Earth Unaware

by Mack Reynolds

  Ed Wonder closed his eyes in mute appeal to high powers. “Oh, great. This is a new one. This hex is selective. Anything Tubber doesn’t like, becomes jibberish. Anything he approves of, we can still read. Holy smokes, talk about censorship. I thought I noticed something about that page of comic strips.”

  “What was that?” Buzz asked him.

  “I could still read Pogo. Buzz Sawyer, Junior and Little Orphan Annie were jibberish, but I could still read Pogo.”

  Professor Braithgale took up the newspaper. “You’re right,” he said. “At least our prophet has a sense of humor.”

  “Oh, Mother,” Helen muttered. “All I can say is that we’d better develop one too.”

  Hopkins said, slowly, “Mr. Wonder, when your group entered this office, I was admittedly prone to think you just one more set of the eccentrics we have been digging up since the crisis first arose. Now, however, this has developed to the point where no scientific explanation seems possible. I am ready to throw this commission’s full resources behind you.”

  “Behind me?” Ed blurted. “Why me?”

  The president’s right hand man was not fazed. “Because you are our nearest thing to an authority on Ezekiel Joshua Tubber. You were present at three of his, ummm, performances. Besides, as the director of your Far Out Hour, I am sure you are highly knowledgeable in the field of the, ah, far out. And certainly this is about as far out as it is possible to get.”

  “But…” Ed wailed.

  Dwight Hopkins held up a hand. “I do not mean to suggest that your hypothesis—that Ezekiel Tubber has caused our crisis by a series of curses—is the only one my commission will continue to investigate. Far from it. However, we will set up a new department with you at the head and with full resources.”

  “No,” Ed said with finality.

  Buzz looked at him strangely. He said around his stogie, “You haven’t said yet, what’s in it for me? Little Ed.”

  Ed Wonder turned on him desperately, “I know what’s in it for me. Sure I was present at three of his performances, as Hopkins calls them. I’ve seen the old buzzard three times and each time the results were worse. What do you think will happen next time? He’s getting arrogant…”

  “Getting arrogant?” Braithgale laughed bitterly.

  “…He’s beginning to feel his oats.” Ed swung on Hopkins. “He started off innocent. Not knowing what he was doing. Evidently, one of his first curses was brought on by some teenager practicing hillbilly music on his guitar. Tubber broke the guitar strings…”

  “What’s miraculous about that?” the general rumbled.

  “…at a distance. Then there was something else that brought him to wrath, as his daughter calls it. A neon sign, or something. So he laid a curse on it. What happened, I don’t know. Maybe it stopped flickering.”

  From the background Colonel Williams said, “I wish he’d lay a hex on the neon sign across from my house. The darn thing…”

  General Crew looked at him and the colonel shut up.

  Ed said desperately, “When he laid that Homespun Look hex on women, he didn’t know he had done it. Evidently when he gets really wrathed up, he forgets what he says. He was astonished when I told him he’d cursed radio. As surprised as anybody else that it’d worked. But look at this now. He’s cursed all light reading. All fiction—except what he likes. Listen, I’ll bet you he wasn’t even sore when he laid that one on.”

  Dwight Hopkins frowned. “I’m becoming more convinced by the moment,” he said. “And Wonder, you’re our man.”

  “I am not. I keep telling you. This kook is as nutty as almond cookies. Suppose he spots me and is reminded all over again of some of the arguments I’ve had with him, remembers that hardly anybody’ll listen to him. Suppose he gets wrathful again and lays down a hex on all unbelievers. You know what that’d mean? He doesn’t have more than a couple of hundred believers all together. I tell you, that twitch is more dangerous than the H-Bomb.”

  General Crew said thoughtfully, “A sniper. The best marksman in the service. Posted on a hill, with a Winchester Noiseless and a Mark 8 telescopic sight. This Elysium, from what De Kemp has said, is in the hills. A small community, away from any city. A sniper…”

  Buzz grinned at him. “And how about this possibility, General? Suppose something goes wrong and Zeke lays a spell on gunpowder? Better still, all explosives? What would happen to the Cold War thaw if all of a sudden no explosives would work?”

  The general scowled at him. “The curses are universal. In that case, explosives wouldn’t work for the Commies, either.”

  Buzz took his stogie from his mouth and examined the tip, which was burning unevenly. “They wouldn’t need explosives,” he said. “The Chinese alone could overrun us with butcher knives made in those backyard steel mills of theirs.”

  Helen said, “Besides, assassination is out of the question. Actually, like Buzz was saying the other day, Tubber is a kindly old gent who just happens…”

  “Kindly old gent,” Ed muttered bitterly.

  “…to have some powers we simply don’t understand. He isn’t seem to understand them either. Very well. I think Little Ed should go and confront him. There’s nothing to suggest he has anything against Ed personally. Besides, he dotes on that daughter of his and she has a crush on Little Ed.”

  Silence dropped. All eyes went to Ed Wonder.

  Ed lowered his lids in utter suffering. “That’s a lie!” he wailed.

  “Buzz?” Helen said.

  Buzz De Kemp had been trying to get his stogie to burn straight. Now he nodded and said with a twang, “Yep, right as rain. Nice curvy little wench, blue eyeballs, cheeks shiny as red apples, set up real nice. Any sapsucker can see there’s nothing better she’d like to do than spoon with Little Ed Wonder.”

  “Oh, great,” Ed moaned. “Funnies.”

  Dwight Hopkins said, “Wonder, I’ll have an office and staff assigned to you.”

  “No,” Ed said.

  Dwight Hopkins looked at him deliberately. “I can pick up this phone, Mr. Wonder and in moments have a presidential order drafting you into the armed forces. In which case you will be under the orders of General Crew, here, and will do as you are told.”

  Ed muttered, “The old army volunteer system. You, you, and you.”

  The general beamed at him.

  Ed surrendered. “All right,” he said. “How about another drink?”

  For approximately thirty of his thirty-three years, Edward Wonder had wanted to be a big executive. He had wanted it so badly he could taste it distinctly. To the extent possible in a stratified, stagnant society he had worked to that end. He had been raised in the folklore of his people including that wheeze about any citizen of the welfare state being just as good as any other citizen of the United Welfare States and with an equal chance of working his way up to the presidency, or wherever. Unfortunately, he discovered that it’s hard working one’s way up, when there is precious little work to do, and the overwhelming majority displaced by automation. Those who did still maintain jobs, and hence had higher incomes than those on the unemployment lists, clung to them. Cherished them with a bitter jealousy, and to the extent possible passed them on to progeny, relatives, or at least friends.

  No. As he had grown older, it had become increasingly obvious just how small a chance Ed Wonder had of ever becoming a big executive with underlings to do his bidding, telephones and intercoms in which to snap his profound orders. In fact, at the time of his first confronting of Ezekiel Joshua Tubber, he had about decided that his sole chance was going to be through marriage with Helen Fontaine.

  But now he was a big executive.

  And Helen Fontaine was one of his assistants.

  So was Buzz De Kemp, and Ed was acquiring more assistants by the minute. In fact, he was swamped with them and couldn’t remember the names of a fraction.

  Dwight Hopkins’ promise of resources couldn’t have been more highly fulfilled. Within a quarter hour, Ed Wonder had been as
signed a suite of offices. Within the hour, his staff was moving in. Among others were Mr. Yardborough, whose first name turned out to be Cecil, and Bill Oppenheimer and Major Leonard Davis. Two of the leg men were Johnson and Stevens, and Ed’s liaison man with Dwight Hopkins was Colonel Fredric Williams. Hopkins had decided that Project Tubber should be on the ultra-hush side, in view of its nature, and assigned to it anyone who had already anything to do with Wonder’s investigation. Had the story broken in the newspapers, Hopkins suspected even his gilt-edge reputation wouldn’t have been done any good.

  Ed stared gloomily at his desk screen.

  He hadn’t the vaguest idea where to begin. In his files were nothing more than his own report on Tubber, Buzz’s report and that of Helen Fontaine. It was no use looking at them. He knew everything covered. Which was precious little.

  He flicked the screen to life and cleared his throat. “Miss… ah—” He had forgotten his receptionist’s name.

  “Randy, sir. Randy Everett.”

  Ed looked at her and sighed. “Randy, on you the Homespun Look is unfortunate.”

  “Well, yes sir. But to tell you the truth, if I wear cosmetics…”

  “You itch.”

  Her eyes widened. “How did you know?”

  “I’m a crystal gazer,” Ed told her. “Look, send in Mr. De Kemp.” He flicked off the intercom. It was his first act as head of Project Tubber.

  Buzz came shambling in, stogie at the tilt. He looked about the office appreciatively and whistled softly between his teeth. “So, at long last Little Ed Wonder is a big shot. Work hard, save your money, and vote straight Democratic Republican and you too can get to the top. Shucks, you didn’t even have to marry the boss’ daughter.”

  “Shut up,” Ed told him, “or I’ll get General Crew to draft you into the service.” He grunted at the picture. “Buzzo De Kemp, the sloppiest yardbird in the army.”

  “Jollies we get,” Buzz said, dropping into a chair.

  “Listen, Buzzo,” Ed said. “What do I do first?”

  Buzz looked at the tip of his stogie critically, then let his eyes go around the office in thought. “We might go about finding out what a curse is. The next time we—you, that is, I’m going to be A.W.O.L. at that point—the next time you go up against Tubber, it’d be better if you had some ammunition.”

  “A curse? Everybody knows what a curse is.”

  “So fine. What?”

  Ed thought about it. He flicked his desk switch. “Major Davis, please.” Lenny Davis’ face appeared in the screen.

  “Yes, sir.” The major wasn’t yet quite used to having as his chief the man he’d been interrogating and considering throwing out of the office but a day previously.

  Ed said, “We want to find out just what a curse is. Send in some scientists who know what curses are.”

  The major looked at him blankly. “What kind of scientists know what a curse is, sir?”

  “How would I know?” Ed told him curtly. He flicked off the set.

  Buzz De Kemp was impressed.

  Ed said, “What do we do now?”

  “Have lunch,” Buzz told him. “We ought to pick up Helen. What’s Helen doing?”

  “She’s in charge of the Homespun Look department,” Ed said. “She’s going to find out everything possible about the Homespun Look.”

  Buzz looked at the end of his stogie. “That’s a good idea. You got some scientists working with her?”

  Ed Wonder pursed his lips. “No. You’re right. If we’ve got unlimited resources, we better use them. The devil only knows how much time we’ve got before Tubber goes into his act again.” He flicked on his desk switch. “Major Davis.”

  The major’s face was even slightly more harassed than it had been the evening before, Ed decided. The major said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Lenny,” Ed told him, “send up a few scientists to Miss Fontaine’s office. We want to know what it is that makes women itch.”

  The major opened his mouth, shook his head, and closed it again. “Yes, sir.”

  When the army man’s face had faded from the screen, Buzz looked at it thoughtfully. “You know,” he said, “I don’t think the major is going to last very long. He’s already getting sort of a greenish look around the gills.”

  Ed Wonder stood up. “There’s more where he came from,” he said.

  When they got back from lunch and crossed the outer offices of Ed Wonder’s suite, he could only notice that they’d moved in another score or so of staff, and a selection of I.B.M. machines complete with operators and files of punched cards. Ed wondered vaguely what they were going to use them for. Possibly nothing. Dwight Hopkins probably just wanted them to be handy and ready, just in case a use for them did come up.

  Randy, his receptionist, said, “Professor McCord is waiting in your office, Mr. Wonder.”

  “Who the devil is Professor McCord?”

  “Major Davis sent him, sir.”

  “Oh. He’s probably an expert on either hexes or itching, then.”

  After Ed and Buzz had entered the inner office, Randy Everett looked after them for a long frustrated moment, somewhat as though she had put her last dime in a pay telephone and got the wrong number.

  Professor McCord came to his feet at their entry. They went through the usual banalities, finally winding up seated.

  Professor McCord said, “I was picked up by two security officers and rushed here to your office. I submit that although I am available for my country’s service, I haven’t the vaguest idea of…”

  Ed said, “What are you a professor of?”

  “Ethnology, specializing in the African Bantu tribes.”

  Buzz said, selecting a fresh stogie from his jacket pocket. “The major is sharper than I thought he was. Professor, what is a curse?”

  The other’s eyes came around to the newspaperman. “You mean is the sense that a witchman might curse someone?” When the two nodded, he went on. “It is the expression of a wish that evil befall another. A calling down of something wicked, harmful on some victim.”

  “Well, that’s not exactly the word, possibly,” Ed Wonder said. “Possibly the word I want is spell, or hex.”

  The professor obviously hadn’t the vaguest idea of what they wanted of him. He said, “A spell is usually a combination of words, or pretended words, supposed to accomplish something magical. The term, if I’m not mistaken, is derived from the Old English. A hex is much the same thing, an act of witchcraft. It is American idiom, originally derived from the Germanic.” The professor was frowning puzzlement.

  So were both Ed Wonder and Buzz De Kemp.

  Ed said, “I know, I know. But I didn’t want just definitions. Now, take one of your Bantu witchdoctors. He puts a spell on somebody, usually because somebody else paid him to do it, right? Okay. Just what does he do?”

  Professor McCord looked at him blankly.

  Buzz said, “How does he go about it? How is it accomplished?”

  The professor said, “Well, in actuality, each witchman will have a different procedure. Usually an elaborate mumbo-jumbo involving unusual ingredients to stir together, and an incantation involving magical words.”

  Ed leaned forward. “We know that. But, what we wanted to know was, just what is a curse? You know, what is it…?”

  The professor blinked at him.

  “What we’re trying to do is find out what a curse, a hex, a spell really is.”

  “Why, I just told you.”

  They looked at each other for a long unprofitable moment. Finally, he said. “Do you believe in the devil? You know, Lucifer?”

  “No. What has that got to do…”

  “Or black magic?”

  “I don’t believe in any kind of magic.”

  Ed had him. He pointed a finger. “Then how come a witchdoctor can cast a spell on somebody? Don’t tell me they can’t. Too much evidence exists.”

  “Oh,” Professor McCord nodded. “I see what you’re driving at, at last. Do you know wh
at a liban is? I took my doctorate in their study.”

  “I thought on my kooky Far Out Hour I’d heard of everything in this line, but evidently not.”

  The ethnologist’s face took on a pleased expression. “The libans are such a vital part of African witchcraft that I’m amazed they are known so little. A liban isn’t exactly a witch-man, since he’s born into the caste and can’t enter into it from outside. They’re just a handful of families, not numerous. He’s the Eminence grise in the tribe and they wouldn’t dare do anything without his advice. For instance, if the warriors are going out on a raid, he lets them know whether or not it’s going to be a success, gives them little bags of sacred dust, or some such, to tie to their daggers. What I wish to impart is that the liban is not a fake. His position is hereditary, comes down for a thousand years and more. Believe me, if a liban puts a curse on a tribesman, the curse works.”

  “How?” Buzz said flatly.

  The professor looked at him. “Because everybody involved knows it will work. The victim, the liban, and all the other members of the tribe.”

  It was the same sort of answer Ed had got from Varley Dee. It accomplished nothing. The fact of the matter was, hardly anybody, of all the billions of persons involved, even knew that Ezekiel Joshua Tubber existed, not to speak of knowing he was laying hexes right and left.

  Buzz said to Ed, “What’s all this about libans got to do with Tubber?”

  “Tubber?” Professor McCord said. “Tubber who?”

  “Ezekiel Joshua Tubber,” Ed said wearily. “You wouldn’t know about him.”

  “You mean Josh Tubber?” McCord said. “Academecian Ezekiel Joshua Tubber?”

  “Academecian?” Buzz said.

  “Josh was taking his academecian degree in political economy while I was studying for my doctorate,” McCord said. “A surpassing scholar.”

  Ed Wonder closed his eyes in mute appeal to the higher up.

  But Buzz said quickly, “Then you knew him when he was younger. Look, at that time did he have any ideas about starting, say, a new religion? A religion with a lot of socio-economic angles?”

  Ed said, “More important, did he ever say anything to you about an ability, a power to curse things? To put a spell on, well, ha ha, say TV?”