remember, in the ancient records, what became of the elders? When we have done what there is for us to do here, we move on to where there is more to do. The human race was not meant to stay here forever."

  “It still seems endless."

  “It does, when you think of it that way, my dear. The way to make it seem short and interesting is to think about what you are going to do next. For example, what are you going to do next?"

  “Me?" Joan looked perplexed. Her face cleared, “Why … why I’m going to get married!"

  “I thought so." Mrs. Draper’s needles clicked away.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “— and the Truth Shall Make You Free!"

  The globe still swung around the sun. The seasons came and the seasons went. The sun still shone on the mountainsides, the hills were green, and the valleys lush. The river sought the bosom of the sea, then rode the cloud, and found the hills as rain. The cattle cropped in the brown plains, the fox stalked the hare through the brush. The tides answered the sway of the moon, and the gulls picked at the wet sand in the wake of the tide. The earth was fair and the earth was full; it teemed with life, swarmed with life, overflowed with life — a stream in spate.

  Nowhere was man. Seek the high hills; search him in the plains. Hunt for his spoor in the green jungles; call for him; shout for him. Follow where he has been in the bowels of the earth; plumb the dim deeps of the sea.

  Man is gone; his house stands empty; the door open.

  A great ape, with a brain too big for his need and a spirit that troubled him, left his tribe and sought the quiet of the high place that lay above the jungle.

  He climbed it, hour after hour, urged on by a need that he half understood. He reached a resting place, high above the green trees of his home, higher than any of his tribe had ever climbed. There he found a broad flat s
tone, warm in the sun. He lay down upon it and slept. But his sleep was troubled. He dreamed strange dreams, unlike anything he knew. They woke him and left him with an aching head.

  It would be many generations before one of his line could understand what was left there by those who had departed.

  “My Object All Sublime"

  Future, February 1942

  as by Lyle Monroe

  The city editor tells me to go to Seventh and Spring.

  “There’s a story there," he says. “Go down and check it."

  “What kind?"

  “They say it smells."

  “Why shouldn’t it?" I told him. “Columbia Bank on once corner, Fidelity-First National on the other, and the City Hall and the Daily Tide building just down the street."

  “Wise guy," he answers. “I mean a real smell — like yourself."

  Dobbs is all right — with him it’s stomach ulcers and matrimony. “What’s the sketch?" I asked, ignoring the crack.

  “Seems like it ain’t safe to drive a car through that intersection," he answered seriously. “You come out smelling like a telephone booth. Find out why."

  I eased down there and looked the situation over. Nothing I could put my finger on, but a general air of nervousness and uncertainty. Now and then I’d catch a whiff of something, some ancient rottenness. It put me in mind of the morgue, again it was more like a Chinese river boat. When something happened that gave me a lead —

  A truck came charging through as the lights were changing. He had time to stop, but didn’t — and just missed a feeble old gal in the crosswalk. There was a sharp “fsss"; the truck driver got a look of agonized surprise, and wipes at his eyes. As he passed me I smelled it.

  No mistake this time — it stunk like a convention of pole kitties, with prizes for range and distance.

  The truck wobbled along for a few yards, then double-parked on the car tracks. I came alongside. “What happened, Buddy?" I asked the driver, but he is too far gone with choking and gasping. I left, not wanting the perfume to soak into my clothes.

  I went back to the corner, having an idea and wanting to check it. In the next thirty minutes seventeen drivers did things I didn’t like, bulling their way through left turns, jumping signals, ignoring pedestrians, and the like. And every one of them gets dosed with eau de cologne. Usually with the sound of a hiss just before it happened.

  I was beginning to plot a curve, as it were, when I leaned up against a postal storage box on the corner. “Oh, excuse me!" comes this polite voice in my ear.

  “No harm done, chum," I answered, and looked around. Nobody near me, nobody at all.

  The stuff a leg-man drinks has to be cheap, but I was sure I hadn’t gotten any quite that green. I considered it, then moved my hand toward the box. I encountered something in the air about a foot over the box and grabbed. There was a smothered gasp, then silence.

  I waited, then said very soft, “Well, Cagliostro, it seems to be your move." No answer. I clamped down on the chunk of breeze and twisted it. “Well?"

  “Oh, dear!" comes this same mild little voice. “You seem to have captured me. What shall I do?"

  I thought. “We can’t stand here playing statues. People would talk. There’s a beer joint just around the corner. If I let you go, will you meet me there?"

  “Oh, yes, indeed," I’m answered, “anything to get out of this predicament."

  “No tricks now," I warned. “Fail to show up and I’ll have them search for you with a paint spray gun. That’ll put a stop to your fun games."

  “Oh, no!" empty air assures me, and I let go.

  I had killed a bottle of suds in the joint in question when this mousy little bird shows up. He glanced nervously around, came up to my booth and gulped at me.

  “Are you," I asked incredulously, “Cagliostro?"

  He gulped again and nodded.

  “Well, I’ll be a — skip it. Draw up a chair. Beer?"

  He fidgeted. “Uh, might I have a little Bourbon whiskey?"

  “You know best, Pop." I fingered the waiter. “Joe, bring this gentleman some eight-year-old Kentucky." When Joe got back Caspar Milquetoast took a tumbler, poured four fingers in it, and drank it, swallowing steadily. Then he sighed.

  “I feel better," he announced. “My heart, you know."

  “Yes, I know," I agreed. “I hated to upset you, but it’s in the interest of science."

  His face lit up. “You are a student of science, too? In what field, pray tell?"

  “Mob psychology," I told him. “I’m a reporter for the Graphic."

  He seemed upset at once, so I calmed him. “Take it easy. We’ll make it off the record for the moment and talk about a story later." He relaxes a little and I continued, “Right now I’m curios on my own account. I figure you had something to do with the gymkhana around the corner on Spring — not to mention finding you holed up in a slice of air. Come clean, professor."

  “But I am not a professor," he protests in that same diffident voice, after tucking away another four fingers of corn. “I am a private research student in spectroscopy. My name is Cuthbert Higgins."

  “Okay, Cuthbert. Mine’s Carter. Call me Cleve. Let’s get to it. What is it? Mirrors?"

  “Not precisely. It may be hard to explain to a layman. Are you versed in advanced mathematics? The use of tensors, for example?"

  “I was doing all right," I said, “up to improper fractions. Do they come after that?"

  “I am, uh, afraid so."

  “Okay," I told him, “I’ll hang on where I can."

  “Very well," he agreed, “you are familiar with the gross phenomena associated with seeing. Light strikes an object, is reflected or refracted by it to the eye, where it is interpreted as sight. The only ordinary substance which reflects or refracts so little as to be invisible is air."

  “Sure."

  “For a number of reasons it is difficult to change the optical characteristics of the human body to the point where it would match air and be invisible. But there remains two possibilities: To bend the light rays around the body is one way. The other is psychological invisibility."

  “Huh?" I demanded. “Come again. Do you mean hypnosis?"

  “Not at all," he told me. “Invisibility by suggestion is a common phenomenon … a stock in trade of stage magicians. They suggest that an object in plain sight is not in plain sight, and surely enough, it is not."

  I nodded. “I catch. Thurston used to do that in his levitation stunt. The frame that supports the gal is in plain sight, but the audience never sees it. I never saw it until it was pointed out to me, then I couldn’t see why in the hell I hadn’t seen it."

  Higgins nodded happily. “Exactly. The eye ignores what is actually there and the brain fills in the background. Lots of people have that quality. Good detectives. Pickpockets. I have it myself — that is what got me interested in the problem of invisibility."

  “Slow up!" I said. “Don’t sit there and tell me that I didn’t see you a while ago simply because you are inconspicuous. Dammit, I looked through you."

  “Not quite," he corrected. “You looked around me."

  “How?"

  “By application of the laws of optics."

  “Listen," I said, slightly irked, “I’m not quite as ignorant as I made out. I never heard of any optical laws that would fit."

  “It does," he conceded, “involve certain advances of my own. The principle is similar to total reflection. I throw a prolate ellipsoid field around my body. Light strikes the screen at any point, runs on the surface of the field for a hundred and eight degrees, and departs at the antipodal point with its direction and intensity unchanged. In effect, it makes a detour around me."

  “It sounds simple," I commented, “but I don’t think I could build one."

  “It is hard to make it clearer without recourse to higher mathematics," he apologized, “but perhaps I can give a somewhat analogous example with prisms and mirrors. When a ray of light strikes a surface, it m
ay be reflected through twice the angle of incidence or refracted through the angle of refraction, thusly —" and he started to sketch on the menu. “When an optical system in arranged in this fashion —" He sketched a sort of daisy chain of mirrors and prisms “— a beam of light striking the system at any point 'A’ and at any angle 'theta,’ will be reflected and refracted around the system to point 'A prime,; and exit at angle theta. So you see —"

  “Skip it," I cut in. “I can see that it gallops half way around and heads out in the same direction; the rest is over my head. All right, that clears up half the mystery, but how about that reign of terror in the traffic?"

  “Oh, that." He gives me a silly grin and hauls out a gat as long as my foot.

  I don’t like that look in his eyes. “Put that thing down!" I yelled.

  He does so reluctantly. “I don’t see why you should make such a fuss," he protests. “It’s not dangerous — not very. It’s just a squirt gun."

  “Huh?" I looked at it more closely. “Pardon My I.Q., Cuthbert. I begin to see the sketch. What’s it got in it?"

  His face lit up. “Synthetic essence mephitis — skunk juice!"

  “Mmm …"

  “Hmmm!"

  “It was a by-product of an attempt to find a synthetic base for perfume," he explained. “No real use, but I had made up quite a supply for experimental purposes —"

  “And squirting it on traffic is our idea of a joke."

  “Oh, no! For years I have been incensed — as who hadn’t? — at the reckless drivers that infest our city. It would never have occurred to me that I might do anything about it myself, had I not heard a less inhibited victim refer to one of these loutish persons as 'stinking’ — along with less repeatable things. It brought a whimsical thought to mind — would it not be a capital jest to make dangerous drivers smell physically the way they already smelled spiritually. At first the project seemed impractical; then I recalled the invisibility apparatus which had been gathering dust in my laboratory for ten years."

  “What!" I demanded. “You mean to say you’ve had this gadget for years and have not used it?"