The antennae began to squirm.
“That’s all there is to it—strictly between ourselves. I learned it from Schneider.” They had returned to the center of the sphere, at Grimes’ suggestion, on the pretext of wanting to get a cigarette. The squirming deKalbs made him nervous, but he did not want to say so.
“How do you explain it?”
“I regard it as an imperfectly understood phenomenon of the Other Space. I know less about it than Franklin knew about lightning. But I will know—I will! I could give Stevens a solution right now for his worries if I knew some way to get around your problem too.”
“I don’t see the connection.”
“There ought to be some way to do the whole thing through the Other Space. Start out by radiating power into the Other Space and pick up it up from there. Then the radiation could not harm human beings. It would never get at them; it would duck around them. I’ve been working on my caster, but with no luck so far. I’ll crack it in time.”
“I hope you do. Speaking of that, isn’t the radiation from your own caster loose in this room?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll put on my shield coat. It’s not good for you either.”
“Never mind. I’ll turn it off.” As he turned to do so there was the sound of a sweet, chirruping whistle. Baldur barked. Grimes turned to see what caused it.
“What,” he demanded, “have you got there?”
“Huh? Oh, that’s my cuckoo clock. Fun, isn’t it?” Grimes agreed that it was, although he could not see much use for it. Waldo had mounted it on the edge of a light metal hoop which spun with a speed just sufficient to produce a centrifugal force of one g.
“I rigged it up,” Waldo continued, “while I was bogged down in this problem of the Other Space. Gave me something to do.”
“This ‘Other Space’ business—I still don’t get it.”
“Think of another continuum much like our own and superimposed on it the way you might lay one sheet of paper on another. The two spaces aren’t identical, but they are separated from each other by the smallest interval you can imagine—coextensive but not touching—usually. There is an absolute one-to-one, point-for-point correspondence, as I conceive it, between the two spaces, but they are not necessarily the same size or shape.”
“Hey? Come again—they would have to be.”
“Not at all. Which has the larger number of points in it? A line an inch long, or a line a mile long?”
“A mile long, of course.”
“No. They have exactly the same number of points. Want me to prove it?”
“I’ll take your word for it. But I never studied that sort of math.”
“All right. Take my word for it then. Neither size nor shape is any impediment to setting up a full, point-for-point correspondence between two spaces. Neither of the words is really appropriate. ‘Size’ has to do with a space’s own inner structure, its dimensions in terms of its own unique constants. ‘Shape’ is a matter which happens inside itself—or at least not inside our space—and has to do with how it is curved, open or closed, expanding or contracting.”
Grimes shrugged. “It all sounds like gibberish to me.” He returned to watching the cuckoo clock swing round and round its wheel.
“Sure it does,” Waldo assented cheerfully. “We are limited by our experience. Do you know how I think of the Other World?” The question was purely rhetorical. “I think of it as about the size and shape of an ostrich egg, but nevertheless a whole universe, existing side by side with our own, from here to the farthest star. I know that it’s a false picture, but it helps me to think about it that way.”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Grimes, and turned himself around in the air. The compound motion of the clock’s pendulum was making him a little dizzy. “Say! I thought you turned off the caster?”
“I did,” Waldo agreed, and looked where Grimes was looking. The deKalbs were still squirming. “I thought I did,” he said doubtfully, and turned to the caster’s control board. His eyes then opened wider. “But I did. It is turned off.”
“Then what the devil—”
“Shut up!” He had to think—think hard. Was the caster actually out of operation? He floated himself over to it, inspected it. Yes, it was dead, dead as the dinosaurs. Just to make sure he went back, assumed his primary waldoes, cut in the necessary circuits, and partially disassembled it. But the deKalbs still squirmed.
The one deKalb set which had not been subjected to the Schneider treatment was dead; it gave out no power hum. But the others were working frantically, gathering power from—where?
He wondered whether or not McLeod had said anything to Gramps Schneider about the casters from which the deKalbs were intended to pick up their power. Certainly he himself had not. It simply had not come into the conversation. But Schneider had said something. “The Other World is close by and full of power!”
In spite of his own intention of taking the old man literally he had ignored that statement. The Other World is full of power. “I am sorry I snapped at you, Uncle Gus,” he said.
“ ’S all right.”
“But what do you make of that?”
“Looks like you’ve invented perpetual motion, son.”
“In a way, perhaps. Or maybe we’ve repealed the law of conservation of energy. Those deKalbs are drawing energy that was never before in this world!”
“Hm-m-m!”
To check his belief he returned to the control ring, donned his waldoes, cut in a mobile scanner, and proceeded to search the space around the deKalbs with the most sensitive pickup for the radio power band he had available. The needles never jumped; the room was dead in the wave lengths to which the deKalbs were sensitive. The power came from Other Space.
The power came from Other Space. Not from his own beamcaster, not from NAPA’s shiny stations, but from Other Space. In that case he was not even close to solving the problem of the defective deKalbs; he might never solve it. Wait, now—just what had he contracted to do? He tried to recall the exact words of the contract.
There just might be a way around it. Maybe. Yes, and this newest cockeyed trick of Gramps Schneider’s little pets could have some very tricky aspects. He began to see some possibilities, but he needed to think about it.
“Uncle Gus—”
“Yes, Waldo?”
“You can go back and tell Stevens that I’ll be ready with the answers. We’ll get his problem licked, and yours, too. In the meantime, I’ve got to do some really heavy thinking, so I want to be by myself, please.”
“Greetings, Mr. Gleason. Quiet, Baldur! Come in. Be comfortable. How do you do, Dr. Stevens?”
“How do you do, Mr. Jones?”
“This,” said Gleason, indicating a figure trailing him, “is Mr. Harkness, head of our legal staff.”
“Ah, yes indeed. There will be matters of contract to be discussed. Welcome to Freehold, Mr. Harkness.”
“Thank you,” Harkness said coldly. “Will your attorneys be present?”
“They are present.” Waldo indicated a stereo screen. Two figures showed in it; they bowed and murmured polite forms.
“This is most irregular,” Harkness complained. “Witnesses should be present in person. Things seen and heard by television are not evidence.”
Waldo drew his lips back. “Do you wish to make an issue of it?”
“Not at all,” Gleason said hastily. “Never mind, Charles.” Harkness subsided.
“I won’t waste your time, gentlemen,” Waldo began. “We are here in order that I may fulfill my contract with you. The terms are known—we will pass over them.” He inserted his arms into his primary waldoes. “Lined up along the far wall you will see a number of radiant power receptors, commonly called deKalbs. Dr. Stevens may, if he wishes, check their serial numbers—”
“No need to.”
“Very well. I shall start my local beamcaster, in order that we may check the efficiency of their operation.” His waldoes were busy a
s he spoke. “Then I shall activate the receptors, one at a time.” His hands pawed the air; a little pair of secondaries switched on the proper switches on the control board of the last set in line. “This is an ordinary type, supplied to me by Dr. Stevens, which has never failed in operation. You may assure yourself that it is now operating in the normal manner, if you wish, Doctor.”
“I can see that it is.”
“We will call such a receptor a ‘deKalb’ and its operation ‘normal.’ ” The small waldoes were busy again. “Here we have a receptor which I choose to term a ‘Schneider-deKalb’ because of certain treatment it has received”—the antennae began to move—“and its operation ‘Schneider-type’ operation. Will you check it, Doctor?”
“O.K.”
“You fetched with you a receptor set which has failed?”
“As you can see.”
“Have you been able to make it function?”
“No, I have not.”
“Are you sure? Have you examined it carefully?”
“Quite carefully,” Stevens acknowledged sourly. He was beginning to be tired of Waldo’s pompous flubdubbery.
“Very well. I will now proceed to make it operative.” Waldo left his control ring, shoved himself over to the vicinity of the defective deKalb, and placed himself so that his body covered his exact actions from the sight of the others. He returned to the ring and, using waldoes, switched on the activating circuit of the deKalb.
It immediately exhibited Schneider-type activity.
“That is my case, gentlemen,” he announced. “I have found out how to repair deKalbs which become spontaneously inoperative. I will undertake to apply the Schneider treatment to any receptors which you may bring to me. That is included in my fee. I will undertake to train others in how to apply the Schneider treatment. That is included in my fee, but I cannot guarantee that any particular man will profit by my instruction. Without going into technical details, I may say that the treatment is very difficult, much harder than it looks. I think that Dr. Stevens will confirm that.” He smiled thinly. “I believe that completes my agreement with you.”
“Just a moment, Mr. Jones,” put in Gleason. “Is a deKalb foolproof, once it has received the Schneider treatment?”
“Quite. I guarantee it.”
They went into a huddle while Waldo waited. At last Gleason spoke for them. “These are not quite the results we had expected, Mr. Jones, but we agree that you have fulfilled your commission—with the understanding that you will Schneider-treat any receptors brought to you and instruct others, according to their ability to learn.”
“That is correct.”
“Your fee will be deposited to your account at once.”
“Good. That is fully understood and agreed? I have completely and successfully performed your commission?”
“Correct.”
“Very well then. I have one more thing to show you. If you will be patient—”
A section of the wall folded back; gigantic waldoes reached into the room beyond and drew forth a large apparatus, which resembled somewhat in general form an ordinary set of deKalbs, but which was considerably more complicated. Most of the complications were sheer decoration, but it would have taken a skilled engineer a long time to prove the fact.
The machine did contain one novel feature: a built-in meter of a novel type, whereby it could be set to operate for a predetermined time and then destroy itself, and a radio control whereby the time limit could be varied. Furthermore, the meter would destroy itself and the receptors if tampered with by any person not familiar with its design.
It was Waldo’s tentative answer to the problem of selling free and unlimited power.
But of these matters he said nothing. Small waldoes had been busy attaching guys to the apparatus; when they were through he said, “This gentlemen, is an instrument which I choose to call a Jones-Schneider-deKalb. And it is the reason why you will not be in the business of selling power much longer.”
“So?” said Gleason. “May I ask why?”
“Because,” he was told, “I can sell it more cheaply and conveniently and under circumstances you cannot hope to match.”
“That is a strong statement.”
“I will demonstrate. Dr. Stevens, you have noted that the other receptors are operating. I will turn them off.” The waldoes did so. “I will now stop the beamcast and I will ask you to assure yourself, by means of your own instruments, that there is no radiant power, other than ordinary visible light in this room.”
Somewhat sullenly Stevens did so. “The place is dead,” he announced some minutes later.
“Good. Keep your instruments in place, that you may be sure it remains dead. I will now activate my receptor.” Little mechanical hands closed the switches. “Observe it, Doctor. Go over it thoroughly.”
Stevens did so. He did not trust the readings shown by its instrument board; he attached his own meters in parallel. “How about it, James?” Gleason whispered.
Stevens looked disgusted. “The damn thing draws power from nowhere?”
They all looked at Waldo. “Take plenty of time, gentlemen,” he said grandly. “Talk it over.”
They withdrew as far away as the room permitted and whispered. Waldo could see that Harkness and Gleason were arguing, that Stevens was noncommittal. That suited him. He was hoping that Stevens would not decide to take another look at the fancy gadget he had termed a Jones-Schneider-deKalb. Stevens must not learn too much about it—yet. He had been careful to say nothing but the truth about it, but perhaps he had not said all of the truth; he had not mentioned that all Schneider-treated deKalbs were sources of free power.
Rather embarrassing if Stevens should discover that!
The meter-and-destruction device Waldo had purposely made mysterious and complex, but it was not useless. Later he would be able to point out, quite correctly, that without such a device NAPA simply could not remain in business.
Waldo was not easy. The whole business was a risky gamble; he would have much preferred to know more about the phenomena he was trying to peddle, but—he shrugged mentally while preserving a smile of smug confidence—the business had dragged on several months already, and the power situation really was critical. This solution would do—if he could get their names on the dotted line quickly enough.
For he had no intention of trying to compete with NAPA.
Gleason pulled himself away from Stevens and Harkness, came to Waldo. “Mr. Jones, can’t we arrange this amicably?”
“What have you to suggest?”
It was quite an hour later that Waldo, with a sigh of relief, watched his guests’ ship depart from the threshold flat. A fine caper, he thought, and it had worked; he had gotten away with it. He had magnanimously allowed himself to be persuaded to consolidate, provided—he had allowed himself to be quite temperamental about this—the contract was concluded at once, no fussing around and fencing between lawyers. Now or never—put up or shut up. The proposed contract, he had pointed out virtuously, gave him nothing at all unless his allegations about the Jones-Schneider-deKalb were correct.
Gleason considered this point and had decided to sign, had signed.
Even then Harkness had attempted to claim that Waldo had been an employee of NAPA. Waldo had written that first contract himself—a specific commission for a contingent fee. Harkness did not have a leg to stand on; even Gleason had agreed to that.
In exchange for all rights to the Jones-Schneider-deKalb, for which he agreed to supply drawings—wait till Stevens saw, and understood, those sketches!—for that he had received the promise of senior stock in NAPA, non-voting, but fully paid up and nonassessable. The lack of active participation in the company had been his own idea. There were going to be more headaches in the power business, headaches aplenty. He could see them coming—bootleg designs, means of outwitting the metering, lots of things. Free power had come, and efforts to stop it would in the long run, he believed, be fruitless.
Waldo la
ughed so hard that he frightened Baldur, who set up an excited barking.
He could afford to forget Hathaway now.
His revenge on NAPA contained one potential flaw; he had assured Gleason that the Schneider-treated deKalbs would continue to operate, would not come unstuck. He believed that to be true simply because he had faith in Gramps Schneider. But he was not prepared to prove it. He knew himself that he did not know enough about the phenomena associated with the Other World to be sure that something would, or would not, happen. It was still going to be necessary to do some hard, extensive research.
But the Other World was a devilishly difficult place to investigate!
Suppose, he speculated, that the human race was blind, had never developed eyes. No matter how civilized, enlightened, and scientific the race might have become, it is difficult to see how such a race could ever have developed the concepts of astronomy. They might know of the Sun as a cyclic source of energy having a changing, directional character, for the Sun is so overpowering that it may be “seen” with the skin. They would notice it and invent instruments to trap it and examine it.
But the pale stars, would they ever notice them? It seemed most unlikely. The very notion of the celestial universe, its silent depths and starlit grandeur, would be beyond them. Even if one of their scientists should have the concept forced on him in such a manner that he was obliged to accept the fantastic, incredible thesis as fact, how then would he go about investigating its details?
Waldo tried to imagine an astronomical phototelescope, conceived and designed by a blind man, intended to be operated by a blind man, and capable of collecting data which could be interpreted by a blind man. He gave it up; there were too many hazards. It would take a subtlety of genius far beyond his own to deal with the inescapably tortuous concatenations of inferential reasoning necessary to the solution of such a problem. It would strain him to invent such instruments for a blind man; he did not see how a blind man could ever overcome the difficulties unassisted.
In a way that was what Schneider had done for him; alone, he would have bogged down.
Waldo, and Magic, Inc Page 10
