The Randall Garrett Omnibus: Eleven SF Classics

by Randall Garrett

  "Don't you see, Mr. Bending? The threat of the machine is enough! Even here in your own country, just the knowledge that such machines were to be made at some time in the immediate future would have a disastrous effect! Who would invest in Power Utilities if they knew that within a short time it would be bankrupt? No one would want to buy such stock, and those who had it would be frantically trying to sell what they had. The effect on the banking system would be the same as if the machine were already being used. Your Mr. Roosevelt pointed out that fear was the problem."

  Bending frowned puzzledly. “I don't see—"

  He was interrupted by Dr. Larchmont. “Let me see if I can't give you an analogy, Mr. Bending. Do you know anything about the so-called ‘nerve gases'?"

  "Some,” admitted Sam. “Most of them aren't gases; they're finely dispersed aerosols."

  Larchmont nodded. “Have you any idea how much it takes to kill a man?"

  "A drop or so of the aerosol on the skin is enough, I understand."

  "That's right. Now, how can such a minute amount of poison damage a human being?"

  Bending began to get a glimmer of what the man was driving at. “Well, I know that some of them suppress the enzymic action with acetylcholine, which means that the nerves simply act as though their synapses had been shorted through. It only takes a small percentage of that kind of damage to the nerve fibers to ruin the whole nervous system. The signals get jammed up and confused, and the whole mechanism ceases to function. The victim dies."

  Larchmont nodded. “Now, as I understand it, our banking system is the vital nerve network of our economy. And our system is built on credit-faith, if you will. Destroy that faith-even a small percentage of it-and you destroy the system.

  "If your machine were to go on the market, there would be no more faith in the present utilities system. Their stocks would be worthless long before your machine actually put them out of business. And that would hit our banking system the same way a nerve gas hits the nervous system. And the victim-the American economy-would die. And the nation, as a nation, would die with it."

  "I see,” said Bending slowly. He didn't like the picture at all; it was more frightening than he cared to admit, even to himself. He looked at his business manager. “What do you think, Jim?” he asked softly. He knew he could depend on Luckman.

  Jim Luckman looked worried. “They're right, Sam. Clean, dead right. I know the investment pattern in this country, and I have an idea of what it must be abroad. This country would be in the middle of the worst depression in its history. At least we had Federal help during the Thirties-but there won't even be a United States Government if this hits. Nor, I think, will there be a Soviet government, in spite of what Dr. Artomonov's personal beliefs may be."

  Significantly, the Russian economist said nothing.

  Sam Bending closed his eyes. “I've worked on this thing for years,” he said tensely. “It was ... it means something to me. I invented it. I perfected it.” His voice began to quaver just a little. “But if it's going to do ... to do all that—” He paused and took a deep breath. “All right. I'll smash my apparatus and destroy my plans and forget about it."

  Jim Luckman looked at Secretary Condley. “I don't think that would be fair. Sam's worked hard on this thing. He deserves recognition. And the people of Earth deserve to get this machine somehow. Can't something be worked out?"

  "Certainly,” said Condley. “In some countries, and in some eras, dangerous inventions were suppressed by the simplest method. If it was discovered in time, the inventor was executed summarily, along with anyone else who knew the secret, and the invention was destroyed. The United States isn't that kind of country.” He looked down at his hands and the gold pen again before he went on.

  "Please don't misunderstand, Mr. Bending; we are not trying to keep the Converter under wraps forever. In the first place, I don't think it would be possible. What do you think, Dr. Vanderlin?"

  The Bureau of Standards man said: “I doubt it. Granted, the Converter is not something one would accidentally stumble across, nor automatically deduce from the ‘previous state of the art'. I'll admit frankly that I doubt if I would ever have thought of it. But I doubt gravely that it is so unique that it will never be rediscovered independently."

  "So,” said Condley, “we have no intent to hold it back on that score. And, in the second place, such an invention is too valuable to allow it to be lost.

  "So here is our proposition. You will sell your rights to the Converter to Power Utilities. It won't even be patented in the usual sense; we can't allow the Converter to become public property at this time. We can't make it possible for just anyone to send in a quarter to the Patent Office to find out how it works. That's why we stopped the patent application.

  "But the Government will see that a contract is written up which admits that you are the inventor of the Converter, and which will give you royalties on every unit built. High royalties.

  "Under strict Government supervision, Power Utilities will proceed to liquidate their holdings-slowly, so that there will be no repercussions on an economic level. The danger lies, not in the Converter's replacing existing power equipment, but in the danger of its replacing them too quickly. But with care and control, the adjustment can be made slowly. The process will take about ten years, but you will receive a lump sum, plus a monthly payment, as an advance against future royalties."

  "I see,” said Bending slowly. “That sounds all right to me. What about you, Jim? What do you think?"

  Jim Luckman was smiling again. “Sounds fine to me, Sam. We'll have to work out the terms of the contract, of course, but I think Mr. Olcott and I can see eye to eye."

  Olcott seemed to wince a little. He knew he was over a barrel.

  "I suppose I'll have to be sworn to secrecy, eh?” Bending asked. He was beginning to recover his poise.

  Condley nodded. “You will.” He made his characteristic pause, looking down at the gold pen and back up. “Mr. Bending, don't think that this is the first time this has happened. Yours is not the first dangerous invention that has come up. It just so happens that it's the most dangerous so far. We don't like to have to work this way, but we must. There was simply nothing else to do."

  Sam Bending leaned back in his chair. “That's all right. To be perfectly honest, there are a lot of details that I still don't understand. But I recognize the fact that I'm simply not an economist; I can see the broad outlines plainly enough."

  Dr. Artomonov smiled widely. “I do not understand the details of your machine, either, Mr. Bending, but I understand the broad outlines of its operations well enough to be frightened when I think of what it could do to world economy if it were to be dumped on the market at this time. I am happy to see that America, as well as Mother Russia, can produce patriots of a high order."

  Sam gave him a smile. “Thanks.” He didn't know quite what else to say to a statement like that. “But Jim, here, is going to spend the next several days trotting out facts and figures for me. I want to see just what would take place, if I can wrestle with that kind of data."

  "Oh, brother!” said Jim Luckman softly. “Well, I'll try."

  "I'll have the reports from the computers sent to you,” Condley offered. “They show the whole collapse, step by step."

  Artomonov cast a speculative glance in Condley's direction, but he said nothing.

  "There's one other thing,” Sam said flatly. “The Converter is my baby, and I want to go on working on it. I think Power Utilities might put me on as a permanent consultant, so that I could earn some of the money that's coming in over the next ten years. That way, my royalties won't suffer so much from the advance payments."

  Jim Luckman grinned, and Richard Olcott said: “I thought you said you were no businessman, Mr. Bending."

  "I may be ignorant,” said Sam, “but I'm not stupid. What about it?"

  Olcott glanced at Dr. Larchmont. The little scientist was beaming.

  "Definitely,” he said. “I
want Mr. Bending to show me how he managed to dope that thing out. And, to be perfectly frank, there are a couple of things in there that I don't get at all."

  "That's understandable,” said Dr. Vanderlin. “We only had a few hours to look at the thing. Still, I must admit it's a lulu."

  "That's not what I meant,” Larchmont said. “There are some things in there that would take a long time to figure out without an explanation. I'll admit that—"

  "Wait a minute,” Bending interrupted. “You said ‘a few hours', Dr. Vanderlin. You mean only since this morning?” He grinned. “What happened to the one you got Friday night? Did my fusing device work the first time?"

  Vanderlin looked puzzledly at Larchmont. Larchmont said wonderingly: “Friday? You mean you had two pilot models?"

  Olcott said: “Where was the other? We checked your power drain and saw you weren't using any at your house, so—"

  "I had three models,” Bending said. “I've got one left in my car; you took one from my house, and the third was taken from my lab sometime Friday night. Somebody has it..."

  Condley said: “Dr. Artomonov, do you know anything about this?"

  The Russian shook his head. “Nothing.” He looked plainly frightened. “I assure you, my government knew nothing of this."

  Condley leaped to his feet, said: “Where are those FBI men?” and ran out the door.

  "The black market,” said Bending softly. “They found out somehow."

  "And they've had three days to study it,” Larchmont said. “It's too late now. That thing is probably somewhere in South America by this time."

  Artomonov stood up, his face oddly pale. “You must excuse me, gentlemen. I must get in touch with Moscow immediately.” He strode out of the room.

  The four men remaining in the room just stared at each other for a long moment. There wasn't much else they could do.

  THROUGH TIME AND SPACE WITH BENEDICT BREADFRUIT

  # 5

  On the Planet Tenta I, plants of the melon and related families were so rare that the king himself had issued a royal fiat to protect them. Not knowing this, Benedict Breadfruit's young son started to pick a pumpkin. Fortunately, his father stopped him in time.

  "But why can't I pick a pumpkin, father?” asked the child, “It would be a violation of the Gourd Edict, son."

  DEAD GIVEAWAY

  "Mendez?” said the young man in the blue-and-green tartan jacket. “Why, yes ... sure I've heard of it. Why?"

  The clerk behind the desk looked again at the information screen. “That's the destination we have on file for Scholar Duckworth, Mr. Turnbull. That was six months ago.” He looked up from the screen, waiting to see if Turnbull had any more questions.

  Turnbull tapped his teeth with a thumbnail for a couple of seconds, then shrugged slightly. “Any address given for him?"

  "Yes, sir. The Hotel Byron, Landing City, Mendez."

  Turnbull nodded. “How much is the fare to Mendez?"

  The clerk thumbed a button which wiped the information screen clean, then replaced it with another list, which flowed upward for a few seconds, then stopped. “Seven hundred and eighty-five fifty, sir,” said the clerk. “Shall I make you out a ticket?"

  Turnbull hesitated. “What's the route?"

  The clerk touched another control, and again the information on the screen changed. “You'll take the regular shuttle from here to Luna, then take either the Stellar Queen or the Oriona to Sirius VI. From there, you will have to pick up a ship to the Central Worlds-either to Vanderlin or BenAbram-and take a ship from there to Mendez. Not complicated, really. The whole trip won't take you more than three weeks, including stopovers."

  "I see,” said Turnbull. “I haven't made up my mind yet. I'll let you know."

  "Very well, sir. The Stellar Queen leaves on Wednesdays and the Oriona on Saturdays. We'll need three days’ notice."

  Turnbull thanked the clerk and headed toward the big doors that led out of Long Island Terminal, threading his way through the little clumps of people that milled around inside the big waiting room.

  He hadn't learned a hell of a lot, he thought. He'd known that Duckworth had gone to Mendez, and he already had the Hotel Byron address. There was, however, some negative information there. The last address they had was on Mendez, and yet Scholar Duckworth couldn't be found on Mendez. Obviously, he had not filed a change of address there; just as obviously, he had managed to leave the planet without a trace. There was always the possibility that he'd been killed, of course. On a thinly populated world like Mendez, murder could still be committed with little chance of being caught. Even here on Earth, a murderer with the right combination of skill and luck could remain unsuspected.

  But who would want to kill Scholar Duckworth?

  And why?

  Turnbull pushed the thought out of his mind. It was possible that Duckworth was dead, but it was highly unlikely. It was vastly more probable that the old scholar had skipped off for reasons of his own and that something had happened to prevent him from contacting Turnbull.

  After all, almost the same thing had happened in reverse a year ago.

  Outside the Terminal Building, Turnbull walked over to a hackstand and pressed the signal button on the top of the control column. An empty cab slid out of the traffic pattern and pulled up beside the barrier which separated the vehicular traffic from the pedestrian walkway. The gate in the barrier slid open at the same time the cab door did, and Turnbull stepped inside and sat down. He dialed his own number, dropped in the indicated number of coins, and then relaxed as the cab pulled out and sped down the freeway towards Manhattan.

  He'd been back on Earth now for three days, and the problem of Scholar James Duckworth was still bothering him. He hadn't known anything about it until he'd arrived at his apartment after a year's absence.

  * * * *

  The apartment door sighed a little as Dave Turnbull broke the electronic seal with the double key. Half the key had been in his possession for a year, jealousy guarded against loss during all the time he had been on Lobon; the other half had been kept by the manager of the Excelsior Apartments.

  As the door opened, Turnbull noticed the faint musty odor that told of long-unused and poorly circulated air. The conditioners had been turned down to low power for a year now.

  He went inside and allowed the door to close silently behind him. The apartment was just the same-the broad expanse of pale blue rug, the matching furniture, including the long, comfortable couch and the fat overstuffed chair-all just as he'd left them.

  He ran a finger experimentally over the top of the table near the door. There was a faint patina of dust covering the glossy surface, but it was very faint, indeed. He grinned to himself. In spite of the excitement of the explorations on Lobon, it was great to be home again.

  He went into the small kitchen, slid open the wall panel that concealed the apartment's power controls, and flipped the switch from “maintenance” to “normal.” The lights came on, and there was a faint sigh from the air conditioners as they began to move the air at a more normal rate through the rooms.

  Then he walked over to the liquor cabinet, opened it, and surveyed the contents. There, in all their glory, sat the half dozen bottles of English sherry that he'd been dreaming about for twelve solid months. He took one out and broke the seal almost reverently.

  Not that there had been nothing to drink for the men on Lobon: the University had not been so blue-nosed as all that. But the choice had been limited to bourbon and Scotch. Turnbull, who was not a whisky drinker by choice, had longed for the mellow smoothness of Bristol Cream Sherry instead of the smokiness of Scotch or the heavy-bodied strength of the bourbon.

  He was just pouring his first glass when the announcer chimed. Frowning, Turnbull walked over to the viewscreen that was connected to the little eye in the door. It showed the face of-what was his name? Samson? Sanders. That was it, Sanders, the building superintendent.

  Turnbull punched the opener and said: “Come i
n. I'll be right with you, Mr. Sanders."

  Sanders was a round, pleasant-faced, soft-voiced man, a good ten years older than Turnbull himself. He was standing just inside the door as Turnbull entered the living room; there was a small brief case in his hand. He extended the other hand as Turnbull approached.

  "Welcome home again, Dr. Turnbull,” he said warmly. “We've missed you here at the Excelsior."

  Turnbull took the hand and smiled as he shook it. “Glad to be back, Mr. Sanders; the place looks good after a year of roughing it."

  The superintendent lifted the brief case. “I brought up the mail that accumulated while you were gone. There's not much, since we sent cards to each return address, notifying them that you were not available and that your mail was being held until your return."

  He opened the brief case and took out seven standard pneumatic mailing tubes and handed them to Turnbull.

  Turnbull glanced at them. Three of them were from various friends of his scattered over Earth; one was from Standard Recording Company; the remaining three carried the return address of James M. Duckworth, Ph. Sch., U.C.L.A., Great Los Angeles, California.

  "Thanks, Mr. Sanders,” said Turnbull. He was wondering why the man had brought them up so promptly after his own arrival. Surely, having waited a year, they would have waited until they were called for.

  Sanders blinked apologetically. “Uh ... Dr. Turnbull, I wonder if ... if any of those contain money ... checks, cash, anything like that?"

  "I don't know. Why?” Turnbull asked in surprise.

  Sanders looked even more apologetic. “Well, there was an attempted robbery here about six months ago. Someone broke into your mailbox downstairs. There was nothing in it, of course; we've been putting everything into the vault as it came in. But the police thought it might be someone who knew you were getting money by mail. None of the other boxes were opened, you see, and—” He let his voice trail off as Turnbull began opening the tubes.

  None of them contained anything but correspondence. There was no sign of anything valuable.