But before theoreticians could begin work, new data were most desperately needed. Waldo was no theoretician, a fact he admitted left-handedly in thinking of theory as impractical and unnecessary, time waste for him as a consulting engineer. Let the smooth apes work it out.
But the consulting engineer had to find out one thing: would the Schneider-deKalbs continue to function uninterruptedly as guaranteed? If not, what must be done to assure continuous function?
The most difficult and the most interesting aspect of the investigation had to do with the neurological system in relation to Other Space. Neither electromagnetic instruments nor neural surgery was refined enough to do accurate work on the levels he wished to investigate.
But he had waldoes.
The smallest waldoes he had used up to this time were approximately half an inch across their palms—with micro-scanners to match, of course. They were much too gross for his purpose. He wished to manipulate living nerve tissue, examine its insulation and its performance in situ.
He used the tiny waldoes to create tinier ones.
The last stage was tiny metal blossoms hardly an eighth of an inch across. The helices on their stems, or forearms, which served them as pseudo muscles, could hardly be seen by the naked eye—but, then, he used scanners.
His final team of waldoes used for nerve and brain surgery varied in succeeding stages from mechanical hands nearly life-size down to these fairy digits which could manipulate things much too small for the eye to see. They were mounted in bank to work in the same locus. Waldo controlled them all from the same primaries; he could switch from one size to another without removing his gauntlets. The same change in circuits which brought another size of waldoes under control automatically accomplished the change in sweep of scanning to increase or decrease the magnification so that Waldo always saw before him in his stereo receiver a “life-size” image of his other hands.
Each level of waldoes had its own surgical instruments, its own electrical equipment.
Such surgery had never been seen before, but Waldo gave that aspect little thought; no one had told him that such surgery was unheard-of.
He established, to his own satisfaction, the mechanism whereby short-wave radiation had produced a deterioration in human physical performance. The synapses between dendrites acted as if they were points of leakage. Never impulses would sometimes fail to make the jump, would leak off—to where? To Other Space, he was sure. Such leakage seemed to establish a preferred path, a canalization, whereby the condition of the victim became steadily worse. Motor action was not lost entirely, as both paths were still available, but efficiency was lost. It reminded him of a metallic electrical circuit with a partial ground.
An unfortunate cat, which had become dead undergoing the experimentation, had supplied him with much of his data. The kitten had been born and raised free from exposure to power radiation. He subjected it to heavy exposure and saw it acquire a myasthenia nearly as complete as his own—while studying in minute detail what actually went on in its nerve tissues.
He felt quite sentimental about it when it died.
YET, IF GRAMPS SCHNEIDER WERE right, human beings need not be damaged by radiation. If they had the wit to look at it with the proper orientation, the radiation would not affect them; they might even draw power out of the Other World.
That was what Gramps Schneider had told him to do.
That was what Gramps Schneider had told him to do!
Gramps Schneider had told him he need not be weak!
That he could be strong—
Strong!
STRONG!
He had never thought of it. Schneider’s friendly ministrations to him, his advice about overcoming the weakness, he had ignored, had thrown off as inconsequential. His own weakness, his own peculiarity which made him different from the smooth apes, he had regarded as a basic implicit fact. He had accepted it as established when he was a small child, a final unquestioned factor.
Naturally he had paid no attention to Schneider’s words in so far as they referred to him.
To be strong!
To stand alone—to work, to run!
Why, he…he could, he could go down to Earth surface without fear. He wouldn’t mind the field. They said they didn’t mind it; they even carried things—great, heavy things. Everybody did. They threw things.
He made a sudden convulsive movement in his primary waldoes, quite unlike his normal, beautifully economical rhythm. The secondaries were oversize, as he was making a new setup. The guys tore loose, a brace plate banged against the wall. Baldur was snoozing nearby; he pricked up his ears, looked around, then turned his face to Waldo, questioning him.
Waldo glared at him and the dog whined. “Shut up!”
The dog quieted and apologized with his eyes.
Automatically he looked over the damage—not much, but he would have to fix it. Strength. Why, if he were strong, he could do anything—anything! No. 6 extension waldoes and some new guys—Strong! Absent-mindedly he shifted to the No. 6 waldoes.
Strength!
He could even meet women—be stronger than they were!
HE COULD SWIM. HE COULD ride. He could fly a ship—run, jump. He could handle things with this bare hands. He could even learn to dance!
Strong!
He would have muscles! He could break things.
He could—He could—
He switched to the great waldoes with hands the size of a man’s body. Strong—they were strong! With one giant waldo he hauled from the stock pile a quarter-inch steel plate, held it up, and shook it. A booming rumble. He shook it again. Strong!
He took it on both waldoes, bent it double. The metal buckled unevenly. Convulsively he crumpled it like wastepaper between the two huge palms. The grinding racket raised hackles on Baldur; he himself had not been aware of it.
He relaxed for a moment, gasping. There was sweat on his forehead; blood throbbed in his ears. But he was not spent; he wanted something heavier, stronger. Cutting to the adjoining storeroom he selected an L-beam twelve feet long, shoved it through to where the giant hands could reach it, and cut back to them.
The beam was askew in the port; he wrenched it loose, knocking a big dent in the port frame. He didn’t notice it.
The beam made a fine club in the gross fist. He brandished it. Baldur backed away, placing the control ring between himself and the great hands.
Power! Strength! Smashing, unbeatable strength—
With a spastic jerk he checked his swing just before the beam touched the wall. No—but he grabbed the other end of the club with the left waldo and tried to bend it. The big waldoes were built for heavy work, but the beam was built to resist. He strained inside the primaries, strove to force the great fists to do his will. A warning light flashed on his control board. Blindly he kicked in the emergency overload and persisted.
The hum of the waldoes and the rasp of his own breath were drowned out by the harsh scrape of metal on metal as the beam began to give way. Exulting, he bore down harder in the primaries. The beam was bending double when the waldoes blew out. The right-hand tractors let go first; the fist flung open. The left fist, relieved of the strain, threw the steel from it.
It tore its way through the thin bulkhead, making a ragged hole, crashed and clanged in the room beyond.
But the giant waldoes were inanimate junk.
He drew his soft pink hands from the waldoes and looked at them. His shoulders heaved, and racking sobs pushed up out of him. He covered his face with his hands; the tears leaked out between his fingers. Baldur whimpered and edged closer.
On the control board a bell rang persistently.
THE WRECKAGE HAD BEEN CLEARED away and an adequate, neat patch covered the place where the L-beam had made its own exit. But the giant waldoes had not yet been replaced; their frame was uninhabited. Waldo was busy rigging a strength tester.
It had been years since he had paid any attention to the exact strength of his body. He had had so
little use for strength; he had concentrated on dexterity, particularly on the exact and discriminating control of his namesakes. In the selective, efficient, and accurate use of his muscles he was second to none; he had control—he had to have. But he had had no need for strength.
With the mechanical equipment at hand it was not difficult to jerry-rig a device which would register strength of grip as pounds-force on a dial. A spring-loaded scale and a yoke to act on it sufficed. He paused and looked at the contrivance.
He need only take off the primary waldoes, place his bare hand on the grip, bear down—and he would know. Still he hesitated.
It felt strange to handle anything so large with his bare hand. Now. Reach into the Other World for power. He closed his eyes and pressed. He opened them. Fourteen pounds—less than he used to have.
But he had not really tried yet. He tried to imagine Gramps Schneider’s hands on his arm, that warm tingle. Power. Reach out and claim it.
Fourteen pounds, fifteen—seventeen, eighteen, twenty, twenty-one! He was winning! He was winning!
Both his strength and his courage failed him, in what order he could not say. The needle spun back to zero; he had to rest.
Had he really shown exceptional strength—or was twenty-one pounds of grip simply normal for him at his present age and weight? A normally strong and active man, he knew, should have a grip on the order of one hundred and fifty pounds.
Nevertheless, twenty-one pounds of grip was six pounds higher than he had ever before managed on test.
Try, again. Ten, eleven—twelve. Thirteen. The needle hesitated. Why, he had just started—this was ridiculous. Fourteen.
There it stopped. No matter how he strained and concentrated his driving will he could not pass that point. Slowly, he dropped back from it.
SIXTEEN POUNDS WAS THE HIGHEST he managed in the following days. Twenty-one pounds seemed to have been merely a fluke, a good first effort. He ate bitterness.
But he had not reached his present position of wealth and prominence by easy surrender. He persisted, recalling carefully just what Schneider had said to him, and trying to feel the touch of Schneider’s hands. He told himself now that he really had been stronger under Schneider’s touch. But that he had failed to realize it because of the Earth’s heavy field. He continued to try.
In the back of his mind he knew that he must eventually seek out Gramps Schneider and ask his help, if he did not find the trick alone. But he was extremely reluctant to do so, not because of the terrible trip it entailed—though that would ordinarily have been more than enough reason—but because if he did so and Schneider was not able to help him, then there would be no hope, no hope at all.
It was better to live with the disappointment and frustration than to live without hope. He continued to postpone it.
WALDO PAID LITTLE ATTENTION TO Earth time; he ate and slept when he pleased. He might catch a cat nap at any time; however, at fairly regular intervals he slept for longer periods. Not in a bed, of course. A man who floats in air has no need for a bed. But he did make it a habit to guy himself into place before undertaking eight hours of solid sleep, as it prevented him from casual drifting in random air currents which might carry him, unconscious, against controls or switches.
Since the obsession to become strong had possessed him he had frequently found it necessary to resort to soporifics to ensure sleep.
Dr. Rambeau had returned and was looking for him. Rambeau—crazy and filled with hate. Rambeau, blaming his troubles on Waldo. He was not safe, even in Freehold, as the crazy physicist had found out how to pass from one space to another. There he was now! Just his head, poked through from the Other World. “I’m going to get you, Waldo!” He was gone—no, there he was behind him! Reaching, reaching out with hands that were writhing antennae. “You, Waldo!” But Waldo’s own hands were the giant waldoes; he snatched at Rambeau.
The big waldoes went limp.
Rambeau was at him, was on him; he had him around the throat.
Gramps Schneider said in his ear, in a voice that was calm and strong, “Reach out for the power, my son. Feel it in your fingers.” Waldo grabbed at the throttling fingers, strained, tried.
They were coming loose. He was winning. He would stuff Rambeau back into the Other World and keep him there. There! He had one hand free. Baldur was barking frantically; he tried to tell him to shut up, to bite Rambeau, to help—
The dog continued to bark.
HE WAS IN HIS OWN home, in his own great room. Baldur let out one more yipe. “Quiet!” He looked himself over.
When he had gone to sleep he had been held in place by four light guys, opposed like the axes of a tetrahedron. Two of them were still fastened to his belt; he swung loosely against the control ring. Of the other two, one had snapped off at his belt; its end floated a few feet away. The fourth had broken in two places, near his belt and again several feet out; the severed piece was looped loosely around his neck.
He looked the situation over. Study as he might, he could conceive no way in which the guys could have been broken save by his own struggles in the nightmare. The dog could not have done it; he had no way to get a purchase. He had done it himself. The lines were light, being intended merely as stays. Still—
It took him a few minutes to rig a testing apparatus which would test pull instead of grip; the yoke had to be reversed. When it was done he cut in a medium waldo pair, fastened the severed pieces of line to the tester, and, using the waldo, pulled.
The line parted at two hundred and twelve pounds.
Hastily, but losing time because of nervous clumsiness, he rerigged the tester for grip. He paused, whispered softly, “Now is the time, Gramps!” and bore down on the grip.
Twenty pounds—twenty-one. Twenty-five!
Up past thirty. He was not even sweating! Thirty-five—forty, -one, -two, -three. Forty-five! And -six! And a half. Forty-seven pounds!
With a great sigh he let his hand relax. He was strong. Strong.
When he had somewhat regained his composure, he considered what to do next. His first impulse was to call Grimes, but he suppressed it. Soon enough when he was sure of himself.
He went back to the tester and tried his left hand. Not as strong as his right, but almost—nearly forty-five pounds. Funny thing, he didn’t feel any different. Just normal, healthy. No sensation.
He wanted to try all of his muscles. It would take too long to rig testers for kick, and shove, and back lift, and, oh, a dozen others. He needed a field, that was it, a one-g field. Well, there was the reception room; it could be centrifuged.
But its controls were in the ring and it was long corridors away. There was a nearer one, the centrifuge for the cuckoo clock. He had rigged the wheel with a speed control as an easy way to regulate the clock. He moved back to the control ring and stopped the turning of the big wheel; the clockwork was disturbed by the sudden change; the little red bird popped out, said, “Th-wu th-woo” once, hopefully, and subsided.
Carrying in his hand a small control panel radio hooked to the motor which impelled the centrifuge wheel, he propelled himself to the wheel and placed himself inside, planting his feet on the inner surface of the rim and grasping one of the spokes, so that he would be in a standing position with respect to the centrifugal force, once it was impressed. He started the wheel slowly.
Its first motion surprised him and he almost fell off. But he recovered himself and gave it a little more power. All right so far. He speeded it up gradually, triumph spreading through him as he felt the pull of the pseudo gravitational field, felt his legs grow heavy, but still strong.
He let it out, one full g. He could take it. He could, indeed! To be sure, the force did not affect the upper part of his body so strongly as the lower, as his head was only a foot or so from the point of rotation. He could fix that; he squatted down slowly, hanging on tight to the spoke. It was all right.
But the wheel swayed and the motor complained. His unbalanced weight, that far out from t
he center of rotation, was putting too much of a strain on a framework intended to support a cuckoo clock and its counterweight only. He straightened up with equal caution, feeling the fine shove of his thigh muscles and calves. He stopped the wheel.
Baldur had been much perturbed by the whole business. He had almost twisted his neck off trying to follow the motions of Waldo.
He still postponed calling Grimes. He wanted to arrange for some selective local controls on the centrifuging of the reception room, in order to have a proper place in which to practice standing up. Then he had to get the hang of this walking business; it looked easy, but he didn’t know. Might be quite a trick to learn it.
Thereafter he planned to teach Baldur to walk. He tried to get Baldur into the cuckoo-clock wheel, but the dog objected. He wiggled free and retreated to the farthest part of the room. No matter—when he had the beast in the reception room he would damn well have to learn to walk. Should have seen to it long ago. A big brute like that, and couldn’t walk!
He visualized a framework into which the dog could be placed which would force him to stand erect. It was roughly equivalent to a baby’s toddler, but Waldo did not know that. He had never seen a baby’s toddler.
“UNCLE GUS—”
“Oh, hello, Waldo. How have you been?”
“Fine. Look, Uncle Gus, could you come up to Freehold—right away?”
Grimes shook his head. “Sorry. My bus is in the shop.”
“Your bus is too slow anyhow. Take a taxi, or get somebody to drive you.”
“And have you insult ’em when we get there? Huh-uh.”
“I’ll be sweet as sugar.”
“Well, Jimmie Stevens said something yesterday about wanting to see you.”
Waldo grinned. “Get him. I’d like to see him.”
“I’ll try.”
“Call me back. Make it soon.”
The Fantasies of Robert A. Heinlein Page 26
