“They got batteries to stay activated with,” he observed, “and only need real juice when they’re workin’. This here’s a play-back recorder they had over in Recreation. Some guys trained it to switch frequencies—speed-up and slow-down stuff. They laughed themselves sick! There used to be a tough guy over there,—a staff sergeant, he was—that gave lectures on military morals in a deep bass voice. He was proud of that bull voice of his. He used it frequently. So they taped him, and Al here—” the name plainly referred to the machine—”used to play it back switched up so he sounded like a squeaky girl. That poor guy, he liked to busted a blood-vessel when he heard himself speakin’ soprano. He raised hell and they sent Al here to be rehabilitated. But I switched another machine for him and sent it back, instead. Of course, Al don’t know what he’s doing, but—”
* * * *
He brought over another device, slightly larger and with a screen.
“Somebody had a bright notion with this one, too,” he said. “They figured they’d scramble pictures for secret transmission, like they scramble voice. But they found they hadda have team-trained sets to work, an’ they weren’t interchangeable. They sent Gus here to be deactivated an’ trained again. I kinda hate to do that. Sometimes you got to deactivate a machine, but it’s like shooting a dog somebody’s taught to steal eggs, who don’t know it’s wrong.”
He bolted the two instruments together. He made connections with flexible cables and tucked the cable out of sight. He plugged in for power and began to make adjustments.
The small scientist asked curiously:
“What are you preparing, Sergeant?”
“These two’ll unscramble that broadcast,” said Sergeant Bellews, with tranquil confidence. “Al’s learned how to make a tape and switch frequencies expert. Gus, here, he’s a unscrambler that can make any kinda scanning pattern. Together they’ll have a party doing what they’re special trained for. We’ll hook ’em to Betsy’s training-terminals.”
He regarded the two machines warmly. Connected, now, their standby lights flickered at a new tempo. They synchronized, and broke synchrony, and went back into elaborate, not-quite-resolvable patterns which were somehow increasingly integrated as seconds went by.
“Those lights look kinda nice, don’t they?” asked the sergeant admiringly. “Makes you think of a coupla dogs gettin’ acquainted when they’re goin’ out on a job of hunting or something.”
But Lecky said abruptly, in amazement:
“But, Sergeant! In the Pentagon it takes days to unscramble a received broadcast such as Betsy receives! It requires experts—”
“Huh!” said Sergeant Bellews. He picked up the two machines. “Don’t get me started about the kinda guys that wangle headquarters-company jobs! They got a special talent for fallin’ soft. But they haven’t necessarily got anything else!”
* * * *
Lecky followed Sergeant Bellews as the sergeant picked up his new combination of devices and headed out of the Rehab Shop. Outside, in the sunshine, there were roarings to be heard. Lecky looked up. A formation of jets swam into view against the sky. A tiny speck, trailing a monstrous plume of smoke, shot upward from the jet-field. The formation tightened.
The ascending jet jiggled as if in pure exuberance as it swooped upward—but the jiggle was beautifully designed to throw standard automatic gunsights off.
A plane peeled off from the formation and dived at the ascending ship. There was a curious alteration in the thunder of motors. The rate-of-rise of the climbing jet dwindled almost to zero. Sparks shot out before it. They made a cone the diving ship could not avoid. It sped through them and then went as if disappointedly to a lower level. It stood by to watch the rest of the dog-fight.
“Nice!” said Sergeant Bellews appreciatively. “That’s a Mahon jet all by itself, training against regular ships. They have to let it shoot star-bullets in training, or it’d get hot and bothered in a real fight when its guns went off.”
The lower jet streaked skyward once more. Sparks sped from the formation. They flared through emptiness where the Mahon jet had been but now was not. It scuttled abruptly to one side as concerted streams of sparks converged. They missed. It darted into zestful, exuberant maneuverings, remarkably like a dog dashing madly here and there in pure high spirits. The formation of planes attacked it resolutely.
Suddenly the lone jet plunged into the midst of the formation, there were coruscations of little shooting stars, and one-two-three planes disgustedly descended to lower levels as out of action. Then the single ship shot upward, seemed eagerly to shake itself, plunged back—and the last ships tried wildly to escape, but each in turn was technically shot down.
The Mahon jet headed back for its own tiny airfield. Somehow, it looked as if, had it been a dog, it would be wagging its tail and panting happily.
“That one ship,” said Lecky blankly, “it defeated the rest?”
“It’s got a lot of experience,” said the sergeant. “You can’t beat experience.”
He led the way into Communications Center. In the room where Betsy stood, Howell and Graves had been drawing diagrams at each other to the point of obstinacy.
“But don’t you see?” insisted Howell angrily. “There can be no source other than a future time! You can’t send short waves through three-dimensional space to a given spot and not have them interceptible between. Anyhow, the Compubs wouldn’t work it this way! They wouldn’t put us on guard! And an extra-terrestrial wouldn’t pretend to be a human if he honestly wanted to warn us of danger! He’d tell us the truth! Physically and logically it’s impossible for it to be anything but what it claims to be!”
Graves said doggedly:
“But a broadcast originating in the future is impossible!”
“Nothing,” snapped Howell, “that a man can imagine is impossible!”
“Then imagine for me,” said Graves, “that in 2180 they read in the history books about a terrible danger to the human race back in 1972, which was averted by a warning they sent us. Then, from their history-books, which we wrote for them, they learn how to make a transmitter to broadcast back to us. Then they tell us how to make a transmitter to broadcast ahead to them. They don’t invent the transmitter. We tell them how to make it—via a history book. We don’t invent it. They tell us—from the history book. Now imagine for me how that transmitter got invented!”
“You’re quibbling,” snapped Howell. “You’re refusing to face a fact because you can’t explain it. I say face the fact and then ask for an explanation!”
“Why not ask them,” said Graves, “how to make a round square or a five-sided triangle?”
* * * *
Sergeant Bellews pushed to a spot near Betsy. He put down his now-linked Mahon machines and began to move away some of the recording apparatus focused on Betsy.
“Hold on there!” said Howell in alarm. “Those are recorders!”
“We’ll let ’em record direct,” said the sergeant.
* * * *
Lecky spoke feverishly in support of Bellews. But what he said was, in effect, a still-marveling description of the possibilities of Mahon-modified machines. They were, he said with ardent enthusiasm, the next step in the historic process by which successively greater portions of the cosmos enter into a symbiotic relationship with man. Domestic animals entered into such a partnership aeons ago. Certain plants—wheat and the like—even became unable to exist without human attention. And machines were wrought by man and for a long time served him reluctantly. Pre-Mahon machines were tamed, not domestic. They wore themselves out and destroyed themselves by accidents. But now there were machines which could enter into a truly symbiotic relationship with humanity.
“What,” demanded Howell, “what in hell are you talking about?”
Lecky checked himself. He smiled abashedly:
“I think,” he said humbly, “that I speak of the high destiny of mankind. But the part that applies at the moment is that Sergeant Bellews must not be inter
fered with.”
He turned and ardently assisted Sergeant Bellews in making room for the just-brought devices. Sergeant Bellews led flexible cables from them to Betsy. He inserted their leads in her training-terminals. He made adjustments within.
It became notable that Betsy’s standby light took up new tempos in its wavering. There were elaborate interweavings of rate and degree of brightening among the lights of all three instruments. There was no possible way to explain the fact, but a feeling of pleasure, of zestful stirring, was somehow expressed by the three machines which had been linked together into a cooperating group.
Sergeant Bellews eased himself into a chair.
“Now everything’s set,” he observed contentedly. “Remember, I ain’t seen any of these broadcasts unscrambled. I don’t know what it’s all about. But we got three Mahon machines set up now to work on the next crazy broadcast that comes in. There’s Betsy and these two others. And all machines work accordin’ to the Golden Rule, but Mahon machines—they are honey-babes! They’ll bust themselves tryin’ to do what you ask ’em. And I asked these babies for plenty—only not enough to hurt ’em. Let’s see what they turn out.”
He pulled a pipe and tobacco from his pocket. He filled the pipe. He squeezed the side of the bowl and puffed as the tobacco glowed. He relaxed, underneath the wall-sign which sternly forbade smoking by all military personnel within these premises.
It was nearly three hours—but it could have been hundreds—before Betsy’s screen lighted abruptly.
* * * *
The broadcast came in; a new transmission. The picture-pattern on Betsy’s screen was obviously not the same as other broadcasts from nowhere. The chirps and peepings and the rumbling deep sounds were not repetitions of earlier noise-sequences. It should have taken many days of finicky work by technicians at the Pentagon before the originally broadcast picture could be seen and the sound interpreted. But a play-back recorder named Al, and a picture-unscrambler named Gus were in closed-circuit relationship with Betsy. She received the broadcast and they unscrambled the sound and vision parts of it immediately.
The translated broadcast, as Gus and Al presented it, was calculated to put the high brass of the defense forces into a frenzied tizzy. The anguished consternation of previous occasions would seem like very calm contemplation by comparison. The high brass of the armed forces should grow dizzy. Top-echelon civilian officials should tend to talk incoherently to themselves, and scientific consultants—biologists in particular—ought to feel their heads spinning like tops.
The point was that the broadcast had to be taken seriously because it came from nowhere. There was no faintest indication of any signal outside of Betsy’s sedately gray-painted case. But Betsy was not making it up. She couldn’t. There was a technology involved which required the most earnest consideration of the message carried by it.
And this broadcast explained the danger from which the alleged future wished to rescue its alleged past. A brisk, completely deracialized broadcaster appeared on Gus’s screen.
In clipped, oddly stressed, but completely intelligible phrases, he explained that he recognized the paradox his communication represented. Even before 1972, he observed, there had been argument about what would happen if a man could travel in time and happened to go back to an earlier age and kill his grandfather. This communication was an inversion of that paradox. The world of 2180 wished to communicate back in time and save the lives of its great-great-great-grandparents so that it—the world of 2180—would be born.
Without this warning and the information to be given, at least half the human race of 1972 was doomed.
In late 1971 there had been a mutation of a minor strain of staphylococcus somewhere in the Andes. The new mutation thrived and flourished. With the swift transportation of the period, it had spread practically all over the world unnoticed, because it produced no symptoms of disease.
Half the members of the human race were carriers of the harmless mutated staphylococcus now, but it was about to mutate again in accordance with Gordon’s Law (the reference had no meaning in 1972) and the new mutation would be lethal. In effect, one human being in two carried in his body a semi-virus organization which he continually spread, and which very shortly would become deadly. Half the human race was bound to die unless it was instructed as to how to cope with it. Unless—
* * * *
Unless the world of 2180 told its ancestors what to do about it. That was the proposal. Two-way communication was necessary for the purpose, because there would be questions to be answered, obscure points to be clarified, numerical values to be checked to the highest possible degree of accuracy.
Therefore, here were diagrams of the transmitter needed to communicate with future time. Here were enlarged diagrams of individual parts. The enigmatic parts of the drawing produced a wave-type unknown in 1972. But a special type of wave was needed to travel beyond the three dimensions of ordinary space, into the fourth dimension which was time. This wave-type produced unpredictable surges of power in the transmitter, wherefore at least six transmitters should be built and linked together so that if one ceased operation another would instantly take up the task.
* * * *
The broadcast ended abruptly. Betsy’s screen went blank. The colonel was notified. A courier took tapes to Washington by high-speed jet. Life in Research Establishment 83 went on sedately. The barracks and the married quarters and the residences of the officers were equipped with Mahon-modified machines which laundered diapers perfectly, and with dial telephones which always rang right numbers, and there were police-up machines which took perfect care of lawns, and television receivers tuned themselves to the customary channels for different hours with astonishing ease. Even jet-planes equipped with Mahon units almost landed themselves, and almost flew themselves about the sky in simulated combat with something very close to zest.
But the atmosphere in the room in Communications was tense.
“I think,” said Howell, with his lips compressed, “that this answers all your objections, Graves. Motive—”
“No,” said Lecky painfully. “It does not answer mine. My objection is that I do not believe it.”
“Huh!” said Sergeant Bellews scornfully. “O’ course, you don’t believe it! It’s phoney clear through!”
Lecky looked at him hopefully.
“You noticed something that we missed, Sergeant?”
“Hell, yes!” said Sergeant Bellews. “That transmitter diagram don’t have a Mahon unit in it!”
“Is that remarkable?” demanded Howell.
“Remarkable dumb,” said the sergeant. “They’d ought to know—”
The tall young lieutenant who earlier had fetched Sergeant Bellews to Communications now appeared again. He gracefully entered the room where Betsy waited for more broadcast matter. Her standby light flickered with something close to animation, and the similar yellow bulbs on Al and Gus responded in kind. The tall young lieutenant said politely:
“I am sorry, but pending orders from the Pentagon the colonel has ordered this room vacated. Only automatic recorders will be allowed here, and all records they produce will be sent to Washington without examination. It seems that no one on this post has the necessary clearance for this type of material.”
Lecky blinked. Graves sputtered:
“But—dammit, do you mean we can work out a way to receive a broadcast and not be qualified to see it?”
“There’s a common-sense view,” said Sergeant Bellews oracularly, “and a crazy view, and there’s what the Pentagon says, which ain’t either.” He stood up. “I see where I go back to my shop and finish rehabilitatin’ the colonel’s vacuum cleaner. You gentlemen care to join me?”
Howell said indignantly:
“This is ridiculous! This is absurd!”
“Uh-uh,” said Sergeant Bellews benignly. “This is the armed forces. There’ll be an order makin’ some sort of sense come along later. Meanwhile, I can brief you guys on Mahon machin
es so you’ll be ready to start up again with better information when a clearance order does come through. And I got some beer in my quarters behind the Rehab Shop. Come along with me!”
He led the way out of the room. The young lieutenant paused to close the door firmly behind him and to lock it. A bored private, with side-arms, took post before it. The lieutenant was a very conscientious young man.
But he did not interfere with the parade to Sergeant Bellews’ quarters. The young lieutenant was very military, and the ways of civilians were not his concern. If eminent scientists chose to go to Sergeant Bellews’ quarters instead of the Officers Club, to which their assimilated rank entitled them, it was strictly their affair.
* * * *
They reached the Rehab Shop, and Sergeant Bellews went firmly to a standby-light-equipped refrigerator in his quarters. He brought out beer and deftly popped off the tops. The icebox door closed quietly.
“Here’s to crime,” said Sergeant Bellews amiably.
He drank. Howell sipped gloomily. Graves drank thoughtfully. Lecky looked anticipative.
“Sergeant,” he said, “did I see a gleam in your eye just now?”
Sergeant Bellews reflected, gently shaking his opened beer-can with a rotary motion, for no reason whatever.
“Uh-uh,” he rumbled. “I wouldn’t say a gleam. But you mighta seen a glint. I got some ideas from what I seen during that broadcast. I wanna get to work on ’em. Here’s the place to do the work. We got facilities here.”
Howell said with precise hot anger:
“This is the most idiotic situation I have ever seen even in government service!”
“You ain’t been around much,” the sergeant told him kindly. “It happens everywhere. All the time. It ain’t even a exclusive feature of the armed forces.” He put down his beer-can and patted his stomach. “There’s guys who sit up nights workin’ out standard operational procedures just to make things like this happen, everywhere. The colonel hadda do what he did. He’s got orders, too. But he felt bad. So he sent the lieutenant to tell us. He does the colonel’s dirty jobs—and he loves his work.”
The Murray Leinster Megapack Page 125
