Prone scowled at him. “Tried out the rate of fire?”
“Not precisely, sir, but roughly forty-eight a minute which triples the rate over the normal bow.”
“I see—thank you for the demonstration.” Prone waddled back to the main party and scowled at Stein. “Well, now I’ve seen everything. I’ve seen some ingenious weapons in my time, I could name a dozen without thinking, but all of them were products of industrial cultures. This beats the lot. My God, outwardly this is a primitive culture, still is from Ventnor’s viewpoint, yet with a piece of paper and a ruler he comes up with that thing. Gentlemen, do you know what he’s built? I’ll tell you—an automatic cross-bow.”
He paused and mopped his bald head. “Four springs, a lever, two clips and a box I One man puts them together and they become an automatic weapon.”
He turned to Stein and pushed a pink finger into his stomach. “I want that boy, I want him in the labs. I want him trained, educated, aptitude-tested, guided and then let loose in the best facilities we possess.”
Stein pushed the finger gently to one side. “It would take five years to do the job properly.”
“Take ten if necessary—has he finished his physical?”
“Another two months.”
“He’ll have to finish it in his spare time as a recreation. I want him to start now, that’s a priority order and I’d get it endorsed by the Council personally.”
Ten minutes later Stein went over and tapped Ventnor on the shoulder. “You’ve made an impression—come with me.”
He led the way into one of the huts, pressed a section of one of the roof supports and a section of rough-looking floor slid to one side.
“Down those steps.”
Ventnor obeyed and found himself in a new and frightening world. They descended to a wide tunnel, a tunnel which was lit but possessed no lights—the wall of the tunnel itself gave out a bright radiance.
Here and there the tunnel was broken by doorways and Ventnor caught glimpses of shining machinery, banks of flickering fights and purposeful people clearly at work.
“Wasn’t that Peary—that man in the white coat?”
“Yes—yes it was. We do three months in research and two months in the field. It is not only the rule here that keeps us fit and active. All that stuff above, you see, is a front, a disguise, an act to hide our real activities from the Island. If they knew, they would wipe us out and, as we are not yet strong enough for a showdown, we have to hide.”
“I don‘t quite understand why.”
“I don’t suppose you do.” Stein sighed. “I suppose I must fill you in on history otherwise it will affect your future education. I’ll give it to you a bit at a time so you get a clear picture.”
He led the way down a narrow side tunnel and continued the conversation over his shoulder.
“I’ll give you the basic picture first and then I’ll give you a session on the Recreator—I’ll explain that when we use it.”
They came to a room dominated by a huge machine on a raised platform.
“This is our local museum.” Stein informed him.
Ventnor was still staring at the machine. He presumed it was some sort of vehicle, but it suggested both beauty and engineering perfection.
“What is it?”
Stein laughed softly. “Call it a symbol of courage. A vehicle built for endurance in the age of intransience. When the world was embracing short-life construction the people who built this refused to conform. They preferred their own integrity to easy profits. They perished but the symbol of their courage remains. As you can see, it’s a vehicle—it was known as a Rolls Royce.”
He sighed: “I understand Germany displays a Volkswagen, America a scalpel—a tribute to a certain manufacturer of Surgical instruments who also refused to conform.”
He sighed and led the way into another room. “Stand by, we are about to visit the age of intransience—”
6
In the second room were numerous articles on shelves in plastic containers.
Stein pointed. “Read the inscription on that—aloud, please.”
“The Winsom Throw-Away Shirt.”
“Fine, there is an article from the age of intransience. A shirt you wore once and threw away. If you wore it more than eight hours it fell to pieces on your body.”
He paused and squatted uncomfortably on the edge of one of the shelves. “I’d better explain that the entire world had adopted the metric system although most of them retained their original symbols. America had always called their chief unit a dollar. We adopted the same system but still called our chief unit a pound—one hundred shillings to the pound. It is important to bear this in mind because these shirts were six a shilling.
“To be brief, the demand for manufactured goods was constantly increasing but, with the increase, the cost of producing goods rose also. Thus prices were constantly rising and people could not afford to buy. To avoid stagnation, wages had to be increased to meet the rising cost of living which, in turn, raised the cost of goods again-following me? Good. Obviously this continuous spiral would end in economic chaos but fortunately, or unfortunately, an industrial research group came up with ‘short-life’. That is to say, substances such as plastics and metals which were cheap to manufacture and could be arranged to last only a short time.
“The trend had begun decades before with vehicles constructed to last only three years. Now, with the new cheap substances, the trend spread to almost every manufactured article. The politicians must have been delighted because the cost of living arrowed downwards and production rose to incredible heights. History shows, however, that this was a mistake.”
Stein sighed and shook his head. “Sorry to bore you with dry facts, but let me give you a brief picture at the height of this economic “boost’ for that is all it was. You could, as I have said, buy six throw-away shirts for a shilling. An automobile, designed to last exactly three months, for twenty pounds. There were ‘five-year-houses’, ‘ten-year-tenements’ and ‘six-week-washing-machines’. Even canned food was sold in short-life containers designed to last only a few weeks so that the purchasers would eat quickly and buy again.
“Needless to say, manufacturers and industrialists were reaping fantastic profits while the masses enjoyed unheard of luxury. In an effort to make more profit, the industrialists centralized and, in the end, the world’s entire production was pouring from six great centres only.
“Centralization proved to be the primary mistake. In Europe, unexpected floods put one out of commission and, by a singular stroke of ill-fortune, a landslide cut the power supply of another.
“At the same time, in the United States, an airliner crashed out of control on a third wrecking the automatic control unit.
“The remaining three were compelled to supply not only the demands of the entire world but, at the same time, supply and dispatch vital spares and replacements for those out of commission. The auto-brains of two of these centres already over-loaded and over-taxed and, for that matter, over-programmed beyond their capacity, burned out under the strain. That was the beginning of the end. Efforts were made to get the centres moving again but as soon as one was repaired, another broke down casting an additional strain upon the rest. Since the products of one were dependent upon the products of another, the situation became hopeless. The food centre was producing food but had received no bags or cans in which to pack it. In any case the transport centre had not yet resumed production and, owing to short-life materials, existing methods of conveyance were failing every day.”
Stein rose. “Have you followed me?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“I hope you have, because I am now going to give you a session in the Recreator—this way.”
The final room was small and, in the centre of it, was a peculiar-looking high backed chair.
Stein waved to it. “Sit down, you are about to visit the past.” He smiled as he attached sucker-terminals to Ventnor’s wrists, his fore
head and the back of his neck. “Do not be alarmed, you will not lose your identity. You will merely observe a period of history through another’s eyes and another’s faculties. You will become, for a brief period, a character we call Mr. Smith.
“This particular Mr. Smith, never truly existed. He is a composite character we put together for educational purposes. His experiences are composed of on-the-spot news shots, mock-ups and a large number of emotional tapes recovered from the period, doctored in the continuity department and put together to create a precise character.”
“Comfortable?” He patted Ventnor’s shoulder but did not wait for an answer. “Fine, now relax, give yourself to the impressions which will flood your mind.”
There was a faint click but Stein did not stop talking: “For your personal information, you are about to become a gadgeteer, the sort of gadgeteer that Megellon got a bug about. You will experiment with chemistry but you are not a chemist. You will try—and make—weapons—but—you— not—”
Strangely Stein’s voice seemed to become a low humming and Ventnor experienced a momentary giddiness. An impression of light and shadow seemed to dance before his eyes and then he was staring at a circle.
The circle thickened, grew spokes—there was a feeling of movement, of buildings rushing by and the humming sound persisted.
Good God, he was driving a car—no!—Mr. Smith was driving the car but he, Ventnor, was a passenger in Mr. Smith’s mind. He knew what Smith felt, feared and had experienced. He shared his memories, knowledge, doubts, dreams and apprehensions. And, at this time, at this moment, a burden of fear crouched in the back of Smith’s mind.
Thank God, they’d sent the children up north—there was more food up there. Better not think of food—of course, the government would solve the problem, no doubt about that. There was this protege thing for instance. It was a kind of cabbage according to the news reports and contained all the necessary vitamins of well balanced meal. The thing could be planted on Monday and grew so quickly it was ready to harvest the following week.
Then there was the tuber, didn’t grow so quickly, but was still a full meal and could be stored for months. Oh yes, most certainly the government would solve it—wouldn’t they?
A thought struck him and he leaned forward and touched a small button on the dash. A light appeared and, in front of it, the numerals 10.
Ten days! Only ten days! He thought he had two weeks at the very least. Smith/Ventnor felt a cold wave of apprehension. At the end of ten days the service life of his car would be finished and, once finished it would either stop dead or refuse to budge from the garage.
There was, of course, another one on order. It had been on order for several months, but with things as they were—
There was public transport but that, too, was nearing the end of its short-life existence. Every day there were fewer buses on the roads and every day the monorail cut its services. What would he do without transport, how would he get to work?
The houses he was passing began to decrease in size and, within a few minutes he was in a residential area. He felt an illusory suggestion of safety as he turned the car into his own drive and nosed into the garage.
Safety, security—God, for how long? The house had only another six month’s life.
It had seemed such a good idea once, modern, progressive, even visionary. Live in a house three years, move to a new modem residence for three more years. You were always ahead, always keeping up, but living cheaply—one hundred and fifty pounds every three years.
The houses you had left simply collapsed in a cloud of dust and the local council came along with a sucker-machine and cleared it away. If there was any modernization or street widening to be done, the council simply took advantage of the vacant space.
Smith/Ventnor scowled as he climbed out of the car. Yes, it had seemed a good idea once, had been when a three-year-house could be erected in eight hours, now, looking back, it was insanity. The people had nothing durable to fall back on. Even the tools and instruments of construction were short-life.
He entered the house conscious of hunger pains in his stomach, pains which reminded him that his breakfast had consisted of a single biscuit. Well, he was going to make a hog of himself now. He had one tin of beans which he had been hoarding for days. Once opened, it wouldn’t keep so he’d have to eat it all—thank God.
He almost ran to the food cupboard and slid open the door.
Smith/Ventnor stared into the cupboard for several minutes then he put his head in his hands and cried.
The short-life can had fallen into pieces and the spilled mess on the floor of the cupboard was already giving forth an unpleasant smell.
After a time he shut the cupboard slowly and began to pace up and down. God, he was starving and he’d used his ticket for the sustenance ration, maybe there was some grass somewhere.
He shook his head, he’d seen too many people heading for the public parks with auto-mowers.
Synthetic food! The hypno-tutor! The four words seemed to come together in his mind in a kind of mental explosion. He’d collected hypno-tapes with the same enthusiasm some people collected books. His den was crammed with them.
He almost ran to his room and began to thumb desperately through the list of tides. Yes, yes, he knew he had one. “The simple chemistry of synthetic foodstuffs.”
He almost jammed the tape into the tutor, placed the helmet on his head and switched on. God, yes, he’d make his own food, there were plenty of chemicals around, not to mention his ten-year-old son’s chemistry set and all those bottles of stuff he’d brought when he’d dabbled in home-plastic-do-it-yourself jobs.
It never occurred to Smith—although the facts were communicated mentally to Ventnor—that no manufacturer of synthetic foodstuffs would permit his entire knowledge to be given freely to the public. The basic chemical construction would be given, yes, but not the final processing.
Later, Smith removed the helmet and switched off the hypno-tutor. He’d got it, he had every damn chemical, every one, enough to make a thick and sustaining soup for five days.
He found a large saucepan and went to work. Let’s see, now, a gallon of water brought to the temperature of—
Within an hour he had a saucepan full of colourless rather repellent substance which, however, gave off a considerable amount of steam.
Smith tasted it cautiously—not bad but a bit tasteless, could do with a little salt maybe. With a total disregard for his own basic chemistry, Smith added a considerable amount of sodium chloride to his concoction.
He was about to ladle his dangerous meal into a soup plate when the doorbell rang.
Smith/Ventnor swore under his breath and went to the door.
“What in the name of hell are you playing at?” The policeman who asked the question was not a harsh man but he, too was hungry and, with the ever present threat of riots, his nerves were over-strained.
“What—?” Smith stared at him blankly.
“Don’t play it stupid with me.” The policeman grasped him by the lapels of his coat and jerked him forward. “A lot of people smelt cooking, a lot of hungry people. There’s a mob forming and it’s turning ugly. I’ve had to draft in a whole squad to keep order. They’re saying you’re a hoarder, an industrialist and God-knows-what.”
“I’m not hoarding food.” Smith, with a slightly uneasy conscience, was a little shrill. “I’m just trying to make something to eat synthetically.”
“We don’t give two damns what you’re doing.” The policeman pushed him back angrily. “For God’s sake use a little sense.” He scowled. “You could poison your damn self, you know that? Anyway, watch it, I’ll clear this mob—if I can. In the meantime, draw your curtains and close your ventilators.” He turned and strode away.
Smith drew the curtains hastily and shut off the ventilators. Outside he could hear the policeman shouting, there were answering jeers, scuffling noises and, finally, silence.
Smith sat down and ate. Th
e mess was not particularly good: it tasted vaguely of wood pulp and sour milk. Nonetheless it eased his hunger and he went up to bed.
He woke in the night with his head throbbing and a swirling kind of nausea, but the feeling passed.
When morning came he reheated the remains of the substance, ate and went to work.
Scowling, suspicious faces watched him from nearby windows and a group of men on a comer shook their fists but there was no direct violence. He realized, however, that later there might be. He ought to get something to protect himself. He had a hypno-tape on weapons at home, maybe he could make something.
He stopped at a hardware store and made a few purchases.
“Twelve days life only.” The autoserve informed him. “Consequent reduction sixty-five per cent.”
When Smith reached the centre of the town he became aware of drastic and frightening changes. Stalled cars, their life run out, Uttered the streets. Squads of men were pushing them to the side of the road but he was compelled to weave between the remaining cars.
The biggest shock, however, were the gaps in the familiar street. The ‘Safety And Life’ assurance building was a huge heap of dust which had spilled itself half-way across the road. ‘General Purveyors’ had also gone; ‘Speedsafe Motors Inc. – a warehouse. When he arrived at his place of work—a finance company—the entire staff was standing outside.
“All right, you can go home, the computers have packed in.” The area manager mopped his head despairingly. “We can get neither pens, papers or ledgers, so you can’t even carry on with the simple stuff. In any case, half the sectors have sent us no figures to work on.”
He suddenly glowered and waved his arms. “It’s no damn good looking at me like that. I can’t help it—go home.”
Smith drove back slowly. There seemed more cars in the road and another building had collapsed.
An ambulance stood waiting in the road while a squad of volunteers dug desperately in the dust.
These Savage Futurians Page 6
