As the foaming mug of beer was passed back into the crowd, Hamilton crawled miserably back onto his stool. Nobody noticed him; the girl had now gone off to fondle the owner of the holy water.
“This world,” Hamilton grated, between clenched teeth, “is crazy.”
“Crazy, hell,” McFeyffe answered. “What’s crazy about it? I haven’t paid for a beer all day.” He wagged his mighty array of charms. “All I have to do is appeal to these.”
“Explain it,” Hamilton muttered. This place—this bar. Why doesn’t God erase it? If this world operates by moral laws—”
“This bar is necessary to the moral order. This is a sinkpit of corruption and vice, a fleshpot of iniquity. You think salvation can function without damnation? You think virtue can exist without sin? That’s the trouble with you atheists; you don’t grasp the mechanics of evil. Get on the inside and enjoy life, man. If you’re one of the Faithful, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“Opportunist”
“Bet your sweet soul.”
“So God lets you sit here lapping up booze and diddling these floozies. Swearing and lying, doing anything you want”
“I know my rights,” McFeyffe said sleekly. “I know what’s on top, here. Look around you and learn. Pay attention to what’s going on.”
Nailed to the wall of the bar beside the mirror was the motto, What Would The Prophet Say If He Found You In A Place Like This?
“Ill tell you what he’d say,” McFeyffe informed Hamilton. “He’d say, ‘Pour one for me, boys.’ He’s a regular fellow. Not like you egghead professors.”
Hamilton waited hopefully, but no rain of stinging snakes descended. Confidently, complacently, McFeyffe guzzled his beer.
“Apparently, I’m not on the inside,” Hamilton said. “If I said that, I’d be struck dead.”
“Get on the inside.”
“How?” Hamilton demanded. He was weighed down by the sense of unfairness, the basic wrongness of it all. The world that to McFeyffe made perfect sense seemed to him a travesty on an equitably run universe. To him, only the mere glimmer of pattern beat intermittently through the haze, through the confusion that had surrounded him since the accident at the Bevatron. The values that made up his world, the moral verities that had underlined existence as long as he could remember, had passed away; in their place was a crude, tribal vengeance against the outsider, an archaic system that had come from—where?
Reaching unsteadily into his coat, he brought out the note which Doctor Tillingford had given him. Here was the name, the Prophet. The center, the Sepulcher of the Second Bab, the source-point of this non-Western cult that had somehow slipped in and absorbed the familiar world. Had there always been a Horace Clamp? A week ago, a few days ago, there had been no Second Bab, no Prophet of the One True God at Cheyenne, Wyoming. Or—
Beside him, McFeyffe peered to examine the writing on the bit of paper. On his face was a dark expression; the blustering humor had faded, and in its place was a somberness, hard and oppressive. “What’s that?” he demanded.
“I’m supposed to look him up,” Hamilton said.
“No,” McFeyffe said. Suddenly his hand shot out; he snatched for the note. Get rid of it.” His voice was shaking. “Don’t pay any attention to that”
Struggling, Hamilton managed to retrieve the note. McFeyffe caught hold of his shoulder; his thick fingers dug into Hamilton’s flesh. The stool under Hamilton tottered, and all at once he was falling. McFeyffe’s massive weight descended on him, and then the two of them were fighting on the floor, panting and perspiring, trying to get possession of the note.
“No jihad in this bar,” the bartender said, hopping around the bar to put an end to the fight “If you want to mangle each other, go outside.”
Muttering, McFeyffe crept unsteadily to his feet “Get rid of it,” he said to Hamilton as he smoothed his clothes. His face was still rigid, still distorted by some deep-lying uneasiness.
“What’s the matter?” Hamilton demanded, reseating himself. He located his beer and began to lift it. Something was happening in McFeyffe’s brutish mind, and he did not know what it was.
At that moment, the little blond barfly made her way over. With her was a doleful, gaunt figure. Bill Laws, gripping a shot glass, bowed lugubriously to McFeyffe and Hamilton. “‘Afternoon,” he intoned. “Let’s have no more conflicts. We’re all friends, around here.”
Staring down at the bar, McFeyffe said, “All things considered, we pretty well have to be.” He did not amplify.
VI
THIS individual says he’s acquainted with you,” the small blond barfly explained to Hamilton.
“That’s right;” Hamilton answered. “Pull up a stool and sit down.” He eyed Laws levelly. “Have you investigated the situation with advanced physics in the last day or so?”
“The hell with physics,” Laws said, scowling. “I’m past that. I’ve outgrown that”
“Go construct a reservoir,” Hamilton told him. “Stop reading so many books. Get out in the fresh air.”
Laws placed his lean hand on the blond’s shoulder. “Meet Grace. Full of reservoir. Full to the gills.”
“Glad to meet you,” Hamilton said.
The girl smiled uncertainly. “My name isn’t Grace. My name—”
Pushing the girl aside, Laws leaned close to Hamilton. “I’m glad you mentioned the term reservoir.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Laws informed him, “in this world there is no such thing.” “But there has to be.”
“Come along.” Holding onto Hamilton’s necktie, Laws pulled him away from the bar. “I’m going to let you in on something. Greatest discovery since the poll tax.”
Threading his way among the patrons, Laws led Hamilton to the cigarette dispenser in the corner. Thumping the machine with the flat of his hand, Laws said triumphantly, “Well? What do you think of it?”
Hamilton cautiously examined the machine. The usual sight: a tall, metallic box with blue-tinted mirror, coin slot at the upper right, rows of little glass windows behind which rested various brands of cigarettes, the line of levers, and then the drop slot “Looks all right,” he commented.
“Notice anything about it?”
“No, nothing in particular.”
Laws peered around to make certain no one was listening. Then he dragged Hamilton dose to him. I’ve been watching that machine work,” he whispered harshly. “I’ve figured out something. Try to grasp this. Try not to get thrown. There are no cigarettes in that machine.”
Hamilton considered. “None at all?”
Squatting down, Laws indicated the row of display packages visible behind their glass covering. That’s all there is. One of each. There is no reservoir. But watch.” He dropped a quarter into the coin slot, selected the Camels lever, and pushed it firmly in. A package of Camels slid out, and Laws grabbed it “See?”
“I don’t get it,” Hamilton admitted. The candy bar machine is the same.” Laws led him over to the candy dispensing machine. “Candy comes out but there’s no candy in it. Only the display packages. Get it? Comprehend?”
“No.”
“Didn’t you ever read about miracles? In the desert it was getting food and water; that’s what came first”
“Oh,” Hamilton said. That’s right”
“These machines work on the original principle. Division by miracle.” From his pocket Laws got a screwdriver; kneeling, he began disassembling the candy bar machine. “I tell you, Jack, this is the greatest discovery known to man. This’ll revolutionize modern industry. The whole concept of machine tool production, the whole assembly-line technique—” Laws waved his hand. “Out. Kaput No more using up raw materials. No more depressed labor force. No more dirty, pounding factories. In this metal box lies a vast secret”
“Hey,” Hamilton said, interested. “Maybe you’ve got something.”
“This stuff can be utilized.” Feverishly, Laws tore at the back of the machine. �
��Give me a hand, man. Help me get the lock off.”
The lock came off. Between them, the two men slid the back of the candy dispenser away and leaned it against the wall. As Laws had predicted, the upright columns that were the reservoirs of the machine were totally empty.
“Get a dime out,” Laws instructed. Skillfully, he unbolted the inner mechanism until the display bars were visible from behind. To the right was the output chute; at its beginning was an elaborate series of stages, levers and wheels. Laws began tracing the physical circuit back to its point of origin.
“Looks like the candy bar starts here,” Hamilton suggested. Leaning over Laws’ shoulder, he touched a flat shelf. The coin trips a switch and tilts that plunger over. It gives the candy bar a shove and starts it moving toward the slot. Gravity does the rest.”
“Put the coin in,” Laws said urgently. “I want to see where the damn candy bar comes from.”
Hamilton inserted the dime and pulled a plunger at random. The wheels and levers spun. From the center of the grinding works emerged a U-no bar. The U-no bar slithered down the chute and came to rest in the slot outside the machine.
“It just grew out of nothing,” Laws said, awed.
“But in a specific area. It appeared tangent to the model bar. That suggests it’s a kind of binary fission process. The model bar splits into two whole bars.”
“Drop another dime in. I tell you, Jack, this is it.”
Again, a candy bar materialized and was expelled by the efficient machinery. Both men watched with admiration.
“A neat piece of equipment,” Laws admitted. “A lovely job of designing and construction. Fine utilization of the miracle principle.”
“But utilization on a small scale,” Hamilton pointed out. “For candy, soft drinks and cigarettes. Nothing important”
“That’s where we come in.” Gingerly, Laws pushed a bit of tin foil into the empty stage beside a model Hershey bar. The tin foil met no resistance. “Nothing there, all right. If I take out the model bar and put something else in its place …”
Hamilton removed the model Hershey bar and placed a bottle cap in the display rack. When the lever was pulled, a duplicate bottle cap rustled down the chute and out the exit slot.
That proves it” Laws agreed. “It duplicates anything tangent to it. We could duplicate anything.” He got out some silver coins. “Let’s get down to business.”
“How does this sound?” Hamilton said. “An old electronic principle: regeneration. We feed part of the output back to the original model stage. So the supply continues to build—the more it turns out the more is fed back and duplicated.”
“A liquid would be best,” Laws reflected. “Where can we get some glass tubing to pipe it back?”
Hamilton tore down a neon display from the wall, while Laws trotted to the bar to order a drink. As Hamilton was installing the tubing, Laws reappeared, carrying a tiny glass of amber liquid.
“Brandy,” Laws explained. “Genuine French cognac —the best they have.”
Hamilton pushed the glass onto the model stage where the Hershey bar had been. The tubing, emptied of its neon gas, led from the tangent duplication area and divided. One nozzle led back to the original glass; the other led to the output slot.
“The ratio is four to one,” Hamilton commented. “Four parts go out the slot as product. One part is fed back to the original source. Theoretically, we should get an ever-accelerating output. With infinite volume as a limit.”
With a deft motion, Laws wedged open the lever that tripped the mechanism into action. After a pause, cognac began dripping from the slot, onto the floor in front of the machine. Getting to his feet Laws grabbed up the detached back of the machine; the two men fitted it into place and turned the lock. Quietly, continuously, the candy dispenser drizzled a growing torrent of top-quality brandy.
“That’s it,” Hamilton said, pleased. “Free drinks—everybody line up.”
A few bar patrons shambled over, interested. Very shortly there was a crowd.
“We’ve utilized the machinery,” Laws said slowly, as the two of them stood watching the growing line that had formed in front of the ex-candy dispenser. “But we haven’t worked out the basic principle. We know what it does and mechanistically how. But not why.”
“Maybe,” Hamilton conjectured, “there isn’t any principle. Isn’t that what ‘miracle’ means? No operating law—just a capricious event without regularity or cause. It simply happens; you can’t predict or trace back a source.”
“But there’s regularity here,” Laws insisted, indicating the candy machine. “When the dime is put in a candy bar comes out, not a baseball or a toad. And that’s all natural law is, simply a description of what happens. An account of regularity. There’s no causality involved—we merely say that if A and B are added we get C, and not D.”
“Will we always get C?” Hamilton asked. “Maybe and maybe not So far we’ve got C; we’ve got candy bars. And now it’s turning out brandy, not insect spray. We have our regularity, our pattern. All we have to do is find out what elements are necessary to make up the pattern.”
Excitedly, Hamilton said, “If we can find out what has to be present to cause duplication of the model object—”
“Right. Something sets the process into motion. We don’t care how it does it—all we have to do is know what does it. We don’t need to know how sulphur, potassium nitrate and charcoal produce gunpowder, or even why. All we have to know is that when mixed together in a certain proportion, they do.”
The two of them moved back toward the bar, past the throng of patrons collecting the free brandy. “Then this world does have laws,” Hamilton said. “Like our own. I mean, not like our own. But laws, anyhow.”
A dark shadow passed over Bill Laws’ face. That’s so.” Suddenly his enthusiasm was gone. I forgot.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It won’t work back in our world. It’ll only work here.”
“Oh,” Hamilton said, mollified. “True.”
“We’re wasting our time.”
“Unless we don’t want to go back.”
At the bar, Laws seated himself on a stool and gathered up his shot glass. Hunched over, brooding, he murmured, “Maybe that’s what we ought to do. Stay here.”
“Sure,” McFeyffe said genially, overhearing him. “Stay here. Be smart … quit while you’re ahead.”
Laws glanced briefly at Hamilton. “You want to stay here? You like it here?”
“No,” Hamilton said.
“Neither do I. But maybe we don’t have a choice. As yet, we don’t even know where we are. And as far as getting out—”
“This is a nice place,” the little blond barfly said indignantly. “I’m here all the time and I think it’s fine.”
“We’re not talking about the bar,” Hamilton said.
His hands gripped harshly around his shot glass, Laws said, “We’re going to have to get back. Somehow, we’re going to have to find our way out of here.”
“I realize that,” Hamilton said.
“You know what you can buy at the supermarket?” Laws inquired acidly. “Ill tell you. Canned burnt offerings.”
“You know what you can buy at the hardware store?” Hamilton answered. “Scales to weigh your soul on.”
“That’s silly,” the blond said petulantly. “A soul doesn’t have any weight.”
Then,” Hamilton reflected, “you could put one through the U. S. mail for nothing.”
“How many souls,” Laws conjectured ironically, “can be fitted into one stamped envelope? New religious question. Split mankind in half. Warring factions. Blood running in the gutters.”
“Ten,” Hamilton guessed.
“Fourteen,” Laws contradicted.
“Heretic. Baby-murdering monster.”
“Bestial drinker of unpurified blood.”
“Accursed spawn of filth-devouring evil.”
Laws considered. “You know what you can get on
your TV set Sunday morning? I won’t tell you; you can find out for yourself.” Carefully holding his empty shot glass, he slid abruptly from his stool and disappeared into the crowd.
“Hey,” Hamilton said, astonished. “Where’d he go?”
“He’s crazy,” the blond said, matter-of-factly.
For a moment the figure of Bill Laws reappeared. His dark face was gray with anguish. Addressing Hamilton across the murmuring, laughing crowd of patrons, he shouted, “Jack, you know what?”
“What?” Hamilton answered, perturbed.
The Negro’s face twitched in a spasm of acute, helpless misery. “In this world—” Sorrow blurred his eyes. “In this damn place, I’ve started to shuffle.”
He was gone, leaving Hamilton to ponder.
“What’d he mean?” the blond asked curiously. “Shuffle cards?”
“Shuffle him.” Hamilton murmured moodily.
“They all do,” McFeyffe commented.
Taking Bill Laws’ vacated stool, the blond began systematically oozing up to Hamilton. “Buy me a drink, baby,” she asked hopefully.
“I can’t.”
“Why not? Under age?”
Hamilton searched his empty pockets. “I haven’t got any money. I spent it on that candy machine.”
“Pray,” McFeyffe told him. “Pray like hell.”
“Dear Lord,” Hamilton said bitterly. “Send Your unworthy electronics expert a glass of colored water for this tarnished young baggage.” Dutifully, he concluded, “Amen.”
The glass of colored water appeared on the surface of the bar beside his elbow. Smiling, the girl accepted it.
“You’re sweet. What’s your name?”
“Jack.”
“What’s your full name?”
He sighed. “Jack Hamilton.”
“My name’s Silky.” Playfully, she toyed with his collar. Is that your Ford coupe out there?”
“Sure,” he answered dully.
“Let’s go someplace. I hate this place, here. I—”
“Why?” Hamilton lashed out suddenly and loudly. “Why the hell did God answer that prayer? Why not some of the others? Why not Bill Laws’?”
Eye in the Sky (1957) Page 7
