by Various
"Do you have anything to add, sir?"
The deputy shook his head. "No," he said thoughtfully. "I think the demonstration was adequate. He cast a quizzical look at Bond, then looked around the room.
"You gentlemen will find a supply of these devices in the outer office. You may draw one for each person you wish outfitted. If any of you have further questions, I would suggest you get in touch with Community Research. They understand this thing." He waved toward the door. "This meeting is adjourned."
He watched as the men filed from the room, then turned on Bond.
* * * * *
"What was that business after you took off your headband?" he demanded. "I received you perfectly, and so did practically everyone here. Why the apology?"
Bond grimaced. "We found out something peculiar while we were making preliminary tests on this device, sir," he explained. "Some people don't seem to be able to pick up clear thoughts with it, unless another person uses the mentacom to drive in to them. Most of us can pick up thoughts from anyone we look at, whether they have a band on or not. Definite, surface thoughts, that is."
"And?" The deputy's expression was still questioning. He reached up to point at the band he was still wearing. "I'm getting some mighty peculiar secondary thoughts right now," he added.
"And the people who can't use the device fully have other peculiarities, sir. I'd rather not go into detail. You can find out the whole story for yourself with a very short bit of experimentation, and you have a subject right at hand. If I simply told you, you probably wouldn't believe me anyway."
The deputy nodded slowly. "For the moment," he said, "I'll take your words--and your thoughts--as true. Now, one more question: Can a person, using one of these things, successfully lie to another person who wears one?"
"No, sir." Bond was positive. "It's impossible."
"I got that impression. Thanks." The deputy turned and walked out of the door. Bond looked after him, a slight smile growing on his lips.
"Old Man wanted 'em," he told himself. "He's got 'em."
* * * * *
The Fiscal chief glanced through the letter in his hands, then canted his head a little and read again. He lowered it to his desk, then sat for a moment, to stare into space. Finally, he looked down once more.
Central Coördination Agency Office of the Comptroller
CCA 7.338 21 July, 2012
To: District Leader District Twelve Region Nine
Attn.: Fiscal Chief
Subject: Mental Communicator
1. It has been brought to the attention of this office that a product known as the "Consolidated Mental Communicator" is being manufactured in District Twelve, Region Nine, and offered for sale as a luxury item.
2. The characteristics of this device have been investigated by the Technical Division, Central Coördination Agency, and it has been found that the device does in fact permit communication between persons by telepathic or some similar means.
3. This device is presently being offered for sale in retail luxury stores throughout the nation. The volume of sales and of potential sales warrants distribution of the manufacturing load to manufacturers other than the Consolidated Electronics Company, who, it is understood, presently hold an exclusive manufacturing agreement with the office of the District Leader, District Twelve, Region Nine. This arrangement is inconsistent with the sales and use potential of the device in question.
4. The agreement between District Twelve, Region Nine, and the Consolidated Electronics Company will be forwarded immediately to this headquarters for consideration. It is contemplated that this agreement will be terminated and replaced by a manufacturing license from the Products Division, Central Coördinating Agency, who will further license other manufacturers to produce this device.
By Command of Chief Coördinator Gorman
KELLER Comptroller MRK/pem
The Fiscal chief shook his head. This one spelled trouble--in capitals. The royalty payments from Consolidated had become one of the major sources of income for the district. And Morely had ordered project after project, using those funds to pay for them. Some of the projects were still outstanding. The Old Man would blow his top.
He looked again at the small scrap of paper which was clipped to the letter. On it was scrawled: "DeVore--See me--HRM."
For a moment, DeVore considered using his own mentacom, then he discarded the idea. To be sure, the leader had insisted that his subordinates use the devices for their own communications, and he'd cut Fixed Communications to the bone. But he still insisted on either communicator calls or personal contact when he wished to talk to any of his people. And he discouraged any but essential use of the communicator system, generally demanding that people come in to see him.
DeVore wrinkled his face disgustedly. It was hard to communicate with the district leader by means of a headband. There was a repellent characteristic about the man's mental emanations, and he seemed to fail to comprehend nuances of meaning. Similes, he ignored completely. Thoughts had to be completely and clearly detailed, then phrased into normal, basic wordage before he would acknowledge them. None of the short-cuts used by other members of the administrative staff seemed to work out in his case. He apparently didn't notice visualizations, and he never made one. His transmission was as stiff and labored as the type of communication he required from others--more so, if anything. DeVore scratched his neck.
"How," he asked himself, "does one define a telepathic monotone?"
There were a few others with whom DeVore had experienced similar difficulties, but most people, he had found, picked up meanings and concepts without difficulty--even seemed to anticipate at times. And since the new induction mentacoms had come on the market, with the annoying contacts and headstraps removed, virtually everyone seemed to be either in possession of one of the devices, or about to get one. And, they were worn everywhere.
He smiled as he thought of the young father-to-be, who had bored through the evening traffic rush yesterday. The youngster had been so intent on getting his wife to the hospital that he'd probably failed to see half the ships that clawed out of his way. And his visualization had been almost painfully clear. He'd probably be apologizing for weeks to everyone he contacted.
DeVore straightened in his chair. What would happen, he wondered, if the leader ever ran into one of those situations?
"Yipe!" he muttered. "What a row that would be."
He shrugged, got out of his chair, and walked out into the corridor.
"Better get it over with," he told himself.
* * * * *
As he approached the leader's door, it opened, and Ward Kirk came out. He closed the door with a careful gentleness, then faced it for an instant. DeVore was conscious of a wave of hopeless fury, and a fleeting glimpse of Morely's face, framed by brilliant flame. Then, Kirk faced around and saw him.
"Careful," DeVore thought. "You're broadcasting. He'll pick you up."
Kirk grimaced and DeVore saw a faint image of a tyrannosaur, which reared up, jaws agape. Blood dripped from the human figure gripped in the creature's talons.
"The old ... wouldn't understand if he did."
DeVore grinned. "See what you mean. Well, guess I'm the next victim."
He stepped to the door and tapped.
"Come in."
Morely looked up as his Fiscal Chief entered, then swept some papers aside. "Well, what do you want?"
DeVore held out the letter. "You wanted to see me, sir, about this." He placed the paper within the reach of his superior, who snatched at it, held it up for a moment, then dropped it to his desk.
"Yes, I did. What can we do about it?"
"Why," DeVore spread his hands slightly, "we'll have to comply."
"That isn't what I meant, Idiot! How can we continue to receive the payments from Consolidated?"
"I don't think we can, sir. If Central Coördinating wants to put the device on a national basis, we can't do anything about it."
Morely looked d
own at the letter, then glared searchingly at DeVore. "The way I read this," he declared, "they want to distribute manufacturing rights on the communicator to plants in other regions than this. Right?"
"Yes, sir."
"But they don't say anything about our continuing the Consolidated payments on an overwrite basis, for the sale of devices they may make. Now, do they?"
"No, sir. But that's implied. In cases like this, Central always takes over all rights." DeVore hesitated. "I believe regulations--"
"I don't care what's implied, DeVore. And I don't care what you believe. All I see is what's in this letter. They want to distribute the manufacturing load, and I'm quite willing that they should. I want to continue receiving the payments from Consolidated. Now, you arrange it so that they're satisfied and I'm satisfied."
"But that'll mean Consolidated will have to pay double. We can't--"
"Don't say 'can't' to me!" Morely held up a hand angrily. "DeVore, I'm not going to tell you how to do this. I want it done. The details are your affair, and if I have to teach you your business, I'll get someone who can do things without having to have them spelled out to him." He leaned back, to glare at DeVore.
"Now, get on the job. I told you to make arrangements for me so that we will retain our payments from Consolidated. And I'm not interested in what arrangements you make with them, or what arrangements they make with Central. Is that a simple enough order for you to understand?"
"Yes, sir. I understand all right. But--"
"Good! I'm glad I managed to get at least one simple idea into your head." The spring in the chair twanged as Morely came forward, to poke his head at DeVore. "Now, get to work on it."
He jerked his head down for a quick look at the letter on his desk, then looked up again.
"And I'll expect a report from you by tonight that you've got the matter taken care of."
DeVore looked at his superior expressionless for a heartbeat. He had been given peculiar orders before, and he'd always managed to work out the problems involved. But this was the ultimate. This one seemed to be just plain illegal. And there was no point in arguing further. There was just the barest chance that there might be some legitimate way out. If he challenged the Old Man on an illegal order, he just might get his ears pinned back. He'd simply have to go back to his office and try to hunt out a technicality. He nodded.
"Yes, sir. I'll get on it immediately."
He saluted and started to leave the office. But he didn't make it.
"And, DeVore!"
The Fiscal chief halted abruptly, and turned.
"Sir?"
"I'm getting tired of the negative thinking you people seem to have fallen into lately. I'm sick of going into every routine detail with you. When you got that letter, you should have immediately worked out a method of retaining the royalties. Then, you could have come in and presented it for my approval. That is the kind of work I want. And that's the kind of work I mean to get in the future. Do you understand?"
Sternly, DeVore suppressed a sarcastic thought. He held his mind and face blank and nodded with a semblance of respect.
"Yes, sir."
"Very well." Morely waved a hand. "Now get something done."
* * * * *
As DeVore walked through the corridor, he thought over the situation. Of course, the easy way out would be to force Consolidated to continue the payments in addition to their license fees from Central. That could be done. There were all kinds of methods by which pressure could be brought to bear on any company by the district leader's office. And from Consolidated's point of view, double payments could offer a cheap means of keeping out of difficulties. They would be able to pass most of the cost to the consumer by a slight price increase, justified by a minor modification of the devices.
But they wouldn't be happy about it, and there would come a day when an auditing team from Central would be checking in the district. And that would be the day of days!
DeVore turned in at the door to his own office, crossed the room, and sat down at his desk.
To be sure, he could request a share of the fees from Central, and they'd make an award. But they'd never award more than fifty per cent, and it'd be hard to get that much. That was no good. The Old Man would want the same payments he'd been getting.
Or, he could try to negotiate a new agreement with Consolidated, double the royalties, and then request fifty per cent from Central. He grinned wryly. That would be within legal limits, he was sure, but Central knew the present arrangement, and he knew that they knew. And so would most of the interested manufacturers in other regions. The first-class citizens who owned the plants had their own liaison. They'd all balk. Then, Central would invalidate both old and new agreements and refuse compensation of any kind to district. That would be a suicidal course.
He looked up, thinking of one of the girls out in the legal crew.
"Fiscal regulations, please. And Markowitz on royalties, too."
The girl turned half around, and he could see a faint impression of her view of office details. Then, she went to a book rack. For a few seconds, she glanced over the books, then selected two large volumes.
"Shall I look it up, or do you want the books?"
"I'll take them. Might need quite a bit of research."
Shortly, the girl appeared in his doorway. Quickly, she laid the two volumes on his desk.
DeVore nodded his thanks and opened regulations. Some of the paragraphs were delightfully vague, and could be subject to more than one interpretation. But one paragraph was clear and explicit. And that was the one he was concerned with.
A royalty agreement with, or manufacturing license from Central Coördination definitely abrogated any agreement with, or payment to, any lesser headquarters. Such an agreement or license barred any further negotiation between any lesser headquarters and a manufacturer, relating to the product concerned. Double royalties were prohibited in any case.
He pushed the books aside. There was no need of looking in Markowitz. That regulation paragraph took care of this exact situation, and disposed of it neatly. For an instant, he thought of taking the volume in to the leader's office. Then, he remembered the threatening note in the authoritative voice and the flat, deadly thoughts he had noted as secondaries.
That wouldn't work either. He thought of the undercurrent in Kirk's thoughts. Kirk had been carrying a regulation book, he remembered. He contacted the Fixed Communications chief.
"Don't," he was told. "I tried it. Know what happened?"
"Go ahead."
"He got the regional director on the communicator. I've been transferred to Outpost. They seem to need a cable maintenance chief up there. And I was lucky at that. I started to protest, and they nearly had me for insubordination." Abruptly, Kirk cut away.
* * * * *
DeVore stared unseeingly across the desk. He'd been at Outpost for a short time once, on an inspection trip, and he still remembered the place. At one time, it had been a well supplied, well organized post. At that time, observational duty had been regarded more highly than now, and the place had been desirable for any single officer, though the married men had objected to being separated from their families by the many miles of frozen waste. But that had changed.
Now, Outpost was the end of the line. The dilapidated surface quarters offered poor protection from the fierce cold. Supply ships were rarely scheduled to the place, and were often held up by storms when they were scheduled. Half rations--even quarter rations--were commonplace. He shook his head. Kirk was in real trouble, and there would be no point in joining him. That would help neither of them.
This, he thought, was a situation. Then, he realized something else. From Morely's point of view, it was a perfectly safe situation, with nothing to lose. The district leader could easily disclaim any responsibility for his Fiscal chief's actions in this matter. After all, he hadn't given any detailed instructions. He had made no direct suggestion of any illegal course. He'd merely consulted his Fiscal expert
on a technical matter, and if DeVore had seen fit to use an illegal method of solving a problem, it was DeVore's responsibility alone.
To be sure, Morely had been a little emphatic in his order, but that was simply because he was well aware of his Fiscal chief's disinclination to make exhaustive technical research.
DeVore pursed his lips and looked thoughtfully at the regulation book. He might be able to use the same tactic Morely was following--if he were so inclined. He could issue verbal instructions to the sector leader concerned, and Bond might fail to see the trap. Then, he could report to the leader that the matter was taken care of, indorse the letter back to Central, with the agreement copy, and let Bond turn in funds under one of the "miscellaneous received" accounts. In fact, he realized, that was just about what the district leader expected him to do.
He smiled and shook his head. A few months ago, it was possible he could have done that, but even then, he wouldn't have. And now, with the mental communicators in use, it would be a flat impossibility. The trap would be as obvious to Bond as it had been to him. He leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingertips against each other.
The mentacoms, he knew, were in common use by this time, in virtually every office of district, regional, and national administration, as well as by most citizens. And he'd served under Marko Keller once--known him fairly well, too. He shrugged.
It would be a little irregular for a district Fiscal chief to make direct contact with the Coördination Agency's comptroller, but there was nothing like getting the most expert and authoritative advice available. He relaxed, trying to recreate his memories of the man who was now National Comptroller.
* * * * *
Marko Keller strode purposefully into the filing section. He could easily get the data he needed by simply contacting one of the clerks, he knew, but he felt an urgent need for personal activity. That conversation with DeVore, way out in Region Nine, had upset him more than he liked to admit, even to himself.
It wouldn't be so bad if it were an isolated incident. Such things could be taken care of by administrative action, and a single instance would cause little disturbance. But there were too many, happening too often. He pulled a file drawer open, violently.
