“But . . . but what does this manifestly evil machine do?”
“Isn’t it evident?” The scientist cackled gaily. “It’s designed to conquer the world for me. What else?”
“Of course. What else?”
“It is made of indestructible materials, has wheels, jointed legs, tractor treads, and seven death rays of different frequencies. It draws its energy from a little atomic engine, the size of your thumb nail, which produces about the same potential as Grand Coulee Dam.”
“Remarkable,” said the researcher, looking at his thumb nail.
The machine was, indeed, a sight to inspire dread. Pear- shaped, its gleaming body was topped with bristling, odd-angled radar-like antenna. A few feet above its complex underpinnings was a double row of formidable looking muzzles, pointing in all directions. On one side was a small, push-button switch of insidious portent. Here, in this high vaulted dungeon of an ancient, blood-stained castle, high on a storm- beset mountain, in a small European principality, the effect was incredibly sinister.
The political affairs researcher, unscrupulous as he was, gasped with ill-concealed alarm.
“And what, sir,” he said, “have I to do with all this?”
The scientist’s eyes glittered. “You,” he said, “are to help me organize my conquests into an empire.”
“Good heavens,” the other man said again. “And you have brought me here to this dank dungeon to ask my assistance in a fiendish plot to conquer the world?” His imagination had not as yet assimilated the grandeur of the scheme.
“It’s not dank,” the scientist said, waving his hand impatiently. “This dungeon is quite properly air-conditioned.” And so it was. The mad savant had, in a moment of rare lucidity, equipped his castle cellar with a remarkably efficient air conditioning machine, together with do-it-yourself asphalt tiling, and a portable bar that played “The Last Rose of Summer” when you pressed the hidden button that brought it swinging out from its artful concealment behind a bookcase.
“That’s beside the point,” said the other. “I’m not altogether certain that I approve of your plot. Anyway,” he added primly, “I’m making forty a week where I’m working now.”
The scientist snapped his fingers, with a carefree, yet macabre laugh. “I’ll double it,” he said. “What’s more, I have a beautiful daughter.”
The researcher peeped at the machine out of the corner of his eye. “When do we turn it on?”
“As soon as you work out a campaign for me,” said the other. “I want to assume complete political control with a minimum of fuss and bother. A few days perhaps?”
The researcher stared at him blankly. “Where,” he said, “have you been for the past ten years?”
“Here,” said the scientist, rubbing his hands together, “perfecting my designs. Is something wrong?”
“Well . . . I rather thought you planned to just kill everybody.”
“Everybody?” A new glint flickered momentarily in the madman’s eye and he licked a speculative tongue over his lower lip. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“It would be so much simpler.” The other’s tone was ingratiating.
The scientist thought for a moment, grinning evilly. Then he shook his head, which, I forgot to mention, sat somewhat crookedly upon his shoulders. “No,” he said, “no, I’m afraid not. That way my empire would be a little shabby. Nobody to rule,” he shook his head, “nobody to torture and all that. No, just work out a simple way for me to run things.”
“Hmm,” said the researcher, who was, I also forgot to say, portly, bespectacled, and wearing a gravy-spotted vest “this will take some thought.”
“Well take it,” said the scientist, “but don’t dawdle. I’m getting impatient.” His eyes took on a dreamy look. “I want to have a harem, and a movie made about my life, The Arnspiegle Story—that’s my name, Arnspiegle—starring Larry Parks and with Gordon Macrae’s voice dubbed in. I also want an orchid-colored Rolls-Royce and a pear-shaped swimming pool.”
“That’s reasonable,” said the researcher, “but it’s going to take a little doing.” He frowned. “You’ll have to give me a few days before we start blasting away.”
“If it’s absolutely necessary,” said the mad scientist petulantly, his voice registering his annoyance. He walked over and patted the monstrous machine with affection. “I’m going to have Liberace play at all my weddings,” he murmured.
Two weeks passed while the mad scientist tinkered with his machine, perfecting its lethal powers, and while the shabby political affairs researcher worked in a freshly Kemtoned upstairs chamber, surrounded by political research materials: editorial pages from The Christian Science Monitor, Pravda, and The Boston Evening Transcript. Every evening, glued to the short-wave receiver, with bated breath he listened to Edward R. Murrow.
Finally one day the mad scientist burst in on him, overflowing with impatience. “How’s it going, Alfred?” he asked. The researcher’s name was Alfred.
“Complete political control, did you say?” said Alfred evasively.
“Obviously. As Emperor of the World I have to have some simple central system for tax collection and young-virgin tribute and all. Why?”
“It’s a tougher job than I thought,” mumbled the other. “Or maybe I’m slipping. I used to be able to whip up a foolproof world government between the second and third Martini.” His voice suddenly became pleading. “Look,” he said, “let’s just kill everybody.”
“No,” the scientist said “definitely not. I’ve thought it all out and I’ve decided that it’s all or nothing with me.” He looked shyly at the great map of the world that covered the far wall. “I guess that’s just the kind of a guy I am.”
Two more weeks passed, and this time it was Alfred who came down to see the mad scientist. He found him busily installing a woofer in the far wall, trying obviously, for a greater fidelity on the low notes on his Liberace records.
His eyes lit up with their old evil gleam when he saw Alfred. “Ready?” he asked excitedly.
“Well . . .” Alfred said, “not exactly. I think maybe, while I’m ironing out the last few wrinkles, that there’s some reading you ought to do. You ought to pick up a little background from this Emperor business. You know, administrative problems and all that.”
“Oh.” The mad scientist’s voice was filled with disappointment.
The political researcher took him upstairs, where he presented him with copies of selected works of Marx, Freud, Darwin, Mary Baker Eddy, Veblen, and David Reisman. Also a considerable pile of clippings from Westbrook Pegler, Joseph Alsop and Dr. Brady; biographies of Joseph Stalin, I. V. Lenin, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Bridey Murphy, Mao Tse-Tsung, Mahatma Gandhi, Joseph McCarthy, Chiang Kai-Chek. On top of the pile he placed a copy of The Power Of Positive Thinking. There was also an assortment of books on metaphysics, cybernetics, phrenology, hydrostatics, the Rosicrucians, the destiny of Man, the meaning of history, the meaning of life and the meaning of poetry.
“These will do for a starter,” he said, throwing in a copy of The Reader’s Digest for good measure.
“Hmmm,” said the mad scientist.
Six weeks later a far wiser mad scientist purposively mounted the castle steps to Alfred’s room. He found the portly gentleman beside the short wave set, listening to Gabriel Heatter, a look of abject horror on his face.
“Turn that thing off and come with me!” he commanded. Alfred followed him down to the dungeon. It was dank; the air conditioner had blown a tube. Books, pamphlets, and newspaper clippings were scattered all over the asphalt tile floor. Broken Liberace records lay everywhere. A rat scurried away, into the bowels of the hi-fi set, at their approach.
“Good heavens, man,” said Alfred. “What happened?”
The mad scientist looked at him and laughed a wicked, insane little laugh. “The scales,” he said, “have dropped from my eyes.”
“How’s that?”
“I have become politically enlightened.”<
br />
“It’s about time,” said Alfred. His gambit had paid off.
The mad scientist seemed hardly to hear him. His eyes had become focused sternly on some distant horizon. “I think what the situation calls for is a different approach.”
“Like turning on the machine?”
“Of course not!” The mad scientist’s voice fairly oozed authority. “It’s merely that there seems to be more to this thing —world-government-wise, that is—than I had suspected.” He waved a hand dramatically over the clutter of magazines, books, and badly mimeographed pamphlets that littered the floor. “I’m beginning to see that what you need, Alfred, is a fresh approach. A positive one. A totally new concept. You’ve been too much of a research man—not enough of a creative thinker.”
Alfred began eyeing him suspiciously. “So?” he said.
“I’ve decided that what we need is a middle man. Someone to handle the annoying administrative details.” The mad scientist inserted his thumbs under his suspenders and began rocking back and forth on his heels, still gazing at the unseen horizon. He looked very important. “Why go to all the trouble of setting up a new political machine when there’s one already in existence that is admirably suited to our purpose?”
Alfred began to look uneasy. The mad scientist fished an old fashioned coin purse from his pocket and took out a crumpled wad of bills. “Here,” he said, “go and buy yourself a Homburg. And a briefcase.”
“Well?” said the mad scientist.
“Defeat,” said the disreputable political affairs researcher, dusting his Homburg with the sleeve of his grey flannel suit.
“Did you present my ultimatum to the U.N.?”
“Well, I did finally get in to see the sub-secretary of the sub-secretary of a very important sub-secretariat.”
“Wouldn’t believe you, heh?” The mad scientist bristled angrily and took a step toward the monster. “I think I’ll wipe out Liechtenstein. That’ll show them we mean business!”
“Oh, he believed me all right,” said Albert hastily. “I told him that if the U.N. didn’t do what he wanted, we’d be forced to destroy the world.”
“So?”
“The trouble is I got there a little late. It seems that in the last six months fourteen major powers have delivered the same ultimatum.”
Two days later the mad scientist emerged from his crypt, red-eyed from lack of sleep but with his lips curled in a sneer of cold command. He had been thinking positively and it had paid off.
“The solution is obvious,” he said curtly. “We’ll just back one of the big countries. Shop around and see who’ll make us the best offer.”
When Alfred got back he found the mad scientist waiting impatiently by the drawbridge.
“What was Washington’s offer?”
The disreputable political researcher didn’t answer until they reached the dungeon. When they did, he set down his attaché case and then made a decisive thumbs-down gesture.
“The Secret Weapons Division was so secret that nobody knew where it was. I did finally get in to see the President’s Advisory Council on Weapons for Peace though. They were all very pleasant but they turned me down flat. They pointed out economic implications that we hadn’t realized.”
“Such as?” demanded the mad scientist.
“Well, as they explained it, if they let one little machine take over the whole job, they’d have to abandon the National Defense Effort, and if they gave up the National Defense Effort, they wouldn’t be able to continue Deficit Financing, and without Deficit Financing to Keep the Wheels Turning, there would be Mass Unemployment and Rioting in the Streets.” He took a long pause to get his breath back. “And Rioting in the Streets might reflect on the Present Administration. And the NATO countries don’t want to give up NATO because of discounts and things.”
“Never Say Die,” said the mad scientist, capitalizing without realizing it. “If the “haves’ don’t want us, we’ll just have to try the ‘have nots.’ There must be some little country left somewhere that still has mad dreams of empire—and can’t raise the price of an H-bomb.” He wandered over to the large wall map and eyed it reflectively. Suddenly his face lit up and his forefinger stabbed down on a little purple blotch in the Arabian peninsula.
“Hagistan!” he announced triumphantly. “The last remnant of the Hashishite Empire. Go and kindle the flame of world conquest in the breast of Ibn-ad-Ibn.”
“He didn’t kindle,” announced the disreputable political affairs researcher despairingly, his voice loud against the ominous sound of distant, rumbling thunder. “As a matter of fact, he threw me out.” He dropped his leatherette attaché case in one chair and then dropped himself wearily in another.
“Didn’t kindle”! The mad scientist seemed frantic. “But why?” he said. “Why? Why? He must dream of glory and empire, remembering the blood of ancient desert kings in his veins.”
“Not this one.” Alfred began scraping absently at a gravy spot on his chest. Thunder rumbled again, closer now. “Hagistan is swarming with Homburgs from fourteen major powers, all packers, all packing books of blank checks for Ibn-ad-Ibn to fill in. Each country’s trying to get him on its side so they’ve got a contest going to see who can put in the most indoor plumbing, railroads, post offices, and airfields, who can give away the most Cadillacs to Crown Princes, and who can build the most dams and mix the driest Martinis. It’s what you call Diplomacy.” He shook his head sadly. “All deductible, too. I didn’t have a chance. The delegation from Red China was installing high fidelity in the seraglio when I came in, and Ibn-ad-Ibn was lounging on the ungalah watching them doing it. I gave him a pitch about how he could conquer the world if he tied in with us. You know what he said?”
“How could I?” said the mad scientist sourly. “I wasn’t there.”
“He said, ‘Why shoot Santa Claus?’ I gotta admit I was stumped. He shook his head sadly again. “Why indeed?”
Through all this the mad scientist had been taking on the eerie, macabre look of a man possessed. Lightning now was flashing in abundance, sending weird, unworldly light through the casement, casting strange, half-real shadows on the walls of the dungeon. He turned and began to stare fixedly at the pear-shaped instrument of destruction, that instrument of prodigious lethality that embodied the very quintessence of his own twisted and brilliantly cunning mind.
And then, abruptly, there was a great clap of thunderous lightning, striking, seemingly, from the heart of heaven to the bowels of the very earth, and the whole ancient castle itself groaned with the mighty groan of Lucifer in Hell as the mad scientist began walking, fixedly, like a man in a dream, towards the machine.
Alfred looked aghast. “What are you going to do?”
There was no reply, only the muted distant sound of the now thunderous sea, beating crazily at the jagged base of the cliff, thousands of feet below them.
Alfred rose to his feet. “What are you going to do?” he demanded.
The voice of the mad scientist was soft, but it echoed hollowly in the now silent room. “The only thing that is left to do.” His movements were methodical, as if the whole grisly chain of events had been rehearsed many times for this one, ultimate performance.
Alfred stood frozen in wonder as the scientist unscrewed a plate from the side of the machine and with exquisite care disconnected some wires. Then he pushed a small lever all the way over to the left and replaced the plate. His hand poised itself over a large red button on the side of the machine, a button with the single, terse word ON engraved upon it. He hesitated, and then with a strong movement pushed down.
Instantly, one wall dropped away, revealing a sheer drop seven thousand feet to the sea. Wind and rain whistled into the room, soaking them both. There came a whirring noise from the machine and then the rumbling sound of rubber tires, tractor treads, and metal feet against the asphalt tile. Ponderously the pear-shaped monster rolled up to the now open wall, its muzzles, as always, pointing in all directions. The radar mas
t quivered expectantly.
The diabolical machine rolled through the gap in the wall to the edge of the cliff and stopped, ready to spew instant death out over a defenseless world. It clicked malevolently, and then with a sub-sonic rumble, hurled itself off the cliff into the sea. There was a long moment of silence followed by a breathtaking splash, and then the distant sound of dead fish popping to the surface.
The two men stood quietly for a moment, staring down at the churning water far below, each lost in their own gloomy thoughts. The mad scientist was the first to recover.
“Well,” he said, squaring his thin shoulders, “back to the old drafting board. The next time they can come to me!”
“Have you got an idea for a better model?” Alfred stroked his rain-soaked Homburg wistfully.
“No,” said the mad scientist sanely. “A better mousetrap.”
RADIATION BLUES
Words by Theodore R. Cogswell—Music: “John Henry” variation
Old H - bomb went off last Tues - day, By the
Sec - ond Ounce Sa - loon. There ain’t noth- ing left but the
juke box, And it’s play - ing a, mourn- ful tune, Just keeps on
play – ing _______ Those ra - di - a - don blues.
I’ve been drinking since last Wednesday
And I should be getting high,
But the dehydration’s got me
And all I am is dry.
Can’t get no edge on—got radiation blues.
When the sun went down last evening,
I went walking in the park.
Didn’t mind those busted street lights,
I was glowing in the dark,
Just call me glow-worm—got radiation blues.
Had a wake for Jake the barber,
One long drink and one short prayer.
Went and shot himself this morning,
’Cause the whole town lost it’s hair.
Came out in handfuls—got radiation blues.
Collected Fiction Page 50
