A Sense of Infinity

by Howard L. Myers

  . . . Well, I might as well talk to him. Put him on . . . How are you today, President Fillmore? . . . I'm sorry to hear that . . . That's too bad, but you have to see the situation like it is, Milly, baby, and the truth is that exPresidents are a dime a dozen . . . Oh, sure, there are exceptions, but not many . . .

  Don't be that way, Milly, baby. It's just the way the universe cycles, and we all have to accept it. Look at the vast majority of Roman emperors—they're merely touched upon in history books today, almost completely forgotten. That's true of former crowned heads the world over. There's just so damned many ex-rulers, Milly, baby! If you could have gotten yourself assassinated, or could have won or lost a war, things might be different for you. But you just didn't provide us much to work with, Milly, baby . . .

  That's always your privilege, if you think some other firm can handle you better, Milly, baby. Of course, we'll keep working hard for you, but I really can't promise any improvement. And if some other agency is promising you anything like that—well, just bear in mind that we've always been honest with you, even when honesty hurt . . . Milly, baby, if you fall for a fee-basis arrangement, you'll be down to soul-in-the-street magnitude in no time at all! If you insist on changing agents, insist on your new man giving you a straight ten percent commission deal . . .

  That's more like it, Milly, baby . . . Sure, I understand. If I were in your shoes, I'd get impatient at times myself, seeing my magnitude almost lost in the glare of so many newcomers who, despite the tremendous remembrancepower they're drawing, are basically trivial souls . . . That's right, all those disreputable actors and mountebanks, Milly, baby, but they always fade fast. They haven't got the staying power—the security-that you have, even though they outshine you temporarily . . . Right. Call me any time, Milly, baby . . .

  . . . Miss Krimsby . . . Send a memo to accounting, will you? I want a comparative-profit study on all the American President accounts previous to—make it previous to Teddy Roosevelt, and excluding Washington and Lincoln . . . That's right. I think it may be time to trim some deadwood off our client list. But they're still our clients in the meantime, so instruct operations to inspire a television special titled Our Forgotten Presidents. That ought to brighten them up for a while, and keep them off my back . . .

  . . . He's calling me? . . . Did—did he say what it's about? . . . Not even a hint? . . . Yes, yes, Miss Krimsby, put him on. Mustn't keep the senior partner waiting . . . And don't monitor this one . . .

  . . . Niccolo! I'm flattered that you called . . . How are you today, sir? . . . A personnel matter? Certainly I'll give it my immediate attention, sir . . . What? . . . Not Miss Krimsby, sir! Why, I can hardly believe . . . She did? . . . She did? . . . Oh, no! That's awful, sir! . . .

  No, sir, she can have no possible excuse. Our entire staff is thoroughly briefed on the necessity of never showing themselves in public. And being right at the center of our activities, she would be even more aware than the others that we can't afford to be seen, outshining as we do all but the brightest members of the Luminous Company . . .

  Ah? . . . I see, sir . . . A crush on Clark Gable, huh? I knew she was ambitious for some reason, but I assumed her motivation was the same as my own, and the firm's other loyal members . . . So she had to show off in his presence . . .

  Yes, Niccolo, she'll be drained and discharged immediately, but I'm afraid the matter doesn't end there. The Luminous Company is going to be in an uproar over this. Our agency will almost certainly be investigated, and all of us will have to appear personally . . . No, sir, it won't be sufficient to have her confess the embezzlement of working remembrance-power from the agency. Although that's a necessary first step . . .

  No, sir, I'm afraid we don't have that much time. You see, sir, a newly-arrived American Senator—a prospective client—was talking with me earlier today, and he was suspiciously persistent about interviewing me in person before he made his decision . . . Yes, I draw the same conclusion as you, sir, that the news of Miss Krimsby's disastrous indiscretion is already getting around . . . Thank you for your confidence in my ability to deal with this emergency, sir. What I propose is this: all partners and staff members will drain their accumulated magnitude down to levels appropriate for the firm's image. For myself and the other partners, except yourself, sir, I believe a Ben Franklin magnitude would be about right. For the staff people—perhaps the Gracie Allen size would be suitable.

  These magnitudes are high enough to demand respect, you will note, sir, but not so high as to seem out of line. They will bear out our claim that we operate on a tight margin of profit, converting almost all of our earnings into inspiration which is expended in behalf of our clients . . .

  Your magnitude, sir? . . . Since you mingle with the Luminous, sir, we couldn't change yours if we wanted to. Also, you have been more prudent than the rest of us in your participation in the firm's success, and have increased your magnitude no more than might be explained by the popularity of your book, The Prince . . . Where do we drain to? That is a problem, sir. We can't simply drain into the firm's working capital of remembrance-power. That will surely be investigated, too. I'm afraid we'll actually have to expend the overage in inspiration, sir, and pour it out on Earth . . .

  No, it will be no problem to dump that much inspiration on Earth without producing effects the investigators would notice. I'll make it inspiration for peace, and as you know, sir, the living take delight in fighting for peace. The inspiration will be practically invisible, heh-heh! . . . No, sir, it won't be enough to start a war—at least not a major one . . .

  I agree, sir. This depletion of capital is going to set the firm back at least five centuries, and believe me, you can't be as heartbroken about it as I. To think, this had to happen under my management! . . . Well—yes, sir, we have to take these things in stride . . . you can count on me to handle the whole affair with discretion and dispatch, sir. Goodbye . . .

  Miss Krimsby! . . . Miss Krimsby, why in the name of all the mythological gods and devils—why did you have to go prancing out in public, outshining the Virgin Mary?

  Bowerbird

  Even in an age when technology had reduced almost all gemstones to baubles, the Alversen Diamonds were beyond man's power to duplicate. They were priceless, and astonishing in beauty. And their theft from the National Space Museum in Houston was little short of a national calamity.

  Two weeks later the FBI was still looking for its first useful clue. And the President was turning on the heat and making "suggestions."

  "Try to see this the President's way," urged Attorney General Larkle. "Congress is acting salty, the TV comics are making jokes, and the public is annoyed. Maybe the public is frightened, too. A theft like this is enough to make anybody feel unsafe! It's only natural for the President to want somebody he has faith in on the case." FBI Director Caude retorted angrily, "Sure, but the President doesn't have to work with Otto Hoffmann! He doesn't know what an unbearable bitchtard that guy is! Damn it, I've never run into a criminal who could touch Hoffmann for pure despicability!"

  "I know," the Attorney General nodded glumly. "I've worked with him before, myself. But we have to admit, Caude, that Hoffmann has shown he can make sense out of situations that stump everybody else. Anyway, the President says get him, so why fight it?"

  "Oh, I'm not fighting it! Fact is, I ordered him brought in last night, and word came a couple of hours ago that my agents have located him and are bringing him in now. But I'll be damned if this makes sense to me. We lose maybe half a dozen starships a year, plus a lot of good men, and nobody turns a hair. But let a couple of gaudy rocks get stolen and the whole country's in a swivet!" He paused, and then brightened. "Say, maybe Hoffmann will refuse the assignment. He was pretty burned up at me the last time he did an FBI job."

  "Don't count on it," said the Attorney General. "I hear he's hurting for money and his ex-wife's bugging him for back alimony."

  At that moment the door opened and Otto Hoffmann himself, with the f
orm and demeanor of an enraged grizzly bear, lumbered in to stand before Caude's desk.

  "Okay, fuzz-master," he snarled. "What now?" Hoffman's face, like the faces of many people, wore a perpetual scowl. But whereas most scowls come from squinting in the sun too long, or from long hours of browpuckering thought, Hoffmann's scowl was the genuine article—the exterior display of a loathing (and therefore loathful) inner man.

  His small pig-eyes were nearly lost in the vast, ugly, booze-bloated face that hunched above an equally boozebloated body. Nor did the scars of numerous brawls enhance his appearance, although these disfigurements were old and faded. Hoffman had gained a reputation as a "mean drunk," and bar-room habitué s had learned not to tangle with him.

  But he was a man of rare ability. The story was that his gift came from an unusual upbringing, from a crackpot father who had taught him at an early age that man's greatest sin was self-deception. As a result Hoffmann saw the world with eyes unobscured by man's stock of comforting fantasies, and this made him very wise. He saw himself the same way, and this made him very bitter.

  "Good morning, Mr. Hoffmann," Caude said, trying to be pleasant. "I hope my agents didn't interrupt—I—"

  "Skip the small-talk, fuzz!" barked Hoffmann. "What's the deal?"

  "We, er, wish to engage your services on a case—"

  "My fee is one million dollars, payable in advance."

  "A million? In advance?" gasped Attorney General Larkle. "Surely you must be joking, Hoffmann! The amount is out of the question, and payment in advance is against regulations!"

  "Look, tumble-tongue, the last time you guys suckered me to do your work for you, I waited ten months for my pay, and then had to go to court to get it. This time I don't start until I have Uncle Skinflint's check certified and deposited. Otherwise, you figure out for yourself what happened to the Alversen Diamonds."

  Caude's eyes narrowed. "Who told you this was about the Alversen Diamonds?" he demanded.

  Hoffmann sneered, "Try to hide your imbecility, fuzz. If I had to be told why you needed me, I'd be too stupid to do the job in the first place. Well, speak up! I'm not going to stand here all day!"

  The men glared at him for an instant, then Larkle said, "I'm prepared to give you a check for five hundred thousand now, and the remaining five hundred thousand will be paid upon your successful solution of the case."

  "Okay," said Hoffmann.

  "Okay?" asked Larkle in surprise.

  "Sure. Give me the check. As soon as it's deposited in my account I'll be ready to go to work. But I know damn well I'll never see that second half-million!"

  Feeling as if he had been had, Larkle complied. Was this all Hoffmann had expected to get? he wondered. No matter. Hoffmann had probably guessed the FBI would never have brought him in except for orders from On High, so the dickering advantage had been on Hoffmann's side.

  With the check in his beefy hand, Hoffmann said, "I'll be back in half an hour. Get the case file out for me to go over. And bring Alversen in for a conference this afternoon."

  "Bring Mr. Alversen in? We couldn't do that!"

  "Why not? Your strong-arm goons didn't apologize about dragging me out of bed."

  "But—but we—he's Hank Alversen!" sputtered Caude.

  "And the law is a respecter of persons!" snarled Hoffmann. "Oh, never mind! If you won't bring him in, arrange for us to go to him. This afternoon." He stuffed the check in a pocket and stomped out of the office.

  "He's right about one thing," Larkle growled. "He'll never see that second five hundred thousand, the arrogant S.O.B.!"

  "Hell! He put you over a barrel as it was," complained Caude in disgust. "Do you realize I don't earn five hundred thousand in ten years?"

  Larkle nodded and grinned. "Don't take it too hard, Caude. I don't mean to let him keep that money."

  "Oh," said Caude, and he grinned, too.

  When Otto Hoffmann returned from the bank he settled his bulk behind a vacant desk and read through the file on the Alversen Diamonds theft. This, thought Caude, was a waste of time, because there was precious little in the file that had not been in the newscasts.

  And everyone knew the story of the gems and their great discoverer, Henry Alversen.

  While still in his early twenties, Alversen had been the first man to penetrate the asteroid belt beyond Mars. Afterward, the young NSA pilot had gone on to be the first explorer of the Jovian satellites, and still later he had captained the initial expedition to Saturn.

  He was only thirty-five when the starship drive was developed, but he gracefully stepped aside to allow other men the glory of leading the long voyages to the stars. Much remained to be explored within the sun's own system, and Alversen was content to follow through the work he had begun. He surveyed hundreds of the bare rocks and metallic chunks of the asteroid belt. And he set a record for the closest orbital approach to the surface of Jupiter—a record that still stood unchallenged thirty years later.

  He found the diamonds in the course of these explorations. The find made him a millionaire many times over, but the discovery had its frustrating side. His report told the story:

  He was surveying a small but unusually dense chunk in the asteroid belt when a glittering reflection from deep in a metallic crevice caught his eye. Fascinated and curious, he put a ramjack in the crevice and pried the walls apart, breaking loose a large section of the brittle planetoid in the process. He drifted down to the source of the glitter, and found the partially exposed surface of a globe only a few feet in diameter, a globe with a curiously "manufactured" look. Certainly there was no doubt that the large gems studding its surface had been cut and faceted by some intelligent being.

  Two of the gems were loose enough for him to pick free and stow in his pouch. But as he studied the task of releasing the entire globe from the mass of the planetoid, he became aware that the section he had pried free in opening the crevice was drifting away quite rapidly, and his ship was anchored to that chunk.

  He dived after his ship, but several minutes passed before he caught up with it. By the time he had boarded it and released the anchor, his treasure trove had drifted out of sight in a direction he could not guess. He spiraled his ship in the vicinity for days of futile search before giving up.

  The loss was deplorable, not merely because of the unique qualities of the two diamonds he did bring back, but because the globe was almost certainly a relic of a highly-advanced civilization. There had been speculation since the first telescopic sightings of the asteroids that these fragments were the remains of a planet, perhaps bearing life, that had once occupied the wide orbital gap between Mars and Jupiter. But no fossils or other relics had been found, which made Alversen's Diamonds, and his report of the object they had decorated, of unique interest. Also, no semblance of intelligent life had been found within the seven-parsec sphere of space explored by the starships. The diamonds were man's only evidence that he was not totally alone in all space and time.

  And the diamonds had a feature far beyond man's power to duplicate: the planes of their crystalline structure were not flat. The plane that had paralleled the surface of their globular mounting had a positive curvature approximating that of the globe's surface. The diamonds had, in effect, been "wrapped around" the small segments of the globe they had covered. How that curving had been achieved was a matter of considerable scientific debate. Most experts agreed that nothing less than a gravitational field too concentrated to be found in nature—so intense that it created a closed spacewarp in its vicinity—would yield an environment in which such "bent" diamonds could crystallize. The creatures who produced this gravitational field must have been highly advanced, indeed.

  The loss of the major portion of his find seemed to take the drive out of Alversen. He returned to Earth, sold the diamonds to the U.S. government, and never ventured into space again. A man of wealth as a result of the sale, and of immense prestige, he lived in pleasant (if perhaps melancholy) retirement.

  As for the diamo
nds, they had been studied, marveled at, speculated over, and finally installed in a special gallery on the top floor of the National Space Museum. Millions of people filed past the well-protected display case to gaze at their clear, wondrous beauty. And then one night they were stolen.

  It was strictly a space-age theft, one that would have been impossible a very few decades earlier. Even now, the FBI's experts were hard-pressed to explain just what types of equipment had been used to nullify the surveillance systems, and to muffle the noise made when a gaping hole was torn through the museum's roof.

  At last Otto Hoffmann tossed the file aside with a disdainful snort. He got up and stomped into Caude's office. "I'm going to drink some lunch, fuzz," he said.

  "When I get back I want to go see old Heroic Hank."

  "You can eat on the clopter," said Caude, rising. "I've been in touch with Mr. Alversen. He said to come whenever we wished."

  He led the way to the roof where a large-cabin clopter was waiting. The Attorney General was already aboard, and the clopter was quickly in the air speeding westward. Ninety minutes later it drifted down on the Alversen estate in the Rockies. The three men were ushered into the spacious, cheerful living room where Alversen himself made them welcome.

  Now in his seventies, Alversen still had the warm sincerity that had always endeared him to close friends, casual acquaintances, and to the public at large. Age had, if anything, actually improved him by contributing a quiet dignity to his bearing.

  Larkle and Caude, grumpy and morose from their long clopter ride with the unbearable Hoffmann, brightened immediately in the warmth of Alversen's presence. Hoffmann sulked while they chatted gaily with their host. Finally they got down to business. "As Caude told you on the phone, Hank," said Larkle, "we have asked Mr. Hoffmann to assist us in the diamond theft case, and he wishes to ask you some questions."