“That sounds good. But whatever you do, play it on the soft side. My confidential informant tells me that the only reason we’re getting this inside info is because Malcom Porter is sore about the way our competition treated him four years ago.”
“Just who is this confidential informant, anyway, Ole?” Elshawe asked curiously.
Winstein grinned widely. “It’s supposed to be very confidential. I don’t want it to get any further than you.”
“Sure not. Since when am I a blabbermouth? Who is it?”
“Malcom Porter.”
Two days later, Terrence Elshawe was sitting in the front seat of a big station wagon, watching the scenery go by and listening to the driver talk as the machine tooled its way out of Silver City, New Mexico, and headed up into the Mogollon Mountains.
“Was a time, not too long back,” the driver was saying, “when a man couldn’t get up into this part of the country ’thout a pack mule. Still places y’can’t, but the boss had t’ have a road built up to the ranch so’s he could bring in all that heavy equipment. Reckon one of these days the Mogollons ’ll be so civilized and full a people that a fella might as well live in New York.”
Elshawe, who hadn’t seen another human being for fifteen minutes, felt that the predicted overcrowding was still some time off.
“’Course,” the driver went on, “I reckon folks have t’ live some place, but I never could see why human bein’s are so all-fired determined to bunch theirselves up so thick together that they can’t hardly move—like a bunch of sheep in a snowstorm. It don’t make sense to me. Does it to you, Mr. Skinner?”
That last was addressed to the other passenger, an elderly man who was sitting in the seat behind Elshawe.
“I guess it’s pretty much a matter of taste, Bill,” Mr. Skinner said in a soft voice.
“I reckon,” Bill said, in a tone that implied that anyone whose tastes were so bad that he wanted to live in the city was an object of pity who probably needed psychiatric treatment. He was silent for a moment, in obvious commiseration with his less fortunate fellows.
Elshawe took the opportunity to try to get a word in. The chunky Westerner had picked him up at the airport, along with Mr. Samuel Skinner, who had come in on the same plane with Elshawe, and, after introducing himself as Bill Rodriguez, he had kept up a steady stream of chatter ever since. Elshawe didn’t feel he should take a chance on passing up the sudden silence.
“By the way; has Mr. Porter applied to the Government for permission to test his…uh…his ship, yet?”
Bill Rodriguez didn’t take his eyes off the winding road. “Well, now, I don’t rightly know, Mr. Elshawe. Y’see, I just work on the ranch up there. I don’t have a doggone thing to do with the lab’r’tory at all—’cept to keep the fence in good shape so’s the stock don’t get into the lab’r’tory area. If Mr. Porter wants me to know somethin’, he tells me, an’ if he don’t, why, I don’t reckon it’s any a my business.”
“I see,” said Elshawe. And that shuts me up, he thought to himself. He took out his pipe and began to fill it in silence.
“How’s everything out in Los Angeles, Mr. Skinner?” Rodriguez asked the passenger in back. “Haven’t seen you in quite a spell.”
Elshawe listened to the conversation between the two with half an ear and smoked his pipe wordlessly.
He had spent the previous day getting all the information he could on Malcom Porter, and the information hadn’t been dull by any means.
Porter had been born in New York in 1949, which made him just barely thirty-three. His father, Vanneman Porter, had been an oddball in his own way, too. The Porters of New York didn’t quite date back to the time of Peter Stuyvesant, but they had been around long enough to acquire the feeling that the twenty-four dollars that had been paid for Manhattan Island had come out of the family exchequer. Just as the Vanderbilts looked upon the Rockefellers as newcomers, so the Porters looked on the Vanderbilts.
For generations, it had been tacitly conceded that a young Porter gentleman had only three courses of action open to him when it came time for him to choose his vocation in life. He could join the firm of Porter & Sons on Wall Street, or he could join some other respectable business or banking enterprise, or he could take up the Law. (Corporation law, of course—never criminal law.) For those few who felt that the business world was not for them, there was a fourth alternative—studying for the priesthood of the Episcopal Church. Anything else was unheard of.
So it had been somewhat of a shock to Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton Porter when their only son, Vanneman, had announced that he intended to study physics at M.I.T. But they gave their permission; they were quite certain that the dear boy would “come to his senses” and join the firm after he had been graduated. He was, after all, the only one to carry on the family name and manage the family holdings.
But Vanneman Porter not only stuck to his guns and went on to a Ph.D.; he compounded his delinquency by marrying a pretty, sweet, but not overly bright girl named Mary Kelley.
Malcom Porter was their son.
When Malcom was ten years old, both his parents were killed in a smashup on the New Jersey Turnpike, and the child went to live with his widowed grandmother, Mrs. Hamilton Porter.
Terry Elshawe had gathered that young Malcom Porter’s life had not been exactly idyllic from that point on. Grandmother Porter hadn’t approved of her son’s marriage, and she seemed to have felt that she must do everything in her power to help her grandson overcome the handicap of having nonaristocratic blood in his veins.
Elshawe wasn’t sure in his own mind whether environment or heredity had been the deciding factor in Malcom Porter’s subsequent life, but he had a hunch that the two had been acting synergistically. It was likely that the radical change in his way of life after his tenth year had as much to do with his behavior as the possibility that the undeniably brilliant mental characteristics of the Porter family had been modified by the genes of the pretty but scatter-brained wife of Vanneman Porter.
Three times, only his grandmother’s influence kept him from being expelled from the exclusive prep school she had enrolled him in, and his final grades were nothing to mention in polite society, much less boast about.
In her own way, the old lady was trying to do her best for him, but she had found it difficult to understand her own son, and his deviations from the Porter norm had been slight in comparison with those of his son. When the time came for Malcom to enter college, Grandmother Porter was at a total loss as to what to do. With his record, it was unlikely that any law school would take him unless he showed tremendous improvement in his pre-law courses. And unless that improvement was a general one, not only as far as his studies were concerned, but in his handling of his personal life, it would be commercial suicide to put him in any position of trust with Porter & Sons. It wasn’t that he was dishonest; he simply couldn’t be trusted to do anything properly. He had a tendency to follow his own whims and ignore everybody else.
The idea of his entering the clergy was never even considered.
It came almost as a relief to the old woman when Malcom announced that he was going to study physics, as his father had done.
The relief didn’t last long. By the time Malcom was in his sophomore year, he was apparently convinced that his instructors were dunderheads to the last man. That, Elshawe thought, was probably not unusual among college students, but Malcom Porter made the mistake of telling them about it.
One of the professors with whom Elshawe had talked had said: “He acted as though he owned the college. That, I think, was what was his trouble in his studies; he wasn’t really stupid, and he wasn’t as lazy as some said, but he didn’t want to be bothered with anything that he didn’t enjoy. The experiments he liked, for instance, were the showy, spectacular ones. He built himself a Tesla coil, and a table with hidden AC electromagnets in it that would make a metal plate float in the air. But when it came to nucleonics, he was bored. Anything less than a thermonuclear bom
b wasn’t any fun.”
The trouble was that he called his instructors stupid and dull for being interested in “commonplace stuff,” and it infuriated him to be forced to study such “junk.”
As a result, he managed to get himself booted out of college toward the end of his junior year. And that was the end of his formal education.
Six months after that, his grandmother died. Although she had married into the Porter family, she was fiercely proud of the name; she had been born a Van Courtland, so she knew what family pride was. And the realization that Malcom was the last of the Porters—and a failure—was more than she could bear. The coronary attack she suffered should have been cured in a week, but the best medico-surgical techniques on Earth can’t help a woman who doesn’t want to live.
Her will showed exactly what she thought of Malcom Porter. The Porter holdings were placed in trust. Malcom was to have the earnings, but he had no voice whatever in control of the principal until he was fifty years of age.
Instead of being angry, Malcom was perfectly happy. He had an income that exceeded a million dollars before taxes, and didn’t need to worry about the dull details of making money. He formed a small corporation of his own, Porter Research Associates, and financed it with his own money. It ran deep in the red, but Porter didn’t mind; Porter Research Associates was a hobby, not a business, and running at a deficit saved him plenty in taxes.
By the time he was twenty-five, he was known as a crackpot. He had a motley crew of technicians and scientists working for him—some with Ph.D.’s, some with a trade-school education. The personnel turnover in that little group was on a par with the turnover of patients in a maternity ward, at least as far as genuine scientists were concerned. Porter concocted theories and hypotheses out of cobwebs and became furious with anyone who tried to tear them down. If evidence came up that would tend to show that one of his pet theories was utter hogwash, he’d come up with an ad hoc explanation which showed that this particular bit of evidence was an exception. He insisted that “the basis of science lies in the experimental evidence, not in the pronouncements of authorities,” which meant that any recourse to the theories of Einstein, Pauli, Dirac, Bohr, or Fermi was as silly as quoting Aristotle, Plato, or St. Thomas Aquinas. The only authority he would accept was Malcom Porter.
Nobody who had had any training in science could work long with a man like that, even if the pay had been high, which it wasn’t. The only people who could stick with him were the skilled workers—the welders, tool-and-die men, electricians, and junior engineers, who didn’t care much about theories as long as they got the work done. They listened respectfully to what Porter had to say and then built the gadgets he told them to build. If the gadgets didn’t work the way Porter expected them to, Porter would fuss and fidget with them until he got tired of them, then he would junk them and try something else. He never blamed a technician who had followed orders. Since the salaries he paid were proportional to the man’s “ability and loyalty”—judged, of course, by Porter’s own standards—he soon had a group of technician-artisans who knew that their personal security rested with Malcom Porter, and that personal loyalty was more important than the ability to utilize the scientific method.
Not everything that Porter had done was a one-hundred-per cent failure. He had managed to come up with a few basic improvements, patented them, and licensed them out to various manufacturers. But these were purely an accidental by-product. Malcom Porter was interested in “basic research” and not much else, it seemed.
He had written papers and books, but they had been uniformly rejected by the scientific journals, and those he had had published himself were on a par with the writings of Immanuel Velikovsky and George Adamski.
And now he was going to shoot a rocket—or whatever it was—to the moon. Well, Elshawe thought, if it went off as scheduled, it would at least be worth watching. Elshawe was a rocket buff; he’d watched a dozen or more moon shots in his life—everything from the automatic supply-carriers to the three-man passenger rockets that added to the personnel of Moon Base One—and he never tired of watching the bellowing monsters climb up skywards on their white-hot pillars of flame.
And if nothing happened, Elshawe decided, he’d at least get a laugh out of the whole episode.
After nearly two hours of driving, Bill Rodriguez finally turned off the main road onto an asphalt road that climbed steeply into the pine forest that surrounded it. A sign said: Double Horseshoe Ranch—Private Road—No Trespassing.
Elshawe had always thought of a ranch as a huge spread of flat prairie land full of cattle and gun-toting cowpokes on horseback; a mountainside full of sheep just didn’t fit into that picture.
After a half mile or so, the station wagon came to a high metal-mesh fence that blocked the road. On the big gate, another sign proclaimed that the area beyond was private property and that trespassers would be prosecuted.
Bill Rodriguez stopped the car, got out, and walked over to the gate. He pressed a button in one of the metal gateposts and said, “Ed? This’s Bill. I got Mr. Skinner and that New York reporter with me.”
After a slight pause, there was a metallic click, and the gate swung open. Rodriguez came back to the car, got in, and drove on through the gate. Elshawe twisted his head to watch the big gate swing shut behind them.
After another ten minutes, Rodriguez swung off the road onto another side road, and ten minutes after that the station wagon went over a small rise and headed down into a small valley. In the middle of it, shining like bright aluminum in the sun, was a vessel.
Now I know Porter is nuts, Elshawe thought wryly.
Because the vessel, whatever it was, was parallel to the ground, looking like the fuselage of a stratojet, minus wings and tail, sitting on its landing gear. Nowhere was there any sign of a launching pad, with its gantries and cranes and jet baffles. Nor was there any sign of a rocket motor on the vessel itself.
As the station wagon approached the cluster of buildings a hundred yards this side of the machine, Elshawe realized with shock that the thing was a stripped-down stratojet—an old Grumman Supernova, circa 1970.
“Well, Elijah got there by sitting in an iron chair and throwing a magnet out in front of himself,” Elshawe said, “so what the hell.”
“What?” Rodriguez asked blankly.
“Nothing; just thinking out loud. Sorry.”
Behind Elshawe, Mr. Skinner chuckled softly, but said nothing.
When the station wagon pulled up next to one of the cluster of white prefab buildings, Malcom Porter himself stepped out of the wide door and walked toward them.
Elshawe recognized the man from his pictures—tall, wide-shouldered, dark-haired, and almost handsome, he didn’t look much like a wild-eyed crackpot. He greeted Rodriguez and Skinner rather peremptorily, but he smiled broadly and held out his hand to Elshawe.
“Mr. Elshawe? I’m Malcom Porter.” His grip was firm and friendly. “I’m glad to see you. Glad you could make it.”
“Glad to be here, Dr. Porter,” Elshawe said in his best manner. “It’s quite a privilege.” He knew that Porter liked to be called “Doctor”; all his subordinates called him that.
But, surprisingly, Porter said: “Not ‘Doctor,’ Mr. Elshawe; just ‘Mister.’ My boys like to call me ‘Doctor,’ but it’s sort of a nickname. I don’t have a degree, and I don’t claim one. I don’t want the public thinking I’m claiming to be something I’m not.”
“I understand, Mr. Porter.”
Bill Rodriguez’s voice broke in. “Where do you want me to put all this stuff, Doc?” He had unloaded Elshawe’s baggage from the station wagon and set it carefully on the ground. Skinner picked up his single suitcase and looked at Porter inquiringly.
“My usual room, Malcom?”
“Yeah. Sure, Sam; sure.” As Skinner walked off toward one of the other buildings, Porter said: “Quite a load of baggage you have there, Mr. Elshawe. Recording equipment?”
“Most of it,” the re
porter admitted. “Recording TV cameras, 16mm movie cameras, tape recorders, 35mm still cameras—the works. I wanted to get good coverage, and if you’ve got any men that you won’t be using during the take-off, I’d like to borrow them to help me operate this stuff.”
“Certainly; certainly. Come on, Bill, let’s get this stuff over to Mr. Elshawe’s suite.”
* * * *
The suite consisted of three rooms, all very nicely appointed for a place as far out in the wilderness as this. When Elshawe got his equipment stowed away, Porter invited him to come out and take a look at his pride and joy.
“The first real spaceship, Elshawe,” he said energetically. “The first real spaceship. The rocket is no more a spaceship than a rowboat is an ocean-going vessel.” He gestured toward the sleek, shining, metal ship. “Of course, it’s only a pilot model, you might say. I don’t have hundreds of millions of dollars to spend; I had to make do with what I could afford. That’s an old Grumman Supernova stratojet. I got it fairly cheap because I told ’em I didn’t want the engines or the wings or the tail assembly.
“But she’ll do the job, all right. Isn’t she a beauty?”
Elshawe had his small pocket recorder going; he might as well get all this down. “Mr. Porter,” he asked carefully, “just how does this vessel propel itself? I understand that, at the trial, it was said that you claimed it was an antigravity device, but that you denied it.”
“Those idiots!” Porter exploded angrily. “Nobody understood what I was talking about because they wouldn’t listen! Antigravity! Pfui! When they learned how to harness electricity, did they call it anti-electricity? When they built the first atomic reactor, did they call it anti-atomic energy? A rocket works against gravity, but they don’t call that antigravity, do they? My device works with gravity, not against it.”
“What sort of device is it?” Elshawe asked.
“I call it the Gravito-Inertial Differential Polarizer,” Porter said importantly.
Elshawe was trying to frame his next question when Porter said: “I know the name doesn’t tell you much, but then, names never do, do they? You know what a transformer does, but what does the name by itself convey? Nothing, unless you know what it does in the first place. A cyclotron cycles something, but what? A broadcaster casts something abroad—what? And how?”
The Randall Garrett Megapack Page 42
