(4/15) The Golden Age of Science Fiction Volume IV: An Anthology of 50 Short Stories

by Various

  "Yes. I do. Wonder what he wants."

  The woman shook her head and returned to her work.

  "He didn't say. Just said to tell you to see him when you came in."

  Stan walked through the short corridor, stopping in front of a door. Down in the corner of the pebbled glass, neat, small letters spelled out the name--H. R. Mauson.

  He tapped on the glass.

  "Come in." The Personnel chief glanced up as the door opened.

  "Oh, Stanley. Sit down."

  Stan lowered himself to the padded seat, then leaned back. It was one of those deep armchairs which invite relaxation.

  The official touched a button, then leaned forward.

  "Tell me, Stanley," he said gently, "what were you doing in the Federation Building a few minutes ago?"

  Stan tried to lift a hand in a casual gesture, but it seemed stuck to the chair. He exerted more force, then twisted his body. But his arms and legs refused to move away from the upholstery. Mauson smiled.

  "Just a little precaution, Stanley. A gravito unit, you see. It may be unnecessary, but you do have a reputation for a certain--shall we say, competence. Although you have never demonstrated your abilities here, I see no reason for taking foolish chances." His smile faded.

  "Now, suppose you tell me all about that visit you made to the Federation Building."

  Stan forced himself to relax. Have to be careful, he thought. He forced a grin to his face.

  "Lunch," he said casually. "The Interstellar Room has a reputation all over Talburg, you know." He laughed easily.

  "Truth is, I got sort of homesick. Got a sudden urge to have a good dish of delsau. It's a sort of preserve we really enjoy at home."

  "Now, now." Mauson closed his eyes. "Try again. You should be able to do better than that." He tapped at some notes.

  "You were assigned to straighten out that man, Sornal, weren't you?"

  "Yes. I was, and I did." Stan found he had enough freedom to move his head. "He was just suffering from--"

  Mauson coughed dryly. "I have a report on that, too. You fed him some tea, talked for a while, then left him."

  Again, he tapped at his notes.

  "Then you came here and demanded the man's Personnel file. You read that and went directly to the Federation Building. Now, I'm not a completely stupid man. Don't try to make me believe you just wanted some exotic food."

  He poked a switch.

  "Wizow, will you step in here, please?"

  "Yes, Mauson?" The blocky production chief loomed through a door.

  He glanced at Stan.

  "Oh. You got him in here, then?"

  "Yes. Oh, he came in by himself. But now, he's trying to be a little coy. Suppose you reason with him."

  "Pleasure."

  Wizow strode forward to stand over the chair. He struck one hand into the palm of the other, twisting his wrist at each blow. For the first time since Stan had known him, he had a faint smile on his face.

  "I don't like you, Graham," he said. "I didn't like you the first time I saw you, and you haven't done a thing to change that first impression.

  "Thought you had something funny about you, the way you've always coddled the workmen. Looked as though you were running some sort of popularity contest." Again, he punched his palm.

  "And then, there were those suggestions of yours. Smart words--always pushing the wrong people off balance, like other staffmen." The smile became one-sided.

  "You know, you haven't made yourself too popular around here. Not with the people that count. I've been getting complaints.

  "A good staffman doesn't act the way you do. Good man sees to it the workers work. They don't have to like him--they just get on the job when he's around. Know what'll happen if they slack off.

  "And a good staffman leaves the thinking to guys that get paid to do it. He follows established procedure."

  He leaned close to Stan, frowning.

  "What are you? Some kind of Federation plant?"

  Abruptly, his right hand flashed out, to crash against Stan's cheek. A heavy finger trailed across one eye, bringing a sudden spurt of tears. The hand moved back, poised for a more solid blow.

  Stan's head bounced back against the chair, then forward again.

  And the diffuse fury in him coalesced and burst into novalike flame. It had a single target. It focused. He glared at the big man.

  "Those hands," he snapped. "Get them to your side!

  "Now, get over into that corner. Move when I tell you!"

  For an instant, Wizow stood immobile. The frown faded, leaving the heavy face empty.

  He tried to raise his hand again, then gave a little sob of hopeless rage and moved back, one slow, reluctant step at a time, until he was wedged into a corner of the room.

  "That's good," Stan told him. "Now stay there. And keep quiet."

  He turned toward Mauson.

  "You. Turn off that gravito unit. Then sit still."

  He pushed himself out of the chair as the constraining force was removed.

  "Now," he growled, "you can kick it in again. Give it a little power, too, while you're at it." He wheeled around.

  "All right," he snapped at Wizow, "turn around. Get into that chair."

  He watched as the big body was pressed into the cushions. Wizow's face showed strain. Stan went around Mauson's desk.

  "I said a little power." He reached down and gave the gravito control an abrupt twist.

  Wizow's mouth popped open, agony showing in his eyes. Stan grinned tightly and eased off on the knob.

  "I really should spin this thing up to a proof load," he said. "Might be interesting to see what kind of an assembly job they did on you. But we'll just leave you this way. All you've got to do is keep quiet. You're deaf, dumb, and blind, you understand?" He turned on Mauson.

  "Now, for you--" His voice trailed off.

  The man was sitting like a puppet whose controlling strings had been cut. Stan's blazing fury started to burn down.

  These minds, he suddenly realized, had been virtually paralyzed. He didn't need anything to tie them down. All he had to do was point his finger. They'd jump. He shook his head.

  "Funny," he told himself. "All you have to do is be a little forceful. Why didn't somebody tell me about this?" He looked calculatingly at Mauson.

  "Tell you what we're gonna do," he said rhythmically. "Get your car over here. You know, the shielded job. We don't want anyone snapping at us with flashers." His voice hardened.

  "Come on," he ordered, "get on that box. Tell 'em you want that car."

  * * * * *

  As the car rolled down the street, he leaned forward a little.

  "All right, driver," he said peremptorily, "when we get to the Federation Building, swing into the official driveway."

  The driver moved his head slightly. Stan sat back, waiting.

  He looked at the building fronts as they swept past. When he'd first come here, he'd noticed the clean beauty of the city. And he's been unable to understand the indefinable warning he'd felt. But now--he'd looked beneath the surface.

  The car slowed. A guard was flagging them down at the building entrance. Stan touched a window control.

  "Stand aside, Guardsman," he ordered. "We're coming in." He flicked the window control again.

  "Keep going, driver," he ordered. "You can let us out inside. Then find a place to park, and wait."

  Another guard came toward them as the car rolled to a stop.

  "Hey," he protested, "this is--"

  Stan looked at him coldly.

  "Which way to the Guard commander's office?"

  The man pointed. "Elevator over there. Fifth floor. But--"

  "I didn't ask for a story. Get our driver into a parking space and keep him there." Stan turned to Mauson.

  "All right. Get out."

  He shepherded the man into the elevator and out again. In the hall, he glanced around, then walked through a doorway.

  A middle-aged guardsman looked at h
im inquiringly.

  "Can I do something for you gentlemen?"

  "Yes. We want to see the commander."

  The guardsman smiled. "Well, now, perhaps--"

  Stan looked at him sternly.

  "I've had my quota of runarounds today. I said we want to see the commander. Now, all you have to do is take us to him. Move!"

  The smile faded. For an instant, the man seemed about to rebel. Then he turned.

  "This way," he said evenly. He led the way through a large room, then tapped at a door on the other side.

  "Yes?"

  The voice was vaguely familiar to Stan. He frowned, trying to place it.

  "Two men to see you, sir. Seems a little urgent."

  "Oh? Well, bring them in."

  Stan relaxed. This was getting easier, he thought. Now he could get these people to take Mauson before a determinator. His statements would furnish plenty of evidence for a full search of Janzel's Personnel files.

  He jerked his head at Mauson.

  "Inside."

  He waited as the man stepped through the door, then followed.

  A slender man was standing behind a wide desk.

  "Well," he said calmly. "Welcome home, Graham. Glad you could make it."

  "Major Michaels!" Stan forgot everything he had planned to say.

  The other smiled. "Let's say Agent Michaels," he corrected. "Special Corpsmen don't have actual Guard rank. Most of us got thrown out of the Academy in the first couple of years."

  He glanced at the guardsman, then flicked a finger out to point at Mauson.

  "Take this down and put it away somewhere till we need it, deSilva. Graham and I have some talking to do."

  "Yes, sir." The middle-aged man turned toward Stan.

  "Congratulations, sir." He jerked a thumb at Mauson.

  "Come on, you. March."

  Michaels held up a hand as Stan opened his mouth.

  "Never mind," he said quietly. "DeSilva is quite capable of handling that one. Take care of three or four more like him if he had to. Pretty good man." He reached for a box on his desk.

  "Here," he said. "Light up. Got a few things to talk about."

  "But I've got--"

  "It can wait. Wall put the whole story on the tape when you were talking to him downstairs. We've been sweating you out."

  "You've been sweating me out? I had to practically force my way up here."

  "That you did." Michaels took a cigarette from the box, started to put it in his mouth, then pointed it at Stan.

  "That's normal procedure. You've heard of the Special Corps for Investigation, I presume?"

  "Yes. But--"

  "Ever think of being a corpsman yourself?"

  "Of course. You know that--we've talked about it. But I never could--"

  "That's right." Michaels waved the cigarette. "We don't have recruiting offices. All our people have to force their way in. Tell me, do you know anything about the history of this planet?"

  Stan clenched his teeth. Somehow, he had lost the initiative in this interview. He took a deep breath.

  "Look," he said decisively, "I--"

  "Later." Michaels shook his head. "You are familiar with this culture by now, then?"

  "Well ... yes. I've read some history ... a little law."

  "Good. Saves me a lot of talk. You know, sometimes we run into a situation that can be corrected by a single, deft stroke. Makes things very pleasant. We send in an agent--or two or six. The necessary gets done, and somebody writes up a nice, neat report." He toyed with the cigarette lighter.

  "But this thing isn't like that. We've got a long, monotonous job of routine plugging to do. We've got to bust a hard-shelled system without hurting too many of the people within it. And we've been at it for a while. We think we've made some progress, but we've still got a lot of snakes to kill.

  "But even bad situations have their good points. At least, this place is a good training ground for probationers."

  "Probationers?"

  "Right. Probationers who don't even know they're being tested." He smiled.

  "People with the qualifications for Senior Agent are hard to get. Most of them are latent--asleep. We can't expect them to walk in--we have to find them. Then we have to wake them up. It can be tricky."

  He lit his cigarette, eying Stan thoughtfully.

  "I suppose you've heard some of the stories that fly around about the Corps. The truth of the matter is, the Senior Agent isn't any superman. He's just a normal human being with a couple of extra quirks."

  He held up a finger.

  "First, he's trouble prone. A nasty situation attracts him much as a flame attracts a moth.

  "There are a lot of people like that. Most of them are always getting themselves clobbered. The agent usually doesn't."

  He held up a second finger.

  "Because he has a compensating ability. When he turns on the pressure, people do just as he tells them--most people, that is." He sighed.

  "That's the latent ability. Sometimes full control is buried so deeply it takes something like a major catastrophe to wake the guy up to the fact he can use it." He smiled wryly.

  "Oh, he pushes people around once in a while--makes 'em uneasy when he's around--makes himself unpopular. But he's got no control. He's got to be awakened."

  "Yes, but--"

  "Uh-uh. It sounds simple, but it isn't." Michaels shook his head.

  "You don't just snap a finger in front of this fellow. You've got to provide him with real trouble. Pile it on him--until he gets so much pressure built up that he snaps himself into action. Makes a place like this useful."

  "I begin to see. You mean all this stuff I've been going through was sort of a glorified alarm clock?"

  "Yes. You could put it that way. That, and a trial assignment as a junior agent. Still want to be a Special Corpsman?"

  Stan looked around the office consideringly, then got to his feet.

  "I stood it without knowing what was going on. Even had a little fun once in a while. Maybe I could learn to like it if I knew what I was doing." He shrugged.

  "What's next?"

  Michaels shoved a stack of papers toward him.

  "Administrative details. You just can't get away from them." He took a pen from his desk.

  "After you sign all these, I'll get a couple of people in here for witnesses while we give you your oath.

  "It's practically painless."

  * * *

  Contents

  THE SCALPEL OF DOOM

  By Ray Cummings

  A doctor is not supposed to use his knowledge to slay.

  Yet there came a time when this small-town medico had to operate with...

  LOTS of things, particularly unpleasant ones, can get crowded into an hour. I've had it happen to me often, but never quite like that hour which began at about midnight, one evening last summer. And I never thought I'd have occasion to kill a man. Every doctor worries that sometime he might make a little mistake, or even just an error of judgment; his patient would die--and the doctor would forever after blame himself. But this wasn't anything like that. I wanted to kill this fellow, and I did. I can't say I'm exactly sorry, but it gives you a queer feeling just the same.

  I was alone in my office, that summer night. I live in a little stucco house near the edge of Pleasant Grove Village, with my office and reception room occupying about half its lower floor. My wife and young daughter were away for a week at the beach. I was alone on the premises, that night at midnight. I'd had quite a tough day at the hospital--two operations, one of which had turned out to be more serious than I had anticipated, and a long steady grind of routine calls that had kept me going until about eleven-thirty. I had just decided to go to bed when a car stopped outside. Hurried footsteps came up the walk; my night bell rang.

  It was a slim, dark-haired young girl. She wore a black, somewhat shabby raincoat and hood. Which struck me as odd, because it was a hot summer night, with a full moon in a cloudless sky.


  "You Dr. Bates?"

  "Yes," I said. "Come in."

  She shook her head. I couldn't see her face very well because of the hood. Her voice was low, agitated. "You got to come, doc," she said. "I got a--a patient. I guess he's hurt bad." She gestured toward the car at the curb. It was a big, black limousine, a really handsome affair. "I'll drive you," she added. "It ain't far. Hurry, doc. Please."

  "A patient?" I said.

  "A patient--for you. He--he's my brother. You'll hurry, won't you?"

  I got my hat and bag. She stood in the doorway. She was trembling. My hall light was on her. She was young, quite pretty--a pale, drawn face framed by bobbed black hair.

  "Somebody hurt?" I said. "An accident? Why didn't you drive him to the hospital? There's one here in Pleasant Grove."

  She backed out of the light into the dimness of my porch. "I couldn't, doc. I'll tell you about that. But please--you gotta hurry--he could die."

  I climbed into the front seat of the car with her and we rolled away, heading north out of Pleasant Grove. She drove swiftly but, it seemed, skillfully.

  "Where is he?" I said.

  "Over near Palenburg. I'll bring you back, doc. You--do your best for him, won't you, doc?"

  "Of course," I said. The factory town of Palenburg was about ten miles north. "There are doctors in Palenburg," I said. "A hospital, too. Why didn't you--?"

  "I couldn't. He's--in the--a place in the woods."

  * * *

  AT THE crossroads, we turned west. I knew this region pretty well. The country west of Palenburg is unusually wild--wooded hills with hardly a house. The girl drove grimly, silently. The front seat was dark, with just the glow reflected from the lighted instruments of the panel. Beside me, on the inside of the right-hand door, there was a plush pouch. On impulse I reached into it.

  A pair of man's gloves--handsome chamois skin--were in it. And a few letters. I glanced at one. It was addressed: George J. Livingston, The Oakes, Palenburg.

  I put the things back. "What's your name?" I said.

  "Jenny Dolan."

  "You work for Mr. Livingston? Is that it?"

  She turned her head, flashed me a startled glance. "Mr.--who?" Then she looked frightened, sullen.

  "Or maybe you just borrowed his car?" I said. "Look, Jenny, hadn't you better tell me all about this?"