Quite evidently Dr. Rambeau had found it so; he had been informed that the doctor had been increasingly neurotic from the first instance of erratic performance of the deKalb receptors.
He regretted the loss of Dr. Rambeau. Waldo was more impressed by Rambeau crazy than he had ever been by Rambeau sane. Apparently the man had had some modicum of ability after all; he had found out something—more, Waldo admitted, than he himself had been able to find out so far, even though it had driven Rambeau insane.
Waldo had no fear that Rambeau’s experience, whatever it had been, could unhinge his own reason. His own self-confidence was, perhaps, fully justified. His own mild paranoid tendency was just sufficient to give him defenses against an unfriendly world. For him it was healthy, a necessary adjustment to an otherwise intolerable situation, no more pathological than a callus, or an acquired immunity.
Otherwise he was probably more able to face disturbing facts with equanimity than 99 per cent of his contemporaries. He had been born to disaster; he had met it and had overcome it, time and again. The very house which surrounded him was testimony to the calm and fearless fashion in which he had defeated a world to which he was not adapted.
He exhausted, temporarily, the obvious lines of direct research concerning the strangely twisting metal rods. Rambeau was not available for questioning. Very well, there remained one other man who knew more about it than Waldo did. He would seek him out. He called Stevens again.
“Has there been any word of Dr. Rambeau?”
“No word, and no sign. I’m beginning to think the poor old fellow is dead.”
“Perhaps. That witch doctor friend of your assistant—was Schneider his name?”
“Gramps Schneider.”
“Yes indeed. Will you please arrange for him to speak with me.”
“By phone, or do you want to see him in person?”
“I would prefer for him to come here, but I understand that he is old and feeble; it may not be feasible for him to leave the ground. If he is knotted up with spacesickness, he will be no use to me.”
“I’ll see what can be done.”
“Very good. Please expedite the matter. And, Dr. Stevens—”
“Well?”
“If it should prove necessary to use the phone, arrange to have a portable full stereo taken to his home. I want the circumstances to be as favorable as possible.”
“O.K.”
“Imagine that,” Stevens added to McLeod when the circuit had been broken. “The Great-I-Am’s showing consideration for somebody else’s convenience.”
“The fat boy must be sick,” McLeod decided.
“Seems likely. This chore is more yours than mine, Mac. Come along with me; we’ll take a run over into Pennsylvania.”
“How about the plant?”
“Tell Carruthers he’s ‘It.’ If anything blows, we couldn’t help it anyway.”
Stevens mugged back later in the day. “Mr. Jones—”
“Yes, Doctor?”
“What you suggest can’t be arranged.”
“You mean that Schneider can’t come to Freehold?”
“I mean that and I mean that you can’t talk with him on the viewphone.”
“I presume that you mean he is dead.”
“No, I do not. I mean that he will not talk over the viewphone under any circumstances whatsoever, to you or to anyone. He says that he is sorry not to accommodate you, but that he is opposed to everything of that nature—cameras, cinécams, television, and so forth. He considers them dangerous. I am afraid he is set in his superstition.”
“As an ambassador, Dr. Stevens, you leave much to be desired.”
Stevens counted up to ten, then said, “I assure you that I have done everything in my power to comply with your wishes. If you are dissatisfied with the quality of my co-operation, I suggest that you speak to Mr. Gleason.” He cleared the circuit.
“How would you like to kick him in the teeth?” McLeod said dreamily.
“Mac, you’re a mind reader.”
Waldo tried again through his own agents, received the same answer. The situation was, to him, almost intolerable; it had been years since he had encountered a man whom he could not buy, bully, nor—in extremity—persuade. Buying had failed; he had realized instinctively that Schneider would be unlikely to be motivated by greed. And how can one bully, or wheedle, a man who cannot be seen to be talked with?
It was a dead end—no way out. Forget it.
Except, of course, for a means classed as a Fate-Worse-Than-Death.
No. No, not that. Don’t think about it. Better to drop the whole matter, admit that it had him licked, and tell Gleason so. It had been seventeen years since he had been at Earth surface; nothing could induce him to subject his body to the intolerable demands of that terrible field. Nothing!
It might even kill him. He might choke to death, suffocate. No.
He sailed gracefully across his shop, an overpadded Cupid. Give up this freedom, even for a time, for that torturous bondage? Ridiculous! It was not worth it.
Better to ask an acrophobe to climb Half Dome, or demand that a claustrophobe interview a man in the world’s deepest mine.
“UNCLE GUS?”
“Oh, hello, Waldo. Glad you called.”
“Would it be safe for me to come down to Earth?”
“Eh? How’s that? Speak up, man. I didn’t understand you.”
“I said would it hurt me to make a trip down to Earth.”
“This hookup,” said Grimes, “is terrible. It sounded just like you were saying you wanted to come down to Earth.”
“That’s what I did say.”
“What’s the matter, Waldo? Do you feel all right?”
“I feel fine, but I have to see a man at Earth surface. There isn’t any other way for me to talk to him, and I’ve got to talk to him. Would the trip do me any harm?”
“Ought not to, if you’re careful. After all, you were born there. Be careful of yourself, though. You’ve laid a lot of fat around your heart.”
“Oh dear. Do you think it’s dangerous?”
“No. You’re sound enough. Just don’t overstrain yourself. And be careful to keep your temper.”
“I will. I most certainly will. Uncle Gus?”
“Yes?”
“Will you come along with me and help me see it through?”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“Please, Uncle Gus. I don’t trust anybody else.”
“Time you grew up, Waldo. However, I will, this once.”
“NOW REMEMBER,” WALDO TOLD THE pilot, “the absolute acceleration must never exceed one and one tenth gs, even in landing. I’ll be watching the accelograph the whole time.”
“I’ve been driving ambulances,” said the pilot, “for twelve years, and I’ve never given a patient a rough ride yet.”
“That’s no answer. Understand me? One and one tenth; and it should not even approach that figure until we are under the stratosphere. Quiet, Baldur! Quit snuffling.”
“I get you.”
“Be sure that you do. Your bonuses depend on it.”
“Maybe you’d like to herd it yourself.”
“I don’t like your attitude, my man. If I should die in the tank, you would never get another job.”
The pilot muttered something.
“What was that?” Waldo demanded sharply.
“Well, I said it might be worth it.”
Waldo started to turn red, opened his mouth.
Grimes cut in, “Easy, Waldo! Remember your heart.”
“Yes, Uncle Gus.”
Grimes snaked his way forward, indicated to the pilot that he wanted him to join him there.
“Don’t pay any attention to anything he says,” he advised the man quietly, “except what he said about acceleration. He really can’t stand much acceleration. He might die in the tank.”
“I still don’t think it would be any loss. But I’ll be careful.”
�
��Good.”
“I’m ready to enter the tank,” Waldo called out. “Will you help me with the straps, Uncle Gus?”
The tank was not a standard deceleration type, but a modification built for this one trip. The tank was roughly the shape of an oversized coffin and was swung in gimbals to keep it always normal to the axis of absolute acceleration. Waldo floated in water—the specific gravity of his fat hulk was low—from which he was separated by the usual flexible, gasketed tarpaulin. Supporting his head and shoulders was a pad shaped to his contour. A mechanical artificial resuscitator was built into the tank, the back pads being under water, the breast pads out of the water but retracted out of the way.
Grimes stood by with neoadrenalin; a saddle had been provided for him on the left side of the tank. Baldur was strapped to a shelf on the right side of the tank; he acted as a counterweight to Grimes.
Grimes assured himself that all was in readiness, then called out to the pilot, “Start when you’re ready.”
“O.K.” He sealed the access port; the entry tube folded itself back against the threshold flat of Freehold, freeing the ship. Gently they got under way.
Waldo closed his eyes; a look of seraphic suffering came over his face.
“Uncle Gus, suppose the deKalbs fail?”
“No matter. Ambulances store six times the normal reserve.”
“You’re sure?”
When Baldur began to feel weight, he started to whimper. Grimes spoke to him; he quieted down. But presently—days later, it seemed to Waldo—as the ship sank farther down into the Earth’s gravitational field, the absolute acceleration necessarily increased, although the speed of the ship had not changed materially. The dog felt the weary heaviness creeping over his body. He did not understand it and he liked it even less; it terrified him. He began to howl.
Waldo opened his eyes. “Merciful heavens!” he moaned. “Can’t you do something about that? He must be dying.”
“I’ll see.” Grimes undid his safety belt and swung himself across the tank. The shift in weight changed the balance of the load in the gimbals; Waldo was rocked against the side of the tank.
“Oh!” he panted. “Be careful.”
“Take it easy.” Grimes caressed the dog’s head and spoke to him. When he had calmed down, Grimes grabbed a handful of hide between the dog’s shoulders, measured his spot, and jabbed in a hypo. He rubbed the area. “There, old fellow! That will make you feel better.”
Getting back caused Waldo to be rocked again, but he bore it in martyred silence.
The ambulance made just one jerky maneuver after it entered the atmosphere. Both Waldo and the dog yelped. “Private ship,” the pilot yelled back. “Didn’t heed my right-of-way lights.” He muttered something about women drivers.
“It wasn’t his fault,” Grimes told Waldo. “I saw it.”
The pilot set them down with exquisite gentleness in a clearing which had been prepared between the highway and Schneider’s house. A party of men was waiting for them there; under Grimes’s supervision they unslung the tank and carried Waldo out into the open air. The evolution was performed slowly and carefully, but necessarily involved some degree of bumping and uneven movement. Waldo stood it with silent fortitude, but tears leaked out from under his lowered lids.
Once outside he opened his eyes and asked, “Where is Baldur?”
“I unstrapped him,” Grimes informed him, “but he did not follow us out.”
Waldo called out huskily, “Here, Baldur! Come to me, boy.”
Inside the car the dog heard his boss’s voice, raised his head, and gave a low bark. He still felt that terrifying sickness, but he inched forward on his belly, attempting to comply. Grimes reached the door in time to see what happened.
The dog reached the edge of his shelf and made a grotesque attempt to launch himself in the direction from which he had heard Waldo’s voice. He tried the only method of propulsion he knew; no doubt he expected to sail through the door and arrest his flight against the tank on the ground. Instead he fell several feet to the inner floor plates, giving one agonized yelp as he did so, and breaking his fall most clumsily with stiffened forelegs.
He lay sprawled where he had landed, making no noise, but not attempting to move. He was trembling violently.
Grimes came up to him and examined him superficially, enough to assure him that the beast was not really hurt, then returned to the outside. “Baldur’s had a little accident,” he told Waldo; “he’s not hurt, but the poor devil doesn’t know how to walk. You had best leave him in the ship.”
Waldo shook his head slightly. “I want him with me. Arrange a litter.”
Grimes got a couple of men to help him, obtained a stretcher from the pilot of the ambulance, and undertook to move the dog. One of the men said, “I don’t know as I care for this job. That dog looks vicious. Look’t those eyes.”
“He’s not,” Grimes assured him. “He’s just scared out of his wits. Here, I’ll take his head.”
“What’s the matter with him? Same thing as the fat guy?”
“No, he’s perfectly well and strong; he’s just never learned to walk. This is his first trip to Earth.”
“Well, I’ll be a cross-eyed owl!”
“I knew a case like it,” volunteered the other. “Dog raised in Lunopolis—first week he was on Earth he wouldn’t move—just squatted down, and howled, and made messes on the floor.”
“So has this one,” the first said darkly.
They placed Baldur alongside Waldo’s tub. With great effort Waldo raised himself on one elbow, reached out a hand, and placed it on the creature’s head. The dog licked it; his trembling almost ceased. “There! There!” Waldo whispered. “It’s pretty bad, isn’t it? Easy, old friend, take it easy.”
Baldur thumped his tail.
It took four men to carry Waldo and two more to handle Baldur. Gramps Schneider was waiting for them at the door of his house. He said nothing as they approached, but indicated that they were to carry Waldo inside. The men with the dog hesitated. “Him, too,” he said.
When the others had withdrawn—even Grimes returned to the neighborhood of the ship—Schneider spoke again. “Welcome, Mr. Waldo Jones.”
“I thank you for your welcome, Grandfather Schneider.”
The old man nodded graciously without speaking. He went to the side of Baldur’s litter. Waldo felt impelled to warn him that the beast was dangerous with strangers, but some odd restraint—perhaps the effect of that enervating gravitational field—kept him from speaking in time. Then he saw that he need not bother.
Baldur had ceased his low whimpering, had raised his head, and was licking Gramps Schneider’s chin. His tail thumped cheerfully. Waldo felt a sudden tug of jealousy; the dog had never been known to accept a stranger without Waldo’s specific injunction. This was disloyalty—treason! But he suppressed the twinge and coolly assessed the incident as a tactical advantage to him.
Schneider pushed the dog’s face out of the way and went over him thoroughly, prodding, thumping, extending his limbs. He grasped Baldur’s muzzle, pushed back his lips, and eyed his gums. He peeled back the dog’s eyelids. He then dropped the matter and came to Waldo’s side. “The dog is not sick,” he said; “his mind confuses. What made it?”
Waldo told him about Baldur’s unusual background. Schneider nodded acceptance of the matter—Waldo could not tell whether he had understood or not—and turned his attention to Waldo. “It is not good for a sprottly lad to lie abed. The weakness—how long has it had you?”
“All my life, Grandfather.”
“That is not good.” Schneider went over him as he had gone over Baldur. Waldo, whose feeling for personal privacy was much more intense than that of an ordinarily sensitive man, endured it for pragmatic reasons. It was going to be necessary, he felt, to wheedle and cajole this strange old creature. It would not do to antagonize him.
To divert his own attention from the indignity he chose to submit to, and to gain further knowle
dge of the old quack, Waldo let his eyes rove the room. The room where they were seemed to be a combination kitchen-living room. It was quite crowded, rather narrow, but fairly long. A fireplace dominated the kitchen end, but it had been bricked up, and a hole for the flue pipe of the baseburner had been let into the chimney. The fireplace was lopsided, as an oven had been included in its left side. The corresponding space at the right was occupied by a short counter which supported a tiny sink. The sink was supplied with water by a small hand pump which grew out of the counter.
Schneider, Waldo decided, was either older than he looked, which seemed incredible, or he had acquired his house from someone now long dead.
The living room end was littered and crowded in the fashion which is simply unavoidable in constricted quarters. Books filled several cases, were piled on the floor, hung precariously on chairs. An ancient wooden desk, crowded with papers and supporting a long-obsolete mechanical typewriter, filled one corner. Over it, suspended from the wall, was an ornate clock, carved somewhat like a house. Above its face were two little doors; while Waldo looked at it, a tiny wooden bird painted bright red popped out of the lefthand door, whistled “Th-wu th-woo!” four times, and popped frantically back into its hole. Immediately thereafter a little gray bird came out of the righthand door, said “Cuckoo” three times in a leisurely manner, and returned to its hole. Waldo decided that he would like to own such a clock; of course its pendulum-and-weight movement would not function in Freehold, but he could easily devise a one-g centrifuge frame to inclose it, wherein it would have a pseudo Earth-surface environment.
It did not occur to him to fake a pendulum movement by means of a concealed power source; he liked things to work properly.
To the left of the clock was an old-fashioned static calendar of paper. The date was obscured, but the letters above the calendar proper were large and legible: New York World’s Fair—Souvenir of the World of Tomorrow. Waldo’s eyes widened a little and went back to something he had noticed before, sticking into a pincushion on the edge of the desk. It was a round plastic button mounted on a pin whereby it could be affixed to the clothing. It was not far from Waldo’s eyes; he could read the lettering on it:
The Fantasies of Robert A. Heinlein Page 22
