The Early Asimov. Volume 2

by Isaac Asimov

  Harvey stifled a grin, and conversation languished.

  The door-signal snapped Harvey out of his reverie and George Carter out of his chair at the same instant. The professor pressed the desk-button and the door opened.

  The figure on the threshold crossed into the room and then stopped. The twin brothers faced each other.

  It was a tense, breathless moment, and Professor Harvey sank into his soft chair, put his finger-tips together and watched keenly.

  The two stood stiffly erect, ten feet apart, neither making a move to lessen the distance. They made a curious contrast - a contrast all the more marked because of the vast similarity between the two.

  Eyes of frozen blue gazed deep into eyes of frozen blue. Each saw a long, straight nose over full, red lips pressed firmly together. The high cheekbones were as prominent in one as in the other, the jutting, angular chin as square. There was even the same, odd half-cock of one eyebrow in twin expressions of absorbed, part-quizzical interest.

  But with the face, all resemblance ended. Allen Carter's clothes bore the New York stamp on every square inch. From his loose blouse, past his dark purple knee breeches, salmon-colored cellulite stockings, down to the glistening sandals on his feet, he stood a living embodiment of latest Terrestrial fashion.

  For a fleeting moment, George Carter was conscious of a feeling of ungainliness as he stood there in his tight-sleeved, close-necked shirt of Ganymedan linen. His unbuttoned vest and his voluminous trousers with their ends tucked into high-laced, heavy-soled boots were clumsy and provincial. Even he felt it - for just a moment.

  From his sleeve-pocket Allen removed a cigarette case - it was the first move either of the brothers had made - opened it, withdrew a slender cylinder of paper-covered tobacco that spontaneously glowed into life at the first puff.

  George hesitated a fraction of a second and his subsequent action was almost one of defiance. His hand plunged into his inner vest pocket and drew therefrom the green, shriveled form of a cigar made of Ganymedan greenleaf. A match flared into flame upon his thumbnail and for a long moment, he matched, puff for puff, the cigarette of his brother.

  And then Allen laughed - a queer, high-pitched laugh, 'Your eyes are a little closer together, I think.'

  'Rackon 'tis, maybe. Y'r hair's fixed sort o' different.' There was faint disapproval in his voice. Allen's hand went selfconsciously to his long, light-brown hair, carefully curled at the ends, while his eyes flickered over the carelessly-bound queue into which the other's equally long hair was drawn.

  'I suppose we'll have to get used to each other. - I'm willing to try.' The Earth twin was advancing now, hand outstretched.

  George smiled, 'Y' bet. 'At goes here, too.'

  The hands met and gripped.

  'Y'r name's All'n, huh?' said George.

  'And yours is George, isn't it?' answered Allen.

  And then for a long while they said nothing more. They just looked - and smiled as they strove to bridge the twenty-five year gap that separated them.

  George Carter's impersonal gaze swept over the carpet of low-growing purple blooms that stretched in plot-path bordered squares into the misty distance of the caverns. The newspapers and feature writers might rhapsodize over the 'Fungus Gold' of Mars - about the purified extracts, in yields of ounces to acres of blooms, that had become indispensable to the medical profession of the System. Opiates, purified vitamins, a new vegetable specific against pneumonia - the blooms were worth their weight in gold, almost.

  But they were merely blooms to George Garter - blooms to be forced to full growth, harvested, baled and shipped to the Aresopolis labs hundreds of miles away.

  He cut his little ground car to half-speed and leant furiously out the window, 'Hi y' mudcat there. Y' with the dairty face. Watch what y'r doing - keep the donined water in the channel.'

  He drew back and the ground car leapt ahead once more. The Ganymedan muttered viciously to himself, 'These domned men about here are wairse than useless. So many machines t' do their wairk for 'm they give their brains a pairrnenent vacation. I rackon.'

  The ground car came to a halt and he clambered out. Picking his way between the fungus plots, he approached the clustered group of men about the spider-armed machine in the plotway ahead.

  "Well, here I am. What is 't, All'n?'

  Allen's head bobbed up from behind the other side of the machine. He waved at the men about him, 'Stop it for a second!' and leaped toward his twin.

  'George, it works. It's slow and clumsy, but it v/orks. We can improve it now that we've got the fundamentals down. And in no time at all, we'll be able to -'

  'Now wait a while, All'n. On Ganny, we" go slow. Y' live long, that way. What y' got there?'

  Allen paused and swabbed at his forehead. His face shone with grease, sweat and excitement. 'I've been working on this thing ever since I finished college. It's a modification of something we have on Earth - but it's no end improved. It's a mechanical bloom picker.'

  He had fished a much-folded square of heavy paper from his pocket and talked steadily as he spread it on the plotway before them, 'Up to now, bloom-picking has been the bottleneck of production, to say nothing of the 15 to 20% loss due to picking under- and over-ripe blooms. After all, human eyes are only human eyes, and the blooms - Here, look!'

  The paper was spread flat and Allen squatted before it. George leaned over his shoulder, with frowning watchfulness.

  'You see. It's a combination of fluoroscope and photo-electric cell. The ripeness of the bloom can be told by the state of the spores within. This machine is adjusted so that the proper circuit is tripped upon the impingement of just that combination of light and dark formed by ripe spores within the bloom. On the other hand, this second circuit - but look, it's easier to show you.'

  He was up again, brimming with enthusiasm. With a jump, he was in the low seat behind the picker and had pulled the lever.

  Ponderously, the picker turned toward the blooms and its 'eye' travelled sideways six inches above the ground. As it passed each fungus bloom, a long spidery arm shot out, lopping it cleanly half an inch from the ground and depositing it neatly in the downward-sloping slide beneath. A pile of blooms formed behind the machine.

  'We can hook on a binder, too, later on. Do you notice those blooms it doesn't touch? Those are unripe. Just wait till it comes to an over-ripe one and see what it does.'

  He yelled in triumph a moment later when a bloom was torn out and dropped on the spot.

  He stopped the machine. 'You see? In a month, perhaps, we can actually start putting it to work in the fields.'

  George Carter gazed sourly upon his twin, 'Take more 'n a month, I rackon. It'll take foraver, more likely.'

  'What do you mean, forever. It just has to be sped up -'

  'I don't care if 't just has t' be painted pairple. 'Tisn't going t' appear on my fields.'

  'Your fields?'

  'Yup, mine,' was the cool response. 'I've got veto pow'r here same as you have. Y' can't do anything 'thout my say-so - and y' won't get it f'r this. In fact, I want y' t' clear that thing out o' here, altogether. Got no use f r 't.'

  Allen dismounted and faced his brother, 'You agreed to let me have this plot to experiment on, veto-free, and I'm holding you to that agreement.'

  'All right, then. But keep y'r domned machine out o' the rest o' the fields.'

  The Earthman approached the other slowly. There was a dangerous look in his eyes. 'Look, George, I don't like your attitude - and I don't like the way you're using your veto power. I don't know what you're used to running on Ganymede, but you're in the big time now, and there are a lot of provincial notions you'll have to get out of your head.'

  'Not unless I want to. And if y' want t' have 't out with me, we'd batter go t' y'r office. Spatting before the men 'd be bad for discipline.'

  The trip back to Central was made in ominous silence. George whistled softly to himself while Allen folded his arms and stared with ostentatious indifference a
t the narrow, twisting plotway ahead. The silence persisted as they entered the Earthman's office. Allen gestured shortly toward a chair and the Ganymedan took it without a word. He brought out his ever-present green-leaf cigar and waited for the other to speak.

  Allen hunched forward upon the edge of his seat and leaned both elbows on his desk. He began with a rush.

  'There's lots to this situation, George, that's a mystery to me. I don't know why they brought up you on Ganymede and me on Earth, and I don't know why they never let us know of each other, or made us co-managers now with veto-power over one another - but I do know that the situation is rapidly growing intolerable.

  'This corporation needs modernization, and you know that. Yet you've been wielding that veto-power over every trifling advance I've tried to initiate. I don't know just what your viewpoint is, but I've a suspicion that you think you're still living on Ganymede. If you're still in the sticks, - I'm warning you - get out of them fast. I'm from Earth, and this corporation is going to be run with Earth efficiency and Earth organization. Do you understand?'

  George puffed odorous tobacco at the ceiling before answering, but when he did, his eyes came down sharply, and there was a cutting edge to his voice.

  'Airth, is it? Airth efficiency, no less? Well, All'n, I like ye. I can't help it. Y'r so much like me, that disliking y' would be like disliking myself, I rackon. I hate t' say this, but y're upbringing's all wrong.'

  His. voice became sternly accusatory, 'Y'r an Airthman. Well, look at y'. An Airthman's but half a man at best, and naturally y' lean on machines. But d' y' suppose / want the corporation to be run by machines - just machines'} What're the men t' do?'

  'The men run the machines,' came the clipped, angry response.

  The Ganymedan rose, and a fist slammed down on the desk, 'The machines run the men, and y' know it. Fairst, y' use them; then y' depend on them; and finally y'r slaves t' them. Over on y'r pracious Airth, it was machines, machines, machines - and as a result, what are y'? I'll tell y'. Half a man!'

  He drew himself up, 'I still like y'. I like y' well enough t' wish y'd lived on Gannie with me. By Jupe 'n' domn, 'twould have made a man o' y'.'

  'Finished?' said Allen.

  'Rackon so!'

  'Then I'll tell you something. There's nothing wrong with you that a life time on a decent planet wouldn't have fixed. As it is, however, you belong on Ganymede. I'd advise you to go back there.'

  George spoke very softly, 'Y'r not thinking o' taking a punch at me, are y'?'

  'No. I couldn't fight a mirror image of myself, but if your face were only a little different, I would enjoy splashing it about the premises a bit.'

  'Think y' could do it - an Airthman like you? Here, sit down. We're both getting a bit too excited, I rackon. Nothing'll be settled this way.'

  He sat down once more, puffed vainly at his dead cigar, and tossed it into the incinerator chute in disgust.

  'Where's y'r water?' he grunted.

  Allen grinned with sudden delight, 'Would you object to having a machine supply it?'

  'Machine? What d' y' mean?' The Ganymedan gazed about him suspiciously.

  'Watch! I had this installed a week ago.' He touched a button on his desk and a low click sounded below. There was the sound of pouring water for a second or so and then a circular metal disk beside the Earthman's right hand slid aside and a cup of water lifted up from below.

  'Take it,' said Allen.

  George lifted it gingerly and drank it down. He tossed the empty cup down the incinerator shaft, then stared long and thoughtfully at his brother, 'May I see this water feeder o' y'rs?'

  'Surely. It's just under the desk. Here, I'll make room for you.'

  The Ganymedan crawled underneath while Allen watched uncertainly. A brawny hand was thrust out suddenly and a muffled voice said, 'Hand me a screwdriver.'

  'Here! What are you going to do?'

  'Nothing. Nothing 't all. Just want t' investigate this contraption.'

  The screw-driver was handed down and for a few minutes there was no other sound than an occasional soft scraping of metal on metal. Finally, George withdrew a flushed face and adjusted his wrinkled collar with satisfaction.

  'Which button do I press for the water?'

  Allen gestured and the button was pressed. The gurgling of water sounded. The Earthman stared in mystification from his desk to his brother and back again. And.then he became aware of a moistness about his feet.

  He jumped, looked downwards and squawked in dismay, 'Why, damn you, what have you done?' A snaky stream of water wriggled blindly out from under the desk and the pouring sound of water still continued.

  George made leisurely for the door, 'Just short-caircuited it. Here's y'r screw-driver; fix 't up again.' And just before he slammed the door, 'So much f'r y'r pracious machines. They go wrong at the wrong times.'

  The sounder was buzzily insistent and Allen Carter opened one eye peevishly. It was still dark.

  With a sigh, he lifted one arm to the head of his bed and put the Audiomitter into commission.

  The treble voice of Amos Wells of the night shift squawked excitedly at him. Allen's eyes snapped open and he sat up.

  'You're crazy!' But he was plunging into his breeches even as he spoke. In ten seconds, he was careening up the steps three at a time. He shot into the main office just behind the charging figure of his twin brother.

  The place was crowded; - its occupants in a jitter.

  Allen brushed his long hair out of his eyes, 'Turn on the turret searchlight!'

  'It's on,' said someone helplessly.

  The Earthman rushed to the window and looked out. The yellow beam reached dimly out a few feet and ended in a muddy murkiness. He pulled at the window and it lifted upwards grittily a few inches. There was a whistle of wind and a tornado of coughing from within the room. Allen slammed it down again and his hands went at once to his tear-filled eyes.

  George spoke between sneezes, 'We're not located in the sandstorm zone. This can't be one.'

  'It is,' asserted Wells in a squeak. 'It's the worst I've ever seen. Started full blast from scratch just like that. It caught me flat-footed. By the time I closed off all exits to above, it was too late.'

  'Too late!' Allen withdrew his attention from his sand-filled eyes and snapped out the words, 'Too late for what?'

  'Too late for our rolling stock. Our rockets got it worst of all. There isn't one that hasn't its propulsives clogged with sand. And that goes for our irrigation pumps and the ventilating system. The generators below are safe but everything else will have to be taken apart and put together again. We're stalled for a week at least. Maybe more.'

  There was a short, pregnant silence, and then Allen said, 'Take charge, Wells. Put the men on double shift and tackle the irrigation pumps first. They've got to be in working order inside of twenty-four hours, or half the crop will dry up and die on us. Here - wait, I'll go with you.'

  He turned to leave, but his first footstep froze in midair at the sight of Michael Anders, communications officer, rushing up the stairs. 'What's the matter?'

  Anders spoke between gasps, 'The damned planet's gone crazy. There's been the biggest quake in history with its center not ten miles from Aresopolis.'

  There was a chorus of 'What?' and a ragged follow-up of blistering imprecations. Men crowded in anxiously; - many had relatives and wives in the Martian metropolis.

  Anders went on breathlessly, 'It came all of a sudden. Aresopolis is in ruins and fires have started. There aren't any details but the transmitter at our Aresopolis labs went dead five minutes ago.'

  There was a babel of comment. The news spread out into the furthest recesses of Central, and excitement waxed to dangerously panicky proportions. Allen raised his voice to a shout.

  'Quiet, everyone. There's nothing we can do about Aresopolis. We've got our own troubles. This freak storm is connected with the quake some way - and that's what we have to take care of. Everyone back to his work now - and wor
k fast. They'll be needing us at Aresopolis damned soon.' He turned to Anders, 'You! Get back to that receiver and don't knock off until you've gotten in touch with Aresopolis again. Coming with me, George?'

  'No, rackon not,' was the response. 'Y' tend t' y'r machines. I'll go down with Anders.'

  Dawn was breaking, a dusky, lightless dawn, when Allen Carter returned to Central. He was weary - weary in mind and body - and looked it. He entered the radio room.

  'Things are a mess. If -'

  There was a 'Shhh' and George waved frantically. Allen fell silent. Anders bent over the receiver, turning tiny dials with nervous fingers.

  Anders looked up. 'It's no use, Mr. Carter. Can't get them.'

  'All right. Stay here and keep y'r ears open. Let me know if anything turns up.'

  He walked out, hooking an arm underneath his brother's and dragging the latter out.

  'When c'n we get out the next shipment, All'n?'

  'Not for at least a week. We haven't a thing that'll either roll or fly for days, and it will be even longer before we can start harvesting again.'

  'Have we any supplies on hand now?'

  'A few tons of assorted blooms - mainly the red-purples. The Earth shipment last Tuesday took off almost everything.'

  George fell into a reverie.

  His brother waited a moment and did sharply, 'Well, what's on your mind? What's the news from Aresopolis?'

  'Domned bad! The quake's leveled three-fourths o' Aresopolis and the rest's pretty much gutted with fire, I rackon. There 're fifty thousand that'll have t' camp out nights. -That's no fun in Martian autumn weather with the Airth gravity system broken down.'

  Allen whistled, 'Pneumonia!'

  'And common colds and influenza and any o' half doz'n diseases t' say nothing o' people bairnt. - Old Vincent is raising cain.'

  'Wants blooms?'

  'He's only got a two-day supply on hand. He's got t' have more.'

  Both were speaking quietly, almost with indifference, with the vast understatement that is all that makes great crises bearable.

  There was a pause and then George spoke again, 'What the best we c'n do?'

  'Not under a week - not if we kill ourselves to do it. If they could send over a ship as soon as the storm dies down, we might be able to send what we have as a temporary supply until we can get over with the rest.'