by Five Odd
We started out to look for George Zamorey, who was the man who had written the article which sparked off the Sedgeware attitude.
He was a young, nice-looking fellow. When he saw us he looked puzzled, but not puzzled enough.
"So you're the one," said Dick. "I thought we'd have to go further, find who told you to say that"
"I don't know what you're talking about," said Zamorey.
"Oh yes, you do. Have you by any chance got four friends?"
He was watching Zamorey very closely. Zamorey's reaction couldn't have been right, however. Dick was disappointed, and made no effort to hide it.
"What do you know, Zamorey?" he demanded.
"I don't know what you—"
"We havent time," said Dick impatiently. "Brent, youll have to persuade him."
I never liked strong-arm methods, and if I'd known more of what was going on Fd have stopped Brent. I wish I had anyway. Zamorey must have had a poison sac in his mouth. After five minutes of Brent's treatment Zamorey went limp and we found he was dead.
"One lead gone," said Dick. "Well have to be more careful with the other one."
We flew to Benoit City, all of us. I went straight to Morrissey and had him send for Jenson.
He was almost too quick for us. He came all right, but almost before he'd opened the door, certainty before he'd entered the room, he'd seen us, slammed the door and was running along the corridor.
We chased him. Dick and I were useless, and Brent, though powerful, was slow. It was lone who tore after Jenson like a greyhound. Brent was next, then Helen, then Dick, with me last.
Nevertheless I saw the capture. lone sent herself flying at Jensen's legs and he came down. Jenson might have handled lone, but he certainly couldn't handle Brent, who was on him in an instant
When I came up, panting, Jenson was being held firmly by Brent and Dick was asking: "Who are your four friends, Jenson?"
To my amazement Jenson made no further resistance. He surrendered immediately and told us all we wanted to know.
Dick didn't find it strange. He said later that Jenson, being a sort of Uniteer himself, knew better than any ordinary person what he was up against and didn't waste any time pretending not to know what we were talking about It still seemed incredible to me that Jenson cracked right away and told us everything.
It was much later that Lorraine, who always liked me, told me the real reason.
Units aren't loyal. They work for good, they work for law and order, they work for progress, because they consider these things better than evil, anarchy and regression. But they aren't loyal. Loyalty is trust beyond reason, and no Unit ever trusted beyond reason.
Units work for the U_A- because the UA is working for things they agree about But if a Unit finds itself in an impossible position, it won't fight to the last man. It'll surrender.
As Jenson surrendered. This is what he told us.
The U.A., after all, wasn't the only organization which could make and train a Unit The Traders had realized that to have any chance against the UA, they'd have to have a Unit of their own. They'd bribed a psychologist to join them, clear five of the Traders and train them as a Unit working for them.
We should have guessed this sooner. It was inevitable that sooner or later anything used by the forces of law and order should be used by the other side too.
"If Kelman or West had done his job properly," Jenson told us, "we'd have beaten you. We knew what you'd decide. We could think as you were going to think. You were to decide our base was Fryon. The Unit on Fryon was to get certain hints once you'd given them the lead. Five of our ships were to be found and destroyed. After that the Traders would go under cover, and it would have been years before the UA bothered us again."
"Very clever," Dick agreed. "Only you were bound to fall anyway, Jenson."
Jenson frowned at that "Because there were so many Units against us? That wouldn't have mattered. We'd have—"
"No, because you weren't a good Unit" said Dick.
"Nonsense. We're every bit as good as you."
Dick shook his head. "No. Because you had to be trained to serve the Traders. You were given a bias."
"I know what you mean," said Jenson, "but you're wrong. We didn't have to be biased. We were Traders already, remember."
"That doesn't matter," said Dick. "You see, whenever you were cleared, you ceased to be Traders. Cleared, you became law-abiding, and if you'd been properly trained you'd have been a genuine Unit You'd have realized the Traders couldnt be allowed to continue, and refused to work for them. They probably didn't tell you about ft, but the men who trained you had to instil a compulsion—loyalty to the Traders. And you know as well as I do that any compulsion decreases the efficiency of a Unit"
Jenson shut his mouth firmly and wouldn't say another word. I think despite the compulsion he realized the truth of what Dick was saying.
We rounded up the rest of the Trader Unit ourselves. It was easy and undramatic. Like Jenson, each of the members we found realized the game was up and gave no trouble.
But there was a grandstand ending to the episode nevertheless—and everybody on Perryon saw at least some of it
In a message to the police, when we were handing over the Trader Unit we mentioned the fleet and its time of arrival. We knew that somehow the Traders would get this information. Although the police in general weren't under Trader control, the Traders were bound to have some access to all important official information.
The time we gave was an hour out
When the Trader fleet took off to make its getaway before the arrival of the fleet it ran right into them.
I've said already that the lucky man really manufactures his luck. Units always seem to be lucky, because they fix things so that chance is generally working for them, not against them.
Only a Unit would have gambled on the chance that the Traders, warned, would rush to their ships and try to get away, giving themselves an hour's leeway. So only for a Unit could it pay off.
The Trader ships tried to fight which was a mistake. Probably why they fought was because the Traders were angry. They hadn't expected anything like this.
From Benoit City we saw the first Trader ship gleaming dull red, then rosy pink, then white. It seemed to light the whole sky. As h came down in a giant arc it must have been visible over a quarter of the surface of Perryon. And before it struck another ship had begun to glow.
The Traders scored a hit on one patrol ship. But it ten times the size of the Trader ships and with more than ten times their defenses, merely glowed with a curious green light and withdrew rapidly from the battle.
Two Trader ships glowed at once and slanted down across the sky, tracing fairy patterns. It was an incredibly beautiful sight. I stared at the wonder of it, and only as the first ship struck with a shock which could be felt but not heard realized with sudden horror that there had been men on that ship.
When I remembered that the battle couldn't be over too soon for me. I understood how an executioner must feeL We had sent those ships up to meet a patrol.
Before that we had left Rhoda Walker to go and warn Kelman and be strangled. We had staged an accident in which Kelman died.
I realized as yet another incandescent ship blazed across the night sky just what it was to be a Unit Father.
The Untteers were amoral. They worked for the general good—but they did it like this, without mercy, without remorse, without the irrational but very human feelings of pity that often stop ordinary human beings doing harsh things they know should be done ... for the general good.
Still another ship blazed through the colon of fire. I turned away. I couldn't take pleasure any more in the excellent job we had done.
"Let's go back to Twendon," I said, "and tell Lorraine all about it"
"Yes, well do that," Dick agreed. And he too tamed his back on the destruction of the Traders.
GONE FISHING
James H. Schmitz
There probably will ne
ver come a society of human beings without its human parasites. The notion that material progress through the invention and development of the technical bases for a universally high standard of living will bring with it a perfecting of man's moral fiber—if it ever really existed, as it may have in some naive minds during the Nineteenth Century—simply will not work. It is not only the lure of "something for nothing" that makes such parasites—con men, blackmailers, what have you—tick, it is also the excitement of using one's wits, the hatred or contempt of conventional society, or the feeling of power that comes from putting something over on another person. These are basic supra-economic motivations for people like Schmitz's "anti-hero."
If all this is so, the only cure (for individual parasites, anyhow) is somehow to change their motivations. This is a noble goal, but just try and do itl Whether the pretty drastic punishment that is envisioned in this story as being used against the successful sharpie who got caught would actually reform him in "real" life is a matter of acerb controversy. However, what is not controversial is the fact that in telling us about it the author has had a ball, and helps us to have one, too.
121
CHARMINGLY VIOLENT!
BARNEY CHARD, THIRTY-SEVEN—FINANCIER, ENTREPRENEUR, occasional blackmailer, occasional con man, and very competent in all these activities—stood on a rickety wooden lake dock, squinting against the late afternoon sun, and waiting for his current business prospect to give up the pretense of being interested in trying to catch fish.
The prospect, who stood a few yards farther up the dock, rod in one hand, was named Dr. Oliver B. McAllen. He was a retired physicist, though less retired than was generally assumed. A dozen years ago he had rated as one of the country's top men in his line. And, while dressed like an aging tramp in what he had referred to as fishing togs, he was at the moment potentially the country's wealthiest citizen. There was a clandestine invention he'd fathered which he called the McAllen Tube. The Tube was the reason Barney Chard had come to see McAllen.
Gently raising and lowering the fishing rod, and blinking out over the quiet water. Dr. McAllen looked preoccupied with disturbing speculations not connected with his sport. The man had a secrecy bug. The invention, Barney thought, had turned out to be bigger than the inventor. McAllen was afraid of the Tube, and in the forefront of his reflections must be the inescapable fact that the secret of the McAllen Tube could no longer be kept without Barney Chard's co-operation. Barney had evidence of its existence, and didn't really need the evidence. A few hints dropped here and there would have made McAllen's twelve years of elaborate precaution quite meaningless.
Ergo, McAllen must be pondering now, how could one persuade Mr. Chard to remain silent?
•But there was a second consideration Barney had planted in the old scientist's mind. Mr. Chard, that knowledgeable man of the world, exuded not at all by chance the impression of great quantities of available cash. His manner, the conservatively tailored business suit, the priceless chip of a platinum watch . . . and McAllen needed cash badly. He'd been fairly wealthy himself at one time; but since he had refrained from exploiting the Tube's commercial possibilities, his continuing work with it was exhausting his capital. At least that could be assumed to be the reason for McAllen's impoverishment, which was a matter Barney had established. In months the old man would be living on beans.
Ergo again, McAllen's thoughts must be running, how might one not merely coax Mr. Chard into silence, but actually get him to come through with some much-needed financial support? What inducement, aside from the Tube, could be offered someone in his position?
Barney grinned inwardly as he snapped the end of his cigarette out on the amber-tinted water. The mark always sells himself, and McAllen was well along in the process. Polite silence was all that was necessary at the moment He lit a fresh cigarette, feeling a mild curiosity about the little lake's location. Wisconsin, Minnesota, Michigan seemed equally probable guesses. What mattered was that half an hour ago McAllen's Tube had brought them both here in a wink of time from his home in California.
Dr. McAllen thoughtfully cleared his throat
"Ever do any fishing, Mr. Chard?" he asked. After getting over his first shock at Barney's revelations, he'd begun speaking again in the brisk, abrupt manner Barney remembered from the last times he'd heard McAllen's voice.
"No," Barney admitted sniiling. "Never quite got around to it"
"Always been too busy, eh?"
"With this and that," Barney agreed.
McAllen cleared his throat again. He was a roly-poly little man; over seventy now but still healthy-looking with an apple-cheeked, sunburned face. Over a pair of steel-rimmed glasses bis faded blue eyes peered musingly at Barney. "Around thirty-five, arent you7"
"Thirty-seven.''
"Married?"
"Divorced."
"Any particular hobbies?"
Barney laughed. "I play a little golf. Not very seriously." McAllen clicked his tongue. "Well, what do you do for fun?"
"Oh ... Td say I enjoy almost anything I get involved in." Barney, still smiling, felt a touch of wariness. He'd been expecting questions from McAllen, but not quite this kind.
"Mainly making money, eh? Well," McAllen conceded, "that's not a bad hobby. Practical, too. I . . . whupl Just a moment"
The tip of the slender rod in his left hand dipped slightly, and sixty feet out beyond the end of the old dock a green and white bobber began twitching about Then the bobber suddenly disappeared. McAllen lifted the rod tip a foot or two with a smooth, swift motion, and paused.
"HookedI" he announced, looking almost childishly pleased.
The fish on the far end of the line didn't seem to put up much of a struggle, but the old man reeled it in slowly and carefully, giving out line from time to time, then taking it back. He seemed completely absorbed. Not until the fish had been worked close to the dock was there a brief minor commotion near the surface. Then McAllen was down on one knee, holding the rod high with one hand, reaching out for his catch with the other. Barney had a glimpse of an unimpressive green and silver disk, reddish froggy eyes. "Very nice crappiel" McAllen informed him with a broad smile. "Now—" He placed the rod on the dock, reached down with his other hand. The fish's tail slapped the water; it turned sideways, was gone.
"Lost hi" Barney commented, surprised.
"Huh?" McAllen looked around. "Well, no, young man— I turned him loose. He wasn't hooked bad. Crappies have delicate lips, but I use a barbless hook. Gives them better than a fighting chance." He stood up with the rod, dusting the knees of his baggy slacks. "Get all the eating fish I want anyway," he added.
"You really enjoy that sport, don't you?" Barney said curiously.
McAllen advised him with the seriousness of the true devotee to try it sometime. "It gets to you. It can get to be a way of living. I've been fishing since I was knee-high. Three years ago I figured I'd become good enough to write a book on the subject I got more arguments over that book—sound arguments too, I'd say—than about any paper I've published in physics." He looked at Barney a moment still seriously, and went on. "I told you wetting a line would calm me down after that upset you gave me. Well, it has—fishing is as good a form of therapy as I know about Now I've been doing some thinking. I'd be interested . . . well, I'd like to talk some more about the Tube with you, Mr. Chard. And perhaps about other things too."
"Very gratifying to hear that, doctor," Barney said gravely. "I did regret having to upset you, you know."
McAllen shrugged. "No harm done. It's given me some ideas. Well talk right here." He indicated the weatherbeaten little cabin on the bank behind Barney. "I'm not entirely sure about the California place. That's one reason I suggested this trip."
"You feel your houseman there mightn't be entirely reliable?"
"Fredericks unreliable? Heavens, not He knows about the Tube, of course, but Fredericks expects me to invent things. It wouldn't occur to him to talk to an outsider. He's been with me for almost forty yea
rs."
"He was," remarked Barney, "listening in on the early part of our conversation today."
"Well, hell do that," McAllen agreed. "He's very curious about anyone who comes to see me. But otherwise . . . no, it's just that in these days of sophisticated listening devices one shouldn't ever feel too sure of not being overheard."
'True enough." Barney glanced up at the cabin. "What makes you so sure of it here, doctor?"
"No reason why anyone would go to the trouble," McAllen said. "The property isnt in my name. And the nearest neighbor lives across the lake. I never come here except by the Tube so I don't attract any attention."
He led the way along the dock. Barney Chard followed, eyes reflectively on the back of McAllen's sunburned neck and the wisps of undipped white hair sticking out beneath his beaked fishing cap. Barney had learned to estimate accurately the capacity for physical violence in people he dealt with. He would have offered long odds that neither Dr. McAllen nor Fredericks, the elderly colored man of all work, had the capacity. But Barney's right hand, slid idly into the pocket of his well-tailored coat, was resting on a twenty-five caliber revolver. This was, after all, a very unusual situation. The human factors in themselves were predictable. Human factors were Barney's specialty. But here they were involved with something unknown—the McAllen Tube.
When it was a question of his personal safety, Barney Chard preferred to take no chances at all.
From the top of the worn wooden steps leading up to the cabin, he glanced back at the lake. It occurred to him there should have been at least a suggestion of unreality about that pladd body of water, and the sun low and red in the west beyond it Not that he felt anything of the kind. But less than an hour ago they had been sitting in McAllen's home in Southern California, and beyond the olive-green window shades it had been bright daylight
"But I can't... I really can't imagine," Dr. McAllen had just finished bumbling, his round face a study of controlled dismay on the other side of the desk, "whatever could have brought you to these . . . these extraordinary conclusions, young man."
