"Do you have any questions?"
Norman shook his head.
"Then you tell us when you're ready."
"I'm ready right now."
"You're certain there's nothing else you want to ask." "Quite."
Paulson nodded, and raised his hand in a gesture to the others.
They advanced with their frightening equipment and Norman Muller felt his breath come a little more quickly and his heart beat more rapidly as he watched.
The ordeal lasted nearly three hours, with one short break for coffee and an embarrassing session with a chamber-pot. During all this time, Norman Muller remained encased in machinery. He was bone-weary at the close.
He thought sardonically that his promise to reveal nothing of what had passed would be an easy one to keep. Already the questions were a hazy mish-mash in his mind.
Somehow he had thought Multivac would speak in a sepulchral, superhuman voice, resonant and echoing, but that, he now decided, was just an idea he had from seeing too many television shows. The truth was distressingly undramatic. The questions were slips of a kind of metallic foil patterned with numerous punctures. A second machine converted the pattern into words and Paulson read the words to Norman, then gave him the question and let him read it for himself.
Norman's answers were taken down by a recording machine, played back to Norman for confirmation, with emendations and added remarks also taken down. All that was fed into a pattern-making instrument and that, in turn, was radiated to Multivac.
The one question Norman could remember at the moment was an incongruously gossipy: "What do you think of the price of eggs?"
He had answered, blankly, "I don't know the price of eggs."
Now it was over, and gently they removed the electrodes from various portions of his body, unwrapped the pulsating band from his upper arm, moved the machinery away.
He stood up, drew a deep, shuddering breath and said, "Is that all? Am I through?"
"Not quite," Paulson hurried to him, smiling in reassuring fashion. "We'll have to ask you to stay another hour."
"Why?" asked Norman, sharply.
"It will take that long for Multivac to weave the new data into the trillions of items it has. Thousands of elections are concerned, you know. It's very complicated. And it may be that an odd contest here or there, a comptrollership in Phoenix, Arizona, or some council seat in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, may be in doubt. In that case, Multivac may be compelled to ask you a deciding question or two."
"No," said Norman. "I won't go through this again."
"It probably won't happen," Paulson said, soothingly. "It rarely does. But just in case, you'll have to stay." A touch of steel, just a touch, entered his voice. "You have no choice, you know. You must."
Norman sat down wearily. He shrugged.
Paulson said, "We can't let you read a newspaper, but if you'd care for a murder mystery, or if you'd like to play chess, or if there's anything we can do for you to help pass the time, I wish you'd mention it."
"It's all right. I'll just wait."
They ushered him into a small room just next to the one in which he had been questioned. He let himself sink into a plastic covered armchair and closed his eyes.
As well as he could, he must wait out this final hour.
He sat perfectly still and slowly the tension left him. His breathing grew less ragged and he could clasp his hands without being quite so conscious of the trembling of his fingers.
Maybe there would be no questions. Maybe it was all over.
If it -were over, then the next thing would be torchlight processions and invitations to speak at all sorts of functions. The Voter of the Year!
He, Norman Muller, ordinary clerk of a small department store in Bloomington, Indiana, who had neither been born great nor achieved greatness would be in the extraordinary position of having had greatness thrust upon him.
The historians would speak soberly of the Muller Election of 2008. That would be its name, the Muller Election!
The publicity, the better job, the flash flood of money that interested Sarah so much, occupied only a corner of his mind. It would all be welcome, of course. He couldn't refuse it. But at the moment something else was beginning to concern him.
A latent patriotism was stirring. After all, he was representing the entire electorate. He was the focal point for them. He was, in his own person, for this one day, all of America!
The door opened, snapping him to open-eyed attention. For a moment, his stomach constricted. Not more questions! But Paulson was smiling. "That will be all, Mr. Muller." "No more questions, sir?"
"None needed. Everything was quite clearcut. You will be escorted back to your home and then you will be a private citizen once more. Or as much so as the public will allow."
"Thank you. Thank you." Norman flushed and said, "I wonder—Who was elected?"
Paulson shook his head. "That will have to wait for the official announcement. The rules are quite strict. We can't even tell you. You understand."
"Of course. Yes." Norman felt embarrassed.
"Secret Service will have the necessary papers for you to sign."
"Yes." Suddenly, Norman Muller felt proud. It was on him now in full strength. He was proud.
In this imperfect world, the sovereign citizens of the first and greatest Electronic Democracy had, through Norman Muller (through him!) exercised once again its free, un-trammeled franchise.
09
IN
WQRL
... a man learns wisdom from the trees and risks death to keep his forbidden knowledge...a time traveler tries lo save the world from destruction and is hunted down because he doesn't "belong"... a sailor jumps ship and finds 4 land where the earth is pure gold, fiercely guarded by killer ants.
Cover painting: Jack Faragaaw
A MACFADDEN-BARTEL; BOOK
Printed in U.S.A.
Table of Contents
CONTENTS
ALIEN EARTH
THE PAST MASTER
RAIN MAGIC
ULTIMATE MELODY
THE LOOT OF TIME
DOODAD
AUTOMATON
THE PEOPLE OF THE CRATER
FRANCHISE
Alien Earth and Other Stories Page 24
