Ability Quotient

by Mack Reynolds

  “Yes. Steps are being taken. We are not without resources. I want you to meet me here at the Octagon.”

  “Where?”

  “The Octagon, in Great Washington. Come immediately. Report to the offices of General Russell Paul.”

  “No you don’t,” Bert Alshuler said flatly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I don’t like the way things are going. I want to know more of the rules of this game before I play any more.”

  “My dear Alshuler, I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I can’t make it much clearer, I’m afraid.”

  The professor said coldly, “According to your dossier and Ability Quotient, you don’t become afraid, Alshuler, or should I say Major Caine?”

  “You should say Alshuler, and if my Ability Quotient says I don’t get afraid, then those tests of yours aren’t as accurate as you think they are. I get very afraid, and that’s one of the reasons I’m still alive, Katz. I’m not coming to the Octagon. I have a sneaking suspicion that you’d have too much muscle there—on the off-chance that I don’t like what you have to say and want to bow out. If I want to bow out, I want to bow out, not be finished off. Oh, you’d be surprised how afraid I can get.”

  The other was miffed and showed it.

  Bert waited it out. Jim Hawkins began to move in to look over his shoulder into the screen, but Bert waved him away. Jim Hawkins was one of the few cards he had up his sleeve and he wanted him to remain there for at least the time.

  Katz said finally, “Very well. The general and I will take the next vacuum-tube to Mid-West University City. We’ll see you shortly.” His face faded.

  Bert turned back to Jim, scowling irritation.

  “General who?” Jim said. “Is it late enough in the day to decently have a drink? Or indecently, for that matter.”

  “No,” Bert said. “Damn it, Jim, stay off the liquor until we find out what’s going on and whose side we’re on. General Paul You remember old “Bugs” Paul. The Octagon yet! I’m beginning to have glimmerings, not to speak of suspicions.”

  Jim said, with mock sadness, “I’d just hate to have somebody hit me the final one while all that good hooch is still in there unconsumed.”

  “Hooch?”

  “Lush, booze, the sauce.”

  “Oh, shut up, you rummy.”

  “Now you’re getting with it. Rummy. I haven’t heard that one for a coon’s age.” In high irritation, Bert went on into the kitchen and acquired a triple decker sandwich. As always after a bout with the brown-pills-turn-you-on-the-green-pills-turn-you-off routine, he was desperately hungry. He had ironed out one thing, with Jim acting as his stooge. Evidently, whatever Marsh had him on speeded up your metabolism fantastically. That was what was burning up the energy. It didn’t make much difference, under this set-up, but he would have thought they’d give him a shot of glucose or something. Was it glucose they gave you for quick energy?

  Still eating the sandwich, he went on back into the living room.

  The lanky Jim, sprawled all over a couch, said, “Old buddy, ore you thinking this out?” He waved, all-embracingly, at the apartment. “Here it is, raining beer—holy smokes, champagne—and you’re in a tizzy. What’s wrong with this deal? How can I suck up to it?”

  Bert glowered at him. “Would you get into a war without even knowing what side you were on?”

  Jim leered. “That’s a good question. First, I’d find out what side was going to win.”

  “Yeah. Well, I’m still at the stage where I’m not really sure what they’re fighting about. Come on, let’s see if Jill is up and around.”

  “Why not just phone her?”

  “Because I don’t know who might be monitoring every call that goes on, in, and around these apartments. The less we use public communications the less business of ours whoever listening in will know.”

  “Holy smokes, you’re really running scared,” Jim protested, unwinding himself from his seat. He followed Bert into the bedroom adjoining Jill’s suite.

  Bert knocked on the door and got no response; knocked again more loudly with the same result, then opened it and called, “Jill?”

  A voice from the living room answered, “Come on in.”

  She was in a comfort chair, coffee cup in hand, and looking wan. “I barricaded the door last night, on the off-chance that one of you two Romeos would try sneaking in.”

  “You’re dated,” Jim told her. “Not Romeos. Sheiks. The men are Sheiks and the girls are Shebas.”

  “We wrestled it out,” Bert told her, “to see who’d make the attempt but it was a draw, so we went to bed.”

  “My heroes,” she sighed.

  Bert then told her about his talk with Katz.

  “The Octagon?” she said. “What in the name of heavens do we have to do with the Octagon?”

  “Evidently, Katz has some general over there he’s in contact with. They’re both coming to give us their story.”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m scared, Bert. I’m a terrible coward I’ll… I’ll stay right here.”

  Jim shook his head and said cheerfully, “Everybody’s getting scared these days.”

  Bert looked at him. “So would you be if you had the brains.”

  Jim grunted. “That’s right. You two are the big brains, aren’t you? That’s why you’ve been selected for this gravy train.”

  Jill said to him, “Oh, stop being silly. How’s your arm?”

  He looked down at it, still in the black sling. “Much better. I wish we’d had some of these new super-drugs back during the war. They’ve gotten to the point where you’re all healed up before you’ve hardly been hit.”

  Bert said to her, “Kay. We’ll meet with our friends and report back to you. You ought to be safe here for a few hours. Be sure you recognize anybody on the door screen before you let them in.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bert Alshuler and Jim Hawkins returned to the other suite just in time to hear the ping of the front door. Bert went to it to find the face of Professor Marsh on the identity screen. He opened up.

  Bert led the way back to the living room.

  Jim looked up from where he was sprawled full length on a couch. “Hi, Doc.”

  Marsh said; “Confound it, are you still here?”

  Bert said, “I’m not sure I’m going to take any more of your treatment until I learn what’s going on.”

  The professor was testy. “Then don’t take any more of those stimulants I gave you. I’d suggest you continue. I am not quite sure what would result if the series was discontinued at this point. I am not even certain that we could pick it up again, after an interim of even a few days.”

  “Hell, I’m in it this far,” Bert said in disgust. “Let’s go.”

  The doctor-professor opened his briefcase and began to bring forth the now familiar hypodermics and injections.

  Jim, watching interestedly, said, “Hey Doc, how about letting me in on this? I’ve always wanted to read War and Peace.”

  Marsh ignored him but looked at Bert in irritation. “You’ve been talking too much.” He readied one of the hypos.

  “Kay. But you haven’t been talking enough,” Bert said. “This party is getting rough and I don’t mind having a little insurance. Jim’s been an insurance policy of mine for a long time.”

  “Old buddy, old buddy,” Jim drawled, “you make our fine, noble friendship sound so mercenary.”

  Bert got three shots this time.

  Marsh said, “Miss Masterson is in the adjoining suite?”

  “That’s right,” Bert said. “What do you want with her?”

  “That is none of your affair.” The other began to repack his briefcase.

  Jim sighed and brought himself erect. “You might as well go through this way. We’ve opened a connecting door with Jill’s apartment.” He led the professor out of the room, and a moment later Bert heard him calling her name and knocking on her bedroom door.

  The phon
e hummed and he went over. Katz’ face was there, evidently he was calling on his pocket phone. He said, “We’ll meet you in the penthouse of the Acropolis Building in about twenty minutes.”

  Bert said, “Who else is going to be there?”

  “No one except General Paul. I understand you have had dealings with him before.”

  “Remotely,” Bert said. “Majors don’t exactly have dealings with three star generals. Kay, I’ll be there.”

  The other faded off.

  Jim returned from the other suite and said, “What’s cooking?”

  Bert said, “Let’s go. That was Katz. We’re to meet him in the penthouse of the Acropolis Building. Know where that is?”

  “Sure. It’s one of the swankiest high-rises in this university city. Do we take our shooters?”

  “From now on, old buddy,” Bert said, a grim quality in his voice, “we take our shooters wherever we go. Listen are you sure you want to be in on this? What’s there in it for you, Jim—besides the possibility of being hit again?” He led the way to the bedroom where they had left their laser pistols.

  Jim followed him, saying, “Old buddy, I smell money. Piles on piles of pseudo-dollars. Everything about this deal reeks with it. And I’ve got an old belief that if you rub against enough people who are well-breaded, some of the crumbs might rub off on you.”

  “Ha,” Bert snorted “And I thought it was affection for your old buddy, old buddy.”

  “Ha,” Jim said, taking up his gun and checking the charge. He tucked the weapon back into his belt again.

  Bert slipped his into the shoulder harness he was still wearing and said, “Let’s go.”

  They remained silent as they sank down into the depths of the Administration Building to the metro station where they took a two-seater, automated vehicle, to the Acropolis Building. The metro there was even more ornate than that of the high-rise where Bert had his quarters. Evidently, the building was very recent.

  At the elevator banks, Bert approached an information screen and said, “I wish to go to the penthouse.”

  “Name and identity number, please.”

  Bert gave them.

  “Yes, Mr. Alshuler. You are expected. Please take Elevator Z.”

  Elevator Z turned out to be the equivalent of the restricted elevator that Bert Alshuler utilized in his own building.

  As they rose to the top floor, Jim looked around the small compartment in wonder. “They’ve done everything but plate it with gold,” he said. “Our race is becoming effete, old buddy. But, as I say, I hope some of it rubs off on me.”

  Bert said, “How quick are you with that shooter, left-handed?”

  The gun was magically in his companion’s hand. And just as magically back in the belt, beneath the jacket again.

  Jim leered at him. “I always was a quicker draw than you, old buddy. Even left-handed. You think we might be using these?”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  The elevator finally came to a halt and the door opened. They emerged onto a scene that was hard to believe could be at the top of a skyscraping building. Fully three quarters of the area was gardens, trees, lawns and pools. There was even a small running stream, issuing from a small hill, rambling through the park and then flowing back into another hillock. There were two rustic wooden bridges over it. The whole had been so designed, so landscaped that there was no feeling of being on a building high in the air.

  “Holy smokes,” Jim said, in awe.

  “Beyond dreams of avarice,” Bert muttered.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  A military figure, though dressed in mufti, approached them. The man was in the later middle years, face expressionless, eyes quizzical and narrow as though in perpetual squint. The body was firm and its health aggressive, an obvious product of the sunlamp, the careful watching of dieting and drinks, the gym and masseur.

  The newcomer put out a long, hard hand. “Major Caine, Captain Hawkins.”

  Jim shook first. “Yes, sir. It’s been quite a while.”

  “That is correct. You were on my staff briefly there in Bangkok, weren’t you, Captain?” He turned to Bert.

  Bert shook his hand, and said, “Not major, mister. And my name is now Albert Alshuler.”

  The other looked at him quizzically. “I seem to remember tendering you a decoration once, ah, Alshuler. In those days you were referred to as Killer Caine.”

  “And you were General Bugs Paul. But that was in those days, not now.”

  The flush that came barely made it through the tan. The general said, abruptly, “The professor is awaiting us in his study.” He turned and started off, adding over his shoulder, “I came to welcome you since the staff has been dismissed. We wished the utmost of privacy.”

  Bert and Jim fell in.

  Bert said conversationally, “Ain’t this quite a layout for a university professor?”

  The general said, “Leonard Katz has private means.”

  “I’ll bet he has.”

  The study let off the garden and they entered it through French windows. It was obviously a scholar’s retreat, no attempt being made to live up to the ostentation of the rest of the establishment. The room was lined with books, largely old and battered, in a day when books have given way to the library boosters connected with the National Data Banks. There was a wide range of paintings on the walls and Bert, no great authority, decided that they were undoubtedly originals. He recognized at least two, a Picasso and a Degas. He had never seen an original of either before, outside a museum. There was a fireplace that evidently was actually utilized, either that or the logs stacked to one side were a clever bit of business. There was a bar in one corner, and there were old style rifles and shotguns in a rack and several heads of game displayed, including a huge American buffalo.

  Professor Leonard Katz was seated, a book in hand, in a battered red easy chair of the old type seldom seen in these days. He came to his feet when they entered, put the book on a cocktail table and came forward to meet them.

  He nodded to Bert Alshuler, shook hands and then turned to Jim Hawkins, his eyebrows high.

  The general said, “This is former Captain James Hawkins, once of my staff before the forming of the Elite Service in which he was Major Caine’s second in command.”

  “Hawkins, Professor Leonard Katz.”

  “Alshuler,” Bert said, “not Caine.”

  Leonard Katz said, “I see.” He shook with Jim Hawkins. “And why did you come to this meeting, my dear Hawkins?”

  Jim wasn’t the type to be easily thrown off. He grinned and said, “When trouble started brewing up for Bert, it seemed just natural for me to come along for the trip.” His voice altered just slightly. “I’m riding shotgun.”

  “Very well,” Katz said. “Sit down, gentlemen. Is it too early in the day to offer you a drink? General, will you do the honors?”

  Jim was the only customer. He winked at Bert. It wasn’t every day you had a three star general rushing the drinks for you.

  When they were all seated, the professor leaned forward, put his fingertips together and looked at Bert. “I understand that you have been having some second thoughts about our… project.”

  Bert crossed his legs, relaxed and said, “It was pointed out to me yesterday that the story of my ranking highest in Ability Quotient was a bit hard to swallow. My fellow nominee for the project indicated my reputation suggested that my true abilities lay in a different field.”

  “Very well, and to what conclusion did this bring you, my dear Alshuler?”

  “That The Establishment, as they used to call it, has something up its sleeve and that I’ve been elected one of the patsies…” He turned his eyes to Jim Hawkins. “Isn’t patsy one of the old terms, Jim?”

  Jim jiggled his glass and said approvingly, “You’re getting on, Killer. Patsy is good.”

  Bert turned back to the professor and general. “Elected one of the patsies to pull some of the chestnu
ts out of the fire. They must be some rather hot chestnuts, considering my reputation—which I’ve been trying to get away from since demobilization.”

  The general was irritated. He said abruptly, “See here, Caine, have you ever wondered why The Establishment, so called, became The Establishment?”

  Bert looked at him politely, and waited.

  “It became The Establishment because those who consisted of it were capable enough to become well established in a dog-eat-dog world. You don’t become established in this world of ours without having more than average on the ball. You know that from your military career. You were inducted a private and were discharged a major, the most decorated man to come out of the Asian War. You, yourself, are part of The Establishment.”

  “Oh now, really,” Bert Alshuler said. “Until the professor’s offer came along, I was on Guaranteed Annual Income. Not exactly munificence.”

  “That was possibly your own fault. I understand that you were offered a dozen lucrative positions by various corporations.”

  “Based on my name. Based on being Killer Caine. I was even offered stardom in some Tri-Di shows. No thanks.”

  The general said, with a bit more heat, The point is that The Establishment—a foolish term—has evolved, Caine. As always, power concentrates. Europe was a hundred thousand small fiefs and baronies during Medieval times. Slowly, she coalesced into kingdoms, then empires. Today, she is Common Europe, one whole. When that term, The Establishment, was first used, it included millions of persons. It included everyone who had an interest in the status quo. It is no longer millions. It has coalesced into a comparative handful. You are being given the chance to become part of this super-establishment, Major Caine.”

  Jim looked at his old buddy and lifted his eyebrows mockingly.

  Bert ignored him and said to the general, “Albert Alshuler, not Major Caine.”

  “See here, Caine. I can turn to that phone screen over there and get in touch with the Octagon. And in half an hour you’ll be called up from reserve… possibly as a private, rather than with a major’s rank.”

  Bert ran a palm over his mouth. “I don’t advise trying, General. That’s one thing about being a national hero. You throw weight. If I howl, the news boys have a field day.”