He could hear Michaela’s soft breathing beside him, there in the dark. He could hear other things, too. They were not mice, he knew. Within the walls, there was a subtle, slow movement, at the threshold of hearing and consciousness. The house was recharging itself. The robot was preparing itself for the next day’s work.
It was mindless; it was not alive; it had no consciousness or sense of ego. It was a machine. But it was a machine so enormously versatile that only miraculous simplicity made its existence possible. How? A new pattern for electronic orbits? Or something quite unimaginable—We can see into the microcosm with the electronic microscope,
Melton thought. But we can’t see far enough. Beyond—
There was an off-beat, distant rhythm in the quiet movement within the walls.
This is the house that Jack built.
This is the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
And so on. Melton followed the nursery rhyme to its conclusion. The inevitable growth, line by line, acquired a sort of horror to him. Yet he could not stop. Pie finished it and started all over.
Who had John French been?
Or what?
Suddenly and sickeningly, he felt the disorientation. Without looking at Michaela, he sprang from bed, fumbled his way downstairs, and stood motionless in the hall, waiting.
There was nothing.
This is the house that Jack built.
This is the rat—
He went out to the kitchen. The cellar door was open. He could not see Phil, but he knew that his brother-in-law was at the foot of the stairs.
“Phil,” he said softly.
“Yes, Bob.”
“Come on up.”
Phil mounted the steps. His pajamaed figure came into view, swaying slightly.
“What’s down there?” Melton asked.
“Nothing.”
“Liquor?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
“Nothing,” Phil said, his eyes glazed and bright. “I stand in the corner, my head against the wall, and . . . I . . . paint—” He slowed down and stopped. “No,” he said after a moment. “It isn’t painting, is it? But I thought—”
“What?”
“The house suited Jack, didn’t it?” Phil said. “But then we don’t know what Jack was or what he wanted. I wonder if he came from the future? Or from another planet? One thing—he certainly came from a place that was rather remarkable.”
“We’re moving,” Melton said. “As soon as I can find a place.”
“All right.”
“Let’s go to bed.”
“Sure,” Phil said. “Why not. Good night, Bob.”
“Good night, Phil.”
For a long time he lay awake, unable to sleep.
This is the house that Jack built.
I wonder if Jack might come back—sometime?
The house suited Jack.
The house was alive.
No, it wasn’t. It was a machine.
Any house could be such a machine—with a little renovation. By Jack.
The machine suited Jack. Sure. But what effect would it have on humans? Mutation! Translation, eventually, into another world? Something thoroughly unusual, at any rate.
Melton was not tempted to find out.
I’ll find an apartment tomorrow, he resolved. And, a little comforted, he went to sleep.
He got home the next evening somewhat early, and let himself into the house without hesitation. Michaela and Phil were in the living room. They were sitting silently, but turned to watch him as he entered.
“I’ve got an apartment,” Melton announced triumphantly. “We can start packing right away. How does that sound?”
“Swell,” Michaela said. “Can we move tomorrow morning?”
“Sure. Jack can have his house back.”
The lights came on, Melton gave them a quick glance.
“Still at it, eh? Well, who cares now? Drink? How about a cocktail. Mike? PH even tackle the icebox tonight.”
“No, thanks.”
“Mm-m. Phil?”
“No. I don’t want any.”
“Well, I do,” Melton said. He went into the kitchen, decided against ice cubes after all, and came back with a straight shot in a tiny glass. “Are we eating out tonight?” he demanded.
“Oh,” Michaela said. “I forgot dinner again.”
“I think we’d better move tomorrow,” Melton said, “if not tonight.” He sat down. “It’s too early to eat now, but we can kill time with a drink or two.” He looked at the clock. It was 4:20.
He looked again.
It was 10:40.
Nothing had changed. But the sky was black outside the window. Outside of that, nothing had altered; Michaela and Phil had not moved, and Melton’s drink was untasted in his hand.
For a moment he thought wildly of amnesia. Then he realized that the truth was much simpler. He had simply let his mind go blank—he could even remember doing it—so that the time had, incredibly, slipped past until—
It was 10:40.
The shock of disorientation came, more slowly this time. It passed and was gone.
Neither Michaela nor Phil moved.
Melton looked at the clock. Simultaneously he felt a leaden, dull blankness creeping over his mind. This is like hibernation, he thought; gray, formless, without—
It was 8:12.
The sky was blue outside. The river was blue. Morning sunlight blazed on green patterns of leaves.
“Mike,” Melton said.
“Yes, Bob.”
It was 3:35.
But it was not time that had altered. Melton knew that very clearly. The fault lay in the house.
It was night.
It was 9:20.
The telephone rang. Melton reached out and lifted the receiver from its cradle.
“Hello,” he said.
Dr. Farr’s distant voice sounded loud in the still, hot room. Michaela and Phil sat like carved figures under the bright overhead light. Presently Melton said, “No. No, we changed our minds. We’re not going to move—”
He hung up.
Hibernation, he thought. The process had cumulative acceleration. For this was the house that Jack built. This was the den that Jack built. Some races—not human races—may need periods of hibernation. And they will build robot machines—very simple machines—to care for them while they sleep.
Adaptable machines. Machines that can adapt to other organisms. Human organisms. With a difference.
Hibernation for Jack—yes. But for Melton and Michaela and Phil—It wouldn’t work out in quite the same manner. For they were not of Jack’s breed or race.
“We’re never going to move,” Melton said softly, and saw that it was 1:03.
Within the walls the machine stirred, recharging itself. Moonlight came through the windows, distorted by some quality in the dear panes. The three figures sat motionless, not even waiting now, in the house that Jack built.
THE END.
THE FAIRY CHESSMAN
First of Two Parts.
The weirdest weapon ever conceived attacked’ not the ’mighty defensive screens, but the defending technical minds. It was a simple idea—but simply devastating. All it did was deny the basis of the scientific method!
I.
The doorknob opened a blue eye and looked at him. Cameron stopped moving. He didn’t touch the knob. He pulled back his hand and stood motionless, watching.
Then, when nothing happened, he stepped to one side. The black pupil of the eye swiveled in that direction. It watched him.
Deliberately he turned his back and walked slowly toward a window valve. The circular pane lightened to transparency as he approached. In a moment he stood before it, two fingers checking his pulse beat, while he automatically counted his respiration.
The window showed a green, rolling countryside, checkered with the shadows of drifting clouds.
Golden sunlight brightened the spr
ing flowers on the slopes. A helicopter moved silently across the blue sky.
The big, gray-haired man finished checking his pulse and waited, not wanting to turn around just yet. He stared at the peaceful landscape. Then, with a faint sound of impatience, he touched a stud. The pane swung aside into the wall.
Beyond the gap was red darkness, and the sound of thunder.
Shapes swam out of the gloom of the underground city, immense, blocky colossi of stone and metal. Somewhere a deep, rhythmic breathing made a distant roar; a mechanical rales rasped in the titan pump’s beat. Static lightnings flickered occasionally, their duration too brief to show much of Low Chicago.
Cameron leaned forward, tilting his head back. Far above he could see only a deepening of the shadow, except when the necklaces of pallid lightning raced across the stone sky. And below was nothing but a pit of blackness.
Still, this was reality. The solid, sensible machines in the cavern made a sound foundation to logic, the logic on which the world was built today. A little heartened, Cameron drew back and closed the pane. Again blue skies and green hills were apparently outside the window.
He turned. The doorknob was a doorknob, nothing more. It was plain, solid metal.
He rounded the desk and walked quickly forward. His hand reached out and closed firmly on the metal.
His fingers sank into it. It was half-solid jelly.
Robert Cameron, Civilian Director of Psychometrics, went back to his desk and sat down. He pulled a bottle from his desk and poured himself a shot. His gaze wasn’t steady. It kept shifting around the desk, never settling steadily on any one object. Presently he pushed a button.
Ben DuBrose, Cameron’s confidential secretary, came in, a short, heavy-set man of thirty, with pugnacious blue eyes and untidy taffy-colored hair. He seemed to have no trouble with the doorknob. Cameron didn’t meet the gaze of those blue eyes.
He said sharply, “I just noticed my televisor’s off. Did you do that?”
DuBrose grinned. “Why, chief—it doesn’t matter, does it? All the incoming calls come through my board anyway.”
“Not all of them,” Cameron said. “Not the ones from GHQ. You’re getting too smart. Where’s Seth?”
“I don’t know,” DuBrose said, frowning faintly. “Wish I did. He—”
“Shut up.” Cameron had turned the visor to Receive. A hysterical buzzing sounded. The director looked up accusingly. DuBrose noticed the lines of tension about the older man’s eyes, and cold, frantic panic struck into his stomach. He wondered if he could smash the visor—but that wouldn’t help now. Where was Seth?
“Scrambler,” a voice said.
“Scrambler on,” Cameron grunted. His strong, big-knuckled hands moved lightly over switches.
A face checkered in on the screen.
The Secretary of War said, “Cameron? What’s wrong with that office of yours? I’ve been trying to locate you—”
“Well, now you’ve got me. Since you’re using this call number, it must be important. What’s up?”
“I can’t tell you over the visor. Not even through the scrambler. Perhaps I made a mistake in explaining as much as I did to your man—DuBrose. Is he trustworthy?”
Cameron met DuBrose’s blank stare. “Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, DuBrose is all right. Well?”
“I’ll have a man pick you up in half an hour. There’s something I want you to see! Usual precautions. This is priority emergency. All right?”
“I’ll be ready, Kalender,” the director said, and broke the contact. He laid his hands flat on the desk and watched them.
“All right, have me court-martialed,” DuBrose said.
“When did Kalender drop in?”
“This morning. Look, chief—I’ve got a reason. A good one. I tried to explain it to Kalender, but he’s a brass hat. I didn’t have enough stars on my shoulder to impress him.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Something I don’t think you should know yet. Seth would back me up on that, too. You’d trust him. And—look, I passed my psych tests with honors or I wouldn’t be here with you. There’s a psychological problem here and the factors indicate that you shouldn’t know the set-up until—”
“Until what?”
DuBrose bit a thumbnail. “Anyway till I check with Seth. It’s important that you shouldn’t get mixed up in this affair right now. The whole thing’s paradoxical. I may be all wrong, but if I’m right—you don’t know how right that is!”
Cameron said, “So you think Kalender’s making a mistake in approaching me directly. Why?”
“That’s exactly what I don’t want to tell you. Because if I did, it would—screw things up.”
Cameron sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Forget it,” he said, his voice tired. “I’m the guy in charge of this department, Ben. It’s my responsibility.” He stopped and looked sharply at DuBrose. “That word must have a plenty high emotional index to you.”
“What word?” DuBrose said flatly.
“Responsibility. You reacted plenty.”
“A flea bit me.”
“So. Well, it’s the truth. If there’s a priority emergency in psych, it’s my business to know about it.
The war won’t stop while I take a recess.”
DuBrose picked up the bottle and shook it.
“Buy yourself one,” Cameron said, shoving the cup forward. The secretary poured out amber fluid. He managed to drop the pill into the whiskey without attracting Cameron’s attention.
But he didn’t drink. He lifted the cup, sniffed, and set it down again. “Too early for me, I guess. I do my best drinking at night. Do you know where I can reach Seth?”
“Oh, shut up,” Cameron said. He sat staring at the cup without seeing it. DuBrose went to the window and looked at the projected landscape there.
“Looks like rain.”
“Not under here,” Cameron said. “Nohow.”
“On the surface, however . . . look. Let me go along, anyhow.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you make me sick,” Cameron said tersely. DuBrose shrugged and went out. As he reached for the doorknob he felt the director’s eyes upon him, but he didn’t turn.
He went quickly to the communications board, ignoring the receptive smile of the girl who sat before the flickering panel.
“Get hold of Seth Pell,” DuBrose said, curiously conscious of the tone of flat hopelessness in his voice. “Try everywhere. Keep trying.”
“Important?”
“Yeah . . . plenty!”
“General broadcast?”
“I . . . no,” DuBrose said. He ruffled his yellow hair distractedly. “I can’t. No authorization. You’d think those pot-heads in charge would allow for—”
“The chief would O.K. it.”
“That’s what you think. No dice, Sally. Just try your best, that’s all. I may be going out, but I’ll call back. Find out where I can reach Seth, anyhow.”
“Something must be up,” Sally hinted. DuBrose gave her a thin, crooked smile and turned away.
Praying silently, he went back to Cameron’s office.
The director had the window open and was staring out at the red-lit darkness. DuBrose slanted a quick glance at the desk. The cup was empty of whiskey, and an uncontrollable tremor of relief shook him. Though even now—
Cameron didn’t turn. He said, “Who is it?” A layman would not have noticed a difference in the director’s voice, but DuBrose was no layman. He could tell that the alkaloid had already reached Cameron’s brain, via the bloodstream.
“It’s Ben.”
“Oh.”
DuBrose watched the slight swaying of the big figure at the window. That should wear off soon, though. The disorientation period was very brief. He blessed the lucky chance that he had had a package of Pix in his pocket. Not that it was a coincidence; most war-men carried them. When you work on desperately overtime schedules, the slow process of getting drunk is
a nuisance and hangovers are an occupational risk. Some bright chemist had taken time off to fool around with alkaloids and create Pix, tiny, tasteless pills that had all the impact of 100 proof Scotch. They created and maintained that roseate glow of synthetic euphoria which has been popular since man first noticed grapes fermenting. It was one of the reasons why war workers were willing to plug away at their interminable jobs indefinitely, in the long deadlock that had existed since both nations decentralized and dug in. The population in general, oddly enough, seemed to live a more secure and contented life than before the war; the actual job of battle planning and operation was limited to GHQ and its subsidiaries. In extremely specialized warfare, there is room only for specialists, especially since neither country used troops any more. Even PFCs were made of metal.
The set-up would have been impossible without the booster charge of World War II. As the first World War had stimulated the use of air power in the second inter-global conflict, so the war of the nineteen-forties had stimulated the techniques of electronics—among other things. And when the first blasting attack of the Falangists, on the other side of the planet, had come, the western hemisphere was not only prepared, but could work its war machine with slightly miraculous speed and precision.
War needs no motive. But probably imperialism, as much as anything, was the motive behind the Falangists’ attack. They were a hybrid race, as Americans had once been; a new nation that had arisen after World War II. The social, political and economic tangle of Europe had ended in a free state, a completely new country. The blood of a dozen races, Croats, Germans, Spanish, Russian, French, English, mingled in the Falangists. For the Falangists were émigrés from all Europe into a new free state with arbitrary and well-guarded borders. It was a new melting-pot of races.
And, in the end, the Falangists unified, drawing their name from Spain, their technology from Germany, and their philosophy from Japan. They were a mélange as no other nation had ever been: black, yellow and white stirred up together in a cauldron under which a fire had been kindled. They spoke of a new racial unity; their enemy called them mongrels, and it was impossible to decide. Once American colonizers had pioneered westward. But there were no new lands for the Falangists.
Collected Fiction Page 470
