Empire

by Clifford Donald Simak

  "Well," demanded Craven, "what do you want me to do about it? I'm a scientist. I've never owned a share of stock in my life."

  "There's an angle to it that might interest you," said Chambers smoothly, leaning back, puffing at the cigar. "Wrail is a close friend of Manning. And Wrail himself didn't have the money it took to swing those deals. Somebody furnished that money."

  "Manning?" asked Craven.

  "What do you think?"

  "If Manning's mixed up in it," said Craven acidly, "there isn't anything any of us can do about it. You're bucking money and genius together. This Manning is no slouch of a scientist himself and Page is better. They're a combination."

  "You think they're good?" asked Chambers.

  "Good? Didn't they discover material energy?" The scientist glowered at his employer. "That ought to be answer enough."

  "Yes, I know," Chambers agreed irritably. "But can you tell me how they worked this market deal?"

  Craven grimaced. "I can guess. Those boys didn't stop with just finding how to harness material energy. They probably have more things than you can even suspect. They were working with force fields, you remember, when they stumbled onto the energy. Force fields are something we don't know much about. A man monkeying around with them is apt to find almost anything."

  "What are you getting at?"

  "My guess would be that they have a new kind of television working in the fourth dimension, using time as a factor. It would penetrate anything. Nothing could stop it. It could go anywhere, at a speed many times the speed of light ... almost instantaneously."

  Chambers sat upright in his chair. "Are you sure about this?"

  Craven shook his head. "Just a guess. I tried to figure out what I would do if I were Page and Manning and had the things they had. That's all."

  "And what would you do?"

  Craven smiled dourly. "I'd be using that television right in this office," he said. "I'd keep you and me under observation all the time. If what I think is true, Manning is watching us now and has heard every word we said."

  Chambers' face was a harsh mask of anger. "I don't believe it could be done!"

  "Doctor Craven is right," said a quiet voice.

  Chambers swung around in his chair and gasped. Greg Manning stood inside the room, just in front of the desk.

  "I hope you don't mind," said Greg. "I've been wanting to have a talk with you."

  Craven leaped to his feet, his eyes shining. "Three dimensions!" he whispered. "How did you do it?"

  Greg chuckled. "I haven't patented the idea, Doctor. I'd rather not tell you just now."

  "You will accept my congratulations, however?" asked Craven.

  "That's generous of you. I really hadn't expected this much."

  "I mean it," said Craven. "Damned if I don't." Chambers was on his feet, leaning across the desk, with his hand held out. Greg's right hand came out slowly.

  "Sorry, I really can't shake hands," he said. "I'm not here, you know. Just my image."

  Chambers' hand dropped to the desk. "Stupid of me not to realize that. You looked so natural." He sat back in his chair again, brushed his gray mustache. A smile twisted his lips. "So you've been watching me?"

  "Off and on," Greg said.

  "And what is the occasion of this visit?" asked Chambers. "You could have held a distinct advantage by remaining unseen. I didn't entirely believe what Craven told me, you know."

  "That isn't the point at all," declared Greg. "Maybe we can get to understand one another."

  "So you're ready to talk business."

  "Not in the sense you mean," Greg said. "I'm not willing to make concessions, but there's no reason why we have to fight one another."

  "Why, no," said Chambers, "there's no reason for that. I'll be willing to buy your discovery."

  "I wouldn't sell it to you," Greg told him.

  "You wouldn't? Why not? I'm prepared to pay for it."

  "You'd pay the price, all right. Anything I asked ... even if it bankrupted you. Then you'd mark it down to loss, and scrap material energy. And I'll tell you why."

  A terrible silence hung in the room as the two men eyed one another across the table.

  "You wouldn't use it," Greg went on, "because it would remove the stranglehold you have on the planets. It would make power too cheap. It would eliminate the necessity of your rented accumulators. The Jovian moons and Mars could stand on their feet without the power you ship to them. You could make billions in legitimate profits selling the apparatus to manufacture the energy ... but you wouldn't want that. You want to be dictator of the Solar System. And that is what I intend to stop."

  "Listen, Manning," said Chambers, "you're a reasonable man. Let's talk this thing over without anger. What do you plan to do?"

  "I could put my material engines on the market," said Greg. "That would ruin you. You wouldn't move an accumulator after that. Your Interplanetary stock wouldn't be worth the paper it is written on. Material energy would wipe you out."

  "You forget I have franchises on those planets," Chambers reminded him. "I'd fight you in the courts until hell froze over."

  "I'd prove convenience, economy and necessity. Any court in any land, on any planet, would rule for me."

  Chambers shook his head. "Not Martian or Jovian courts. I'd tell them to rule for me and the courts outside of Earth do what I tell them to."

  Greg straightened and backed from the desk. "I hate to ruin a man. You've worked hard. You've built a great company. I would be willing, in return for a hands-off policy on your part, to hold up any announcement of my material energy until you had time to get out, to save what you could."

  Hard fury masked Chambers' face. "You'll never build a material energy engine outside your laboratory. Don't worry about ruining me. I won't allow you to stand in my way. I hope you understand."

  "I understand too well. But even if you are a dictator out on Mars and Venus, even if you do own Mercury and boss the Jovian confederacy, you're just a man to me. A man who stands for things that I don't like."

  Greg stopped and his eyes were like ice crystals.

  "You talked to Stutsman today," he said. "If I were you, I wouldn't let Stutsman do anything rash. Russ Page and I might have to fight back."

  Mockery tinged Chambers' voice. "Am I to take this as a declaration of war, Mr. Manning?"

  "Take it any way you like," Greg said. "I came here to give you a proposition, and you tell me you're going to smash me. All I have to say to you, Chambers, is this—when you get ready to smash me, you'd better have a deep, dark hole all picked out for yourself to hide in. Because I'll hand you back just double anything you hand out."

  CHAPTER TEN

  "One of us will have to watch all the time," Greg told Russ. "We can't take any chances. Stutsman will try to reach us sooner or later and we have to be ready for him."

  He glanced at the new radar screen they had set up that morning beside the bank of other controls. Any ship coming within a hundred miles of the laboratory would be detected instantly and pinpointed.

  The board flashed now. In the screen they saw a huge passenger ship spearing down toward the airport south of them.

  "With the port that close," said Russ, "we'll get a lot of signals."

  "I ordered the Belgium factory to rush work on the ship," said Greg. "But it will be a couple of weeks yet. We just have to sit tight and wait. As soon as we have the ship we'll start in on Chambers; but until we get the ship, we just have to dig in and stay on the defensive."

  He studied the scene in the screen. The ship had leveled off, was banking in to the port. His eyes turned away, took in the laboratory with its crowding mass of machinery.

  "We don't want to fool ourselves about Chambers," he said. "He may not have the power here on Earth that he does on the other planets, but he's got plenty. Feeling the way he does, he'll try to finish us off in a hurry now."

  Russ reached out to the table that stood beside the bank of controls and picked up a small, comp
licated mechanism. Its face bore nine dials, with the needles on three of them apparently registering, the other six motionless.

  "What is that?" asked Greg.

  "A mechanical detective," said Russ. "A sort of mechanical shadow. While you were busy with the stock market stunt, I made several of them. One for Wilson and another for Chambers and still another for Craven." He hoisted and lowered the one in his hand. "This one is for Stutsman."

  "A shadow?" asked Greg. "Do you mean that thing will trail Stutsman?"

  "Not only trail him," said Russ. "It will find him, wherever he may be. Some object every person wears or carries is made of iron or some other magnetic metal. This 'shadow' contains a tiny bit of that ridiculous military decoration that Stutsman never allows far away from him. Find that decoration and you find Stutsman. In another one I have a chunk of Wilson's belt buckle, that college buckle, you know, that he's so proud of. Chambers has a ring made of a piece of meteoric iron and that's the bait for another machine. Have a tiny piece off Craven's spectacles in his machine. It was easy to get the stuff. The force field enables a man to reach out and take anything he wants to, from a massive machine to a microscopic bit of matter. It was a cinch to get the stuff I needed."

  Russ chuckled and put the machine back on the table. He gestured toward it.

  "It maintains a tiny field similar to our television field," he explained. "But it's modified along a special derivation with a magnetic result. It can follow and find the original mass of any metallic substance it may contain."

  "Clever," commented Greg.

  Russ lit his pipe, puffed comfortably. "We needed something like that."

  The red light on the board snapped on and blinked. Russ reached out and slammed home the lever, twirled dials. It was only another passenger ship. They relaxed, but not too much.

  "I wonder what he's up to," said Russ.

  Stutsman's car had stopped in the dock section of New York. Crumbling, rotting piers and old tumbledown warehouses, deserted and unused since the last ship sailed the ocean before giving way to air commerce, loomed darkly, like grim ghosts, in the darkness.

  Stutsman had gotten out of the car and said: "Wait here."

  "Yes, sir," said the voice of the driver.

  Stutsman strode away, down a dark street. The televisor kept pace with him and on the screen he could be seen as a darker shape moving among the shadows of that old, almost forgotten section of the Solar System's greatest city.

  Another shadow detached itself from the darkness of the street, shuffled toward Stutsman.

  "Sir," said a whining voice, "I haven't eaten ..."

  There was a swift movement as Stutsman's stick lashed out, a thud as it connected with the second shadow's head. The shadow crumpled on the pavement. Stutsman strode on.

  Greg sucked in his breath. "He isn't very sociable tonight."

  Stutsman ducked into an alley where even deeper darkness lay. Russ, with a delicate adjustment, slid the televisor along, closer to Stutsman, determined not to lose sight of him for an instant.

  The man suddenly turned into a doorway so black that nothing could be seen. Sounds of sharp, impatient rappings came out of the screen as Stutsman struck the door with his stick.

  Brilliant illumination sprang out over the doorway, but Stutsman seemed not to see it, went on knocking. The colors on the screen were peculiarly distorted.

  "Ultra-violet," grunted Greg. "Whoever he's calling on wants to have a good look before letting anybody in."

  The door creaked open and a shaft of normal light spewed out into the street, turning its murkiness to pallid yellow.

  Stutsman stepped inside.

  The man at the door jerked his head. "Back room," he said.

  The televisor slid through the door into the lighted room behind Stutsman. Dust lay thick on the woodwork and floors. Patches of plaster had broken away. Furrows zigzagged across the floor, marking the path of heavy boxes or furniture which had been pushed along in utter disdain of the flooring. Cheap wall-paper hung in tatters from the walls, streaked with water from some broken pipe.

  But the back room was a startling contrast to the first. Rich, comfortable furniture filled it. The floor was covered with a steel-cloth rug and steel-cloth hangings, colorfully painted, hid the walls.

  A man sat under a lamp, reading a newspaper. He rose to his feet, like the sudden uncoiling of springs.

  Russ gasped. That face was one of the best known faces in the entire Solar System. A ratlike face, with cruel cunning printed on it that had been on front pages and TV screens often, but never for pay.

  "Scorio!" whispered Russ.

  Greg nodded and his lips were drawn tight.

  "Stutsman," said Scorio, surprised. "You're the last person in the world I was expecting. Come in. Have a chair. Make yourself comfortable."

  Stutsman snorted. "This isn't a social call."

  "I didn't figure it was," replied the gangster, "but sit down anyway."

  Gingerly Stutsman sat down on the edge of a chair, hunched forward. Scorio resumed his seat and waited.

  "I have a job for you," Stutsman announced bluntly.

  "Fine. It isn't often you have one for me. Three-four years ago, wasn't it?"

  "We may be watched," warned Stutsman.

  The mobster started from his chair, his eyes darting about the room.

  Stutsman grunted disgustedly. "If we're watched, there isn't anything we can do about it."

  "We can't, huh?" snarled the gangster. "Why not?"

  "Because the watcher is on the West Coast. We can't reach him. If he's watching, he can see every move we make, hear every word we say."

  "Who is it?"

  "Greg Manning or Russ Page," said Stutsman. "You've heard of them?"

  "Sure. I heard of them."

  "They have a new kind of television," said Stutsman. "They can see and hear everything that's happening on Earth, perhaps in all the Solar System. But I don't think they're watching us now. Craven has a machine that can detect their televisor. It registers certain field effects they use. They weren't watching when I left Craven's laboratory just a few minutes ago. They may have picked me up since, but I don't think so."

  "So Craven has made a detector," said Greg calmly. "He can tell when we're watching now."

  "He's a clever cuss," agreed Russ.

  "Take a look at that machine now," urged Scorio. "See if they're watching. You shouldn't have come here. You should have let me know and I would have met you some place. I can't have people knowing where my hideout is."

  "Quiet down," snapped Stutsman. "I haven't got the machine. It weighs half a ton."

  Scorio sank deeper into his chair, worried. "Do you want to take a chance and talk business?"

  "Certainly. That's why I'm here. This is the proposition. Manning and Page are working in a laboratory out on the West Coast, in the mountains. I'll give you the exact location later. They have some papers we want. We wouldn't mind if something happened to the laboratory. It might, for example blow up. But we want the papers first."

  Scorio said nothing. His face was quiet and cunning.

  "Give me the papers," said Stutsman, "and I'll see that you get to any planet you want to. And I'll give you two hundred thousand in Interplanetary Credit certificates. Give me proof that the laboratory blew up or melted down or something else happened to it and I'll boost the figure to five hundred thousand."

  Scorio did not move a muscle as he asked: "Why don't you have some of your own mob do this job?"

  "Because I can't be connected with it in any way," said Stutsman. "If you slip up and something happens, I won't be able to do a thing for you. That's why the price is high."

  The gangster's eyes slitted. "If the papers are worth that much to you, why wouldn't they be worth as much to me?"

  "They wouldn't be worth a dime to you."

  "Why not?"

  "Because you couldn't read them," said Stutsman.

  "I can read," retorted the gangster.
r />   "Not the kind of language on those papers. There aren't more than two dozen people in the Solar System who could read it, perhaps a dozen who could understand it, maybe half a dozen who could follow the directions in the papers." He leaned forward and jabbed a forefinger at the gangster. "And there are only two people in the System who could write it."

  "What the hell kind of a language is it that only two dozen people could read?"

  "It isn't a language, really. It's mathematics."

  "Oh, arithmetic."

  "No," Stutsman said. "Mathematics. You see? You don't even know the difference between the two, so what good would the papers do you?"

  Scorio nodded. "Yeah, you're right."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Paris-Berlin express thundered through the night, a gigantic ship that rode high above the Earth. Far below one could see the dim lights of eastern Europe.

  Harry Wilson pressed his face against the window, staring down. There was nothing to see but the tiny lights. They were alone, he and the other occupants of the ship ... alone in the dark world that surrounded them.

  But Wilson sensed some other presence in the ship, someone besides the pilot and his mechanics up ahead, the hostess and the three stodgy traveling men who were his fellow passengers.

  Wilson's hair ruffled at the base of his skull, tingling with an unknown fear that left him shaken.

  A voice whispered in his ear: "Harry Wilson. So you are running away!"

  Just a tiny voice that seemed hardly a voice at all, it seemed at once to come from far away and yet from very near. The voice, with an edge of coldness on it, was one he never would forget.

  He cowered in his seat, whimpering.

  The voice came again: "Didn't I tell you that you couldn't run away? That no matter where you went, I'd find you?"

  "Go away," Wilson whispered huskily. "Leave me alone. Haven't you hounded me enough?"

  "No," answered the voice, "not enough. Not yet. You sold us out. You warned Chambers about our energy and now Chambers is sending men to kill us. But they won't succeed, Wilson."