Amazing Vignettes

by Jerry

  There was the roar of flaming jets and the giant hand of acceleration pressed Jerry tight against the pneumatic-hydraulic cushioned seat. Constricting bands fastened across his chest. As the rocket arced into the air, acceleration was cut though velocity mounted.

  After a while Jerry gingerly unstrapped himself and wandered toward the lounge. Outside everything was silent save for the hiss of the freely falling machine heading in an enormous arc for the dot that was the remote Parisian rocket port.

  Shaky passengers, experienced ones, novices and old-timers, wandered about, headed for the observatory or the bar. Jerry chose the latter. He was sipping an old-fashioned and leaning comfortably against the plushy bar when a stewardess approached him. She seemed a bit agitated.

  “Mr. McCrane?” she asked politely but nervously.

  Jerry swung around. “That’s me.”

  “Will you please come to Engineering?”

  Jerry put down his drink and followed her. He entered the instrument-filled maze that was the nerve-center of the giant rocket. Dials and gauges and meters covered the wall. One side was faced with buttons and levers.

  A tall spare man introduced himself. “I’m Captain Fleming,” he said. “I have a favor to ask. We’re in a bit of trouble. The electronic controls that operate the fuel feed pumps won’t work. And we can’t find the trouble. I called Base and they gave your name from the passenger manifest. Will you help?”

  Jerry grinned. “I haven’t much choice, have I?” He started to work immediately, tracing down the elaborate circuits. He knew that despite the calmness of the captain, he was very concerned. In an hour the pumps would have to start in order to feed the braking rockets. If not—well, the rocket would end up as a splintered compressed pile of sheet metal at the bottom of the Atlantic . . .

  It was a half hour later when Jerry emerged, rumpled and sweaty from the maze of instrumentation that constituted Engineering. There was a triumphant smile on his face and the anxious Captain sighed his relief. Experimentally he touched the switch button and the whine of electric motors told him that everything was in order.

  Jerry finally managed to make his way back to the bar over the voluble protestations of gratitude from the crewmen. To avoid panic word had not been released of the narrow escape, nor would it be. As far as the passengers were concerned the landing report would read as always: “Landing completed, Paris port, without incident. . . .”

  The Final Stalemate

  Charles Recour

  I FEEL mighty proud of my part in stopping the Third Martian-Terran Interplanetary war. I’m only a cog in our huge democratic machine but in no small measure I’ve contributed to the real and maybe—final—ending of all war.

  You see, I’m Clark, owner of Gordon Robotronics, and my factory has produced almost forty-five per-cent of all the robots used in the war.

  Perhaps I’d better start at the beginning. In both of the previous Martian-Terran fracases, men have manned the spaceships and fought the dreadful wars of attrition which cost so dearly in lives, progress, and material wealth.

  Up until the beginning of the Third War I had a fair sized business producing domestic robots for factory and industrial work. But when the war broke, with the use of such new and superfast weapons, the government found that men simply couldn’t handle the job. I and my cohorts produced robots who could—and who could think—within reason. I don’t mean that as a joke either. But you have to build robots with a control in ’em—everybody knows that, that is, if you want to still remain on top. Consequently our war robots had built into them, the First Law, “Under no conditions must humans be harmed!” And there’s no way to distinguish a Martian from a Terran with the result that our war robots will do anything but kill Martians!

  The Martian government of course grabbed our Martian factories and set to work expanding them, doing the same as we here on Terra had done.

  But they had to insert the First Law too—there simply isn’t any other way to use robots, as the Robotic Insurrection of ’83 shows.

  So what’s the general result? Both Terra and Mars have the biggest most powerful forces of destruction imaginable, huge space ships, vast fleets, ghastly weapons of death, incredibly powerful atomic bombs—all “manned” by robots—and officered by a few humans in Prime Fortresses.

  But none of the robots can, by their inherent, human-induced natures, dare to raise offensive action against human beings. Well, it’s no news the way the preposterous situation was finally resolved and everyone brought to terms, sensible humane, considerate and reasonable terms, which seem to me, to outlaw war forever!

  The ironic part of the whole thing is that probably nothing in the whole Solar System could be conceivably more dangerous than a robot built without a First Law. Don’t worry though, no one will ever try that—the Robotic Insurrection is still too close for comfort . . .

  Heli-Cab Hack

  John Weston

  I PROBABLY would have hung on to my old heli-hack—it was a ninety-three, and in damn good shape—but Schwartz bought himself a brand new ‘02 Hedgely convertible hack with the glassite floor for the convenience of the passengers. That made me so mad that I figured I should latch onto something better too.

  So I sold my heli-hack and in a way I felt sorry when the second-hand dealer took it—he gave me eight hundred credits for it which wasn’t bad at all—but I wrestled that baby all over the N’York skyline and it was almost a part of me. So with the dough and with six hundred credits that I saved I waltzed down “Heli-row” casing the hundred joints or more which lined the fortieth level.

  If Schwartz could get a Hedgely, I figured I could too, so I wanders into this gleaming chromium and glass monstrosity and starts to look around. It looks like a new home, all soft rugs, fluoroline lighting and automatic chairs. It’s a dream of a place and I begin to get cold feet right away. This joint is too rich for my blood. But I decide to face it out.

  As soon as I get one foot in the door it seems there’s a salesman in front of me. He gives me a fishy stare—heli-hackies don’t buy their cab’s from Hedgely’s as a rule—and sort of stares down his nose at me. But he must have taken a second thought for he suddenly comes alive and warms up. After all I might be some rich eccentric and he can’t afford to take a chance.

  “Good-day, sir!” he says briskly and rubs his hands. He turns on the oily charm.

  “What can I do for you, sir? Are you interested in a new Hedgely?”

  “Well,” I start to say, “I might be at that—” but I don’t get a chance to say more. He’s got me by the arm and is guiding me over to the show-rooms. He presses a stud and the curtains slide aside. Standing in front of us is a helicopter that’s a dream.

  It’s smooth and gleaming with simple clean lines, and from the tips of its eleven foot blades to its broad rubber wheels, it’s got glass.

  “We have here,” he says, intoning his words like a preacher speaking of motherhood, “the ‘02 Super-Refined, the four electric motored job, our most luxurious presentation. A man of discernment can tell at once that this beautiful machine is simply the best there is. I don’t need to go into the technicalities naturally because I can see you know the business of helicopters—” here it seemed he sniffed a little—“but I’d be delighted to let you take it for a spin with me. Or if you prefer I can show you a more conservative—and less expensive model—” here he coughed discreetly, “though it seems to me that this model is perfectly suitable. Would you care to, sir?”

  I gulped once or twice. I’d be afraid to touch one of the golden gleaming ornaments much less pilot the thing.

  “How much, is it?” I asked.

  “It’s only seventeen thousand credits,” he said jovially, but I could almost feel the chill in his voice. People don’t ask the price when they go into Hedgely’s.

  “Thanks,” I said even more weakly, “but I don’t think I’m in the market right now.”

  I high-tailed it out of there without even looking back
. Three minutes later I was at Lester’s Lavish Lot on the seventh level, and the words were coming out of my mouth, “Listen,” I said, “I’m a hack, and I’m looking for a new heli-cab—something in fair condition. What have you got?”

  Jerry gave me the eye. I’ve known him for a long while. “I’ve got just the bargain for you,” he says, “here, take a look at this ‘93 Wilson—it’s in first rate shape . . .”

  I might mention I’m driving a ‘93 again, and I’m just as happy . . .

  Homesickness

  A.T. Kedzie

  GO INTO any spacemens’ dive on Mars, talk with any grizzled miner on the Jovian moons, have a drink with any battered Venusian hunter, visit with any Lunar technician, or for that matter, discuss it with any crewman aboard a rocket, and you’ll get the same answer from all of them. “Sure,” they’ll say, “I’m going home as soon as I can. I hate Mars—” (or the Moon, or Venus or deep space, whatever the case might be)—“and I’m getting back to Terran comfort in a hurry.”

  Yes, they all talk like that. They moan and groan, whine and complain, mutter and howl—but they stay!

  It’s a phenomenon as old as man, and older than his conscience. No matter what men say about comfort, luxury or security, they love danger, freedom, and trouble. Adventure is built into a man as truly as a muscle or a mind.

  Anyone who has any interest in space at all knows the tales of horror and suffering that men have endured in the conquering of the Solar System. Even now, there is no real pleasure or comfort anywhere in the System except on Terra, and possibly on a few Lunar and Martian stations, but that is no deterrent whatsoever. Intersolar is always swamped with applicants for the weirdest and most unusual situations.

  Homesickness for the blue seas of Terra, the green mountains of Earth, bites into the average spaceman like an axe-blade—and he’ll not only admit it—he’ll talk about it all the time. But when his term is up or when he gets a chance to spend time on Terra, he just as bitterly whines for the “open spaces.”

  He calls a Terran, a “grubber” and he says that no man is a man at all unless he’s lived under no-grav, or soaked up the hyper-accelerations necessary near Jupiter.

  Be that as it may, it is all to the good. There is much to be done before the System becomes a unit. Until then, men are going to be needed to brave the coarse discomforts of deep space. Fortunately there is no shortage of them. Those who moan about the softness of youth should just ask the average boy what he thinks about space, and they’ll never forget the starry-eyed kids, who come back with answers involving only space, rockets, Intersolar—and adventure.

  The Universal Brain

  Lynn Standish

  THE UNIVERSAL Brain so gradually took over the control of the Earth, so casually insinuated its mental tentacles into all human affairs, that human beings never realized the exact point at which the Universal Brain changed from a powerful calculating machine to a benevolent mechano-electrical dictator.

  For one cubic mile of space beneath the city of Washington, became the humming center-point of all human function and activity as the U.B. directed humans in their every assignment.

  And so wisely and intelligently did this statistical monster direct the affairs of men, that a catholic prosperity, a ceaseless well-being overwhelmed all persons. Goods and services, jobs and recreations, pleasures and work, scientific advancement and industrial acumen—all mounted in quantity and quality until nowhere on the entire face of the Earth was there anything but happiness.

  Some men still retained enough philosophical inquiry to question the wisdom of placing everything in the figurative “hands” of the machine, but they were ignored and for hundreds of years, most men were completely happy.

  As for the Universal Brain, it functioned benevolently always. And in its billion ganglia of electrical nerves, the never-ending duties went on. The U.B. was not precisely intelligent, nor could it think exactly in the human sense, since it possessed no emotion.

  But one day, out of its millions of electronic tubes, just one burnt out. The com plex warning circuits flashed the incident to the central core of repair, but a broken wire spread this slight disorganization into the repair core itself. And the machine did not fix itself!

  And that was the beginning of the end. In a remarkably short time the U.B. broke down. Nor did it oppose its breaking down at all strenuously for it was as if it had learned the futility of its—and humans’—existence.

  One day there was no Universal Brain—only a silent, cool, motionless, mass of wire and tubes.

  And the integrated life of men vanished. Starvation, disease, warfare, destruction, engulfed the mental midget that Man had become, and wrought their will until organized communities no longer existed.

  And in his dying Man was reborn again, for the long, long climb from a primeval state to one of development and learning resumed. But now Man is learning more and more. Already he is making calculating machines and robots, and there is the suggestion that a “thinking machine” be built—as it is humorously called.

  Since science never stops, it probably will be constructed. Perhaps the Universal Brain will have a son, and . . .

  Runaway!

  Ramsey Sinclair

  VAIL’S SHIP floated free a hundred meters ahead! To stumble on him this way was a miracle. I’d been tracking him for months since the Nuptunian episode.

  Evidently he was asleep and had his speedster on automatic, for he made no evasive movements whatsoever. This would be like taking candy from a child, I thought.

  I brought my own boat as close as I could. In full space armor and armed with a Kainten projector, I shot myself across the intervening gap between our vessels and prepared to board him. I crept around the hull with a magna-handle and finally brought up before the hair-line crack of his airlock.

  Experimentally I touched the stud—and the lock slid aside! Puzzled I peered in the airlock before entering. It seemed odd he’d forgotten to lock the airlock. Even as I thought I felt the surge of acceleration. I wanted to back out of the lock but it had slid shut. Here I was, trapped in the airlock of a fleeing criminal wanted by half the System.

  My headphones tinkled:

  “Too bad, Johnson,” the evil chuckling voice said, “but I didn’t even think you were such a stupid sucker.” The chuckle built up to a roar.

  “Listen, Vail,” I said sharply, “show yourself and I’ll burn you to a crisp. Surrender and I guarantee you to a fair trial on Tellus or Mars.”

  “You’re not in a position to bargain Johnson. The only way you’re going back is in a coffin.” He laughed again. “You can’t burn your way in. I watched all the while. All you’ve got is a Kainten projector. Eventually you’re going to die of starvation and air-lack. Tough, Johnson, mighty tough!”

  I didn’t answer. I’d played the perfect fool and I was utterly helpless in his hands now. I tried the airlock again and found it unlocked. I went through it and crawled gingerly around the curvature of the slim vessel until I was outside the glassite quartz ports in the bow.

  Sitting, watching me coolly was Vail. He grinned and waved.

  “Like it outside?” he asked mockingly, “you better. You’ll be there a long, long time.”

  In helpless fury I kicked at the quartzite. The recoil almost shot me away from the ship. Of course, unless I chose, Vail couldn’t shake me from his ship since I was really a part of his system now, with all of his component velocities.

  I went over the vessel with a finetoothed comb. Carefully avoiding the hydrogen blast in the rear I explored the outside of the ship, the sensation despair—and fear—grasping me ever more strongly. You fool, I told myself, you utter, damned fool!

  But that didn’t help matters. Four or five hours went by. My air was no problem, but hunger and the functions would soon be. Occasionally Vail would remind of this fact. Finally I shut off my phones to avoid his voice.

  Then the solution hit me!

  The next eight hours were sheer hell fo
r me, but I lay on the hull, my phones on, listening to the taunts but answering nothing; I feigned perfect death!

  He suspected I was playing him for a sucker, but curiosity killed more than one cat. Sooner or later he’d have to come and see my corpse, give it a kick for good measure. I knew it. I knew Vail.

  When he got no rise out of me for this length of time, he wasn’t quite sure. Keeping my helmet pressed against the hull, I heard the clank of metal boots against metal. He was coming out!

  It was almost anti-climactic. He came over the curved rise of the hull, very cautiously, his projector ready. I let him get his helmet a little higher, expecting any moment the searing blast of the Kainten.

  But he was a bit too bold. He must have felt sure that would’ve passed out. Anyhow his helmet came over the curvature.

  I fired once. Reflex triggered his projector but the blast went overhead as my bolt cut him in half.

  I looked at the mess and dragged the remains into the lock. Then I went in and put the controls back on automatic. I needed the sleep . . .

  Wrong Answer

  Carter T. Wainwright

  THE COMPUTER Room at the Guided Missiles Research Institute at Seahawken is not a particularly impressive place. And neither are its members. Most of the operators are brilliant young men, absent-minded and wholly devoted to the esoteric mysteries of the “brains” under their control—except for the weekends when they like to go out and get drunk just like anybody else.

  My paper sent me down to Seahawken to get the dope on a suicide case that happened over one of those lazy summer weekends. Before I’d been in town an hour I knew the Security men had cased me so thoroughly they knew me down to the last cavity in my eye-teeth.

  When I finally got into the offices and talked with the director, I learned nothing but that a technician, a Doctor Julius Wynward had been despondent and had committed suicide. I was given this information cordially and the public relations officer tsk-tsked and said it was too bad. “These scientists are under such strain, you know . . .”