His Share of Glory The Complete Short Science Fiction

by C. M. Kornbluth

  “This has got lots of what ya call real est’etic principles. Yeah, it is real pretty.”

  “How much?” the secretary asked the potter.

  “Seven-fifty in dozen lots,” said Hawkins. “I ran up fifteen dozen last month.”

  “They are real est’etic,” repeated the buyer from Fields. “I will take them all.”

  “I don’t think we can do that, doctor,” said the secretary. “They’d cost us $1,350. That would leave only $532 in our quarter’s budget. And we still have to run down to East Liverpool to pick up some cheap dinner sets.”

  “Dinner sets?” asked the buyer, his big face full of wonder.

  “Dinner sets. The department’s been out of them for two months now.

  Mr. Garvy-Seabright got pretty nasty about it yesterday. Re-member?”

  “Garvy-Seabright, that meat-headed bluenose,” the buyer said contemptuously. “He don’t know nothin’ about est’etics. Why for don’t he lemme run my own department?” His eye fell on a stray copy of Whambozambo Comix and he sat down with it. An occasional deep chuckle or grunt of surprise escaped him as he turned the pages.

  Uninterrupted, the potter and the buyer’s secretary quickly closed a deal for two dozen of the liter carafes. “I wish we could take more,” said the secretary, “but you heard what I told him. We’ve had to turn away customers for ordinary dinnerware because he shot the last quar-ter’s budget on some Mexican piggy banks some equally enthusiastic importer stuck him with. The fifth floor is packed solid with them.”

  “I’ll bet they look mighty est’etic.”

  “They’re painted with purple cacti.”

  The potter shuddered and caressed the glaze of the sample carafe.

  The buyer looked up and rumbled, “Ain’t you dummies through yakkin’

  yet? What good’s a seckertary for if’n he don’t take the bur-den of detail off’n my back, harh?”

  “We’re all through, doctor. Are you ready to go?”

  The buyer grunted peevishly, dropped Whambozambo Comix on the floor and led the way out of the building and down the log cor-duroy road to the highway. His car was waiting on the concrete. It was, like all contemporary cars, too low slung to get over the logs. He climbed down into the car and started the motor with a tremen-dous sparkle and roar.

  “Gomez-Laplace,” called out the potter under cover of the noise, “did anything come of the radiation program they were working on the last time I was on duty at the Pole?”

  “The same old fallacy,” said the secretary gloomily. “It stopped us on mutation, it stopped us on culling, it stopped us on segregation, and now it’s stopped us on hypnosis.”

  “Well, I’m scheduled back to the grind in nine days. Time for an-other firing right now. I’ve got a new luster to try…“

  “I’ll miss you. I shall be ‘vacationing’—running the drafting room of the New Century Engineering Corporation in Denver. They’re go-ing to put up a two-hundred-story office building, and naturally some-body’s got to be on hand.”

  “Naturally,” said Hawkins with a sour smile.

  There was an ear-piercingly sweet blast as the buyer leaned on the horn button. Also, a yard-tall jet of what looked like flame spurted up from the car’s radiator cap; the car’s power plant was a gas turbine and had no radiator.

  “I’m coming, doctor,” said the secretary dispiritedly. He climbed down into the car and it whooshed off with much flame and noise.

  The potter, depressed, wandered back up the corduroy road and contemplated his cooling kilns. The rustling wind in the boughs was obscuring the creak and mutter of the shrinking refractory brick.

  Hawkins wondered about the number two kiln—a reduction fire on a load of lusterware mugs. Had the clay chinking excluded the air? Had it been a properly smoky blaze? Would it do any harm if he just took one close—?

  Common sense took Hawkins by the scruff of the neck and yanked him over to the tool shed. He got out his pick and resolutely set off on a prospecting jaunt to a hummocky field that might yield some oxides.

  He was especially low on coppers.

  The long walk left him sweating hard, with his lust for a peek into the kiln quiet in his breast. He swung his pick almost at random into one of the hummocks; it clanged on a stone which he excavated. A largely obliterated inscription said:

  ERSITY OF CHIC

  OGICAL LABO

  ELOVED MEMORY OF

  KILLED IN ACT

  The potter swore mildly. He had hoped the field would turn out to be a cemetery, preferably a once-fashionable cemetery full of once-massive bronze caskets moldered into oxides of tin and copper.

  Well, hell, maybe there was some around anyway.

  He headed lackadaisically for the second largest hillock and sliced into it with his pick. There was a stone to undercut and topple into a trench, and then the potter was very glad he’d stuck at it. His nostrils were filled with the bitter smell and the dirt was tinged with the ex-citing blue of copper salts. The pick went clang!

  Hawkins, puffing, pried up a stainless steel plate that was quite badly stained and was also marked with incised letters. It seemed to have pulled loose from rotting bronze; there were rivets on the back that brought up flakes of green patina. The potter wiped off the sur-face dirt with his sleeve, turned it to catch the sunlight obliquely and read: HONEST JOHN BARLOW

  Honest John, famed in university annals, represents a chal-lenge which medical science has not yet answered: revival of a human being accidentally thrown into a state of suspended ani-mation.

  In 1988 Mr. Barlow, a leading Evanston real estate dealer, visited his dentist for treatment of an impacted wisdom tooth. His dentist requested and received permission to use the experi-mental anesthetic Cycloparadimethanol-B-7, developed at the University.

  After administration of the anesthetic, the dentist resorted to his drill.

  By freakish mischance, a short circuit in his machine de-livered 220

  volts of 60-cycle current into the patient. (In a dam-age suit instituted by Mrs. Barlow against the dentist, the University and the makers of the drill, a jury found for the de-fendants.) Mr. Barlow never got up from the dentist’s chair and was assumed to have died of poisoning, electrocution or both.

  Morticians preparing him for embalming discovered, however, that their subject was—though certainly not living—just as cer-tainly not dead. The University was notified and a series of ex-haustive tests was begun, including attempts to duplicate the trance state on volunteers.

  After a bad run of seven cases which ended fatally, the attempts were abandoned.

  Honest John was long an exhibit at the University museum and livened many a football game as mascot of the University’s Blue Crushers. The bounds of taste were overstepped, however, when a pledge to Sigma Delta Chi was ordered in ‘03 to “kidnap” Honest John from his loosely guarded glass museum case and introduce him into the Rachel Swanson Memorial Girls’ Gym-nasium shower room.

  On May 22, 2003, the University Board of Regents issued the following order: “By unanimous vote, it is directed that the remains of Honest John Barlow be removed from the University museum and conveyed to the University’s Lieutenant James Scott III Memorial Biological Laboratories and there be securely locked in a specially prepared vault.

  It is further directed that all possible measures for the preservation of these remains be taken by the Laboratory administration and that access to these re-mains be denied to all persons except qualified scholars author-ized in writing by the Board. The Board reluctantly takes this action in view of recent notices and photographs in the nation’s press which, to say the least, reflect but small credit upon the University.”

  It was far from his field, but Hawkins understood what had hap-pened—an early and accidental blundering onto the bare bones of the Levantman shock anesthesia, which had since been replaced by other methods. To bring subjects out of Levantman shock, you let them have a squirt of simple saline in the trigeminal nerve. I
nterest-ing. And now about that bronze— He heaved the pick into the rotting green salts, expecting no resistance, and almost fractured his wrist.

  Something down there was solid. He began to flake off the oxides.

  A half hour of work brought him down to phosphor bronze, a huge casting of the almost incorruptible metal. It had weakened struc-turally over the centuries; he could fit the point of his pick under a corroded boss and pry off great creaking and grumbling striae of the stuff.

  Hawkins wished he had an archaeologist with him but didn’t dream of returning to his shop and caffing one to take over the find. He was an all-around man: by choice, and in his free time, an artist in clay and glaze; by necessity, an automotive, electronics and atomic engi-neer who could also swing a project in traffic control, individual and group psychology, architecture or tool design. He didn’t yell for a specialist every time something out of his line came up; there were so few with so much to do.

  He trenched around his find, discovering that it was a great brick-shaped bronze mass with an excitingly hollow sound. A long strip of moldering metal from one of the long vertical faces pulled away, ex-posing red rust that went whoosh and was sucked into the interior of the mass.

  It had been de-aired, thought Hawkins, and there must have been an inner jacket of glass which had crystallized through the centuries and quietly crumbled at the first clang of his pick. He didn’t know what a vacuum would do to a subject of Levantman shock, but he had hopes, nor did he quite understand what a real estate dealer was, but it might have something to do with pottery. And anything might have a bearing on Topic Number One.

  He flung his pick out of the trench, climbed out and set off at a dog-trot for his shop. A little rummaging turned up a hypo and there was a plastic container of salt in the kitchen.

  Back at his dig, he chipped for another half hour to expose the juncture of lid and body. The hinges were hopeless; he smashed them off.

  Hawkins extended the telescopic handle of the pick for the best leverage, fitted its point into a deep pit, set its built-in fulcrum, and heaved. Five more heaves and he could see, inside the vault, what looked like a dusty marble statue. Ten more and he could see that it was the naked body of Honest John Barlow, Evanston real estate dealer, uncorrupted by time.

  The potter found the apex of the trigeminal nerve with his needle’s point and gave him 60 cc.

  In an hour Barlow’s chest began to pump.

  In another hour, he rasped, “Did it work?”

  “Did it!” muttered Hawkins.

  Barlow opened his eyes and stirred, looked down, turned his hands before his eyes— “I’ll sue!” he screamed. “My clothes! My fingernails!”

  A horrid suspicion came over his face and he clapped his hands to his hairless scalp. “My hair!” he wailed. “I’ll sue you for every penny you’ve got! That release won’t mean a damned thing in court—I didn’t sign away my hair and clothes and fingernails!”

  “They’ll grow back,” said Hawkins casually. “Also your epidermis.

  Those parts of you weren’t alive, you know, so they weren’t preserved like the rest of you. I’m afraid the clothes are gone, though.”

  “What is this—the University hospital?” demanded Barlow. “I want a phone. No, you phone. Tell my wife I’m all right and tell Sam Timmerman—he’s my lawyer—to get over here right away. Greenleaf 7-4022. Ow!” He had tried to sit up, and a portion of his pink skin rubbed against the inner surface of the casket, which was powdered by the ancient crystallized glass. “What the hell did you guys do, boil me alive?

  Oh, you’re going to pay for this!”

  “You’re all right,” said Hawkins, wishing now he had a reference book to clear up several obscure terms. “Your epidermis will start growing immediately. You’re not in the hospital. Look here.”

  He handed Barlow the stainless steel plate that had labeled the casket.

  After a suspicious glance, the man started to read. Finishing, he laid the plate carefully on the edge of the vault and was silent for a spell.

  “Poor Verna,” he said at last. “It doesn’t say whether she was stuck with the court costs. Do you happen to know—”

  “No,” said the potter. “All I know is what was on the plate, and how to revive you. The dentist accidentally gave you a dose of what we call Levantman shock anesthesia. We haven’t used it for cen-turies; it was powerful, but too dangerous.”

  “Centuries …“ brooded the man. “Centuries …I’ll bet Sam swindled her out of her eyeteeth. Poor Verna. How long ago was it? What year is this?”

  Hawkins shrugged. “We call it 7-B-936. That’s no help to you. It takes a long time for these metals to oxidize.”

  “Like that movie,” Barlow muttered. “Who would have thought it? Poor Verna!” He blubbered and sniffled, reminding Hawkins pow-erfully of the fact that he had been found under a flat rock.

  Almost angrily, the potter demanded, “How many children did you have?”

  “None yet,” sniffed Barlow. “My first wife didn’t want them. But Verna wants one—wanted one—but we’re going to wait until—we were going to wait until—”

  “Of course,” said the potter, feeling a savage desire to tell him off, blast him to hell and gone for his work. But he choked it down. There was The Problem to think of; there was always The Problem to think of, and this poor blubberer might unexpectedly supply a clue. Haw-kins would have to pass him on.

  “Come along,” Hawkins said. “My time is short.”

  Barlow looked up, outraged. “How can you be so unfeeling? I’m a human being like—”

  The Los Angeles-Chicago “rocket” thundered overhead and Bar-low broke off in mid-complaint. “Beautiful!” he breathed, following it with his eyes. “Beautiful!”

  He climbed out of the vault, too interested to be pained by its roughness against his infantile skin. “After all,” he said briskly, “this should have its sunny side. I never was much for reading, but this is just like one of those stories. And I ought to make some money out of it, shouldn’t I?” He gave Hawkins a shrewd glance.

  “You want money?” asked the potter. “Here.” He handed over a fistful of change and bills. “You’d better put my shoes on. It’ll be about a quarter mile. Oh, and you’re—uh, modest?—yes, that was the word.

  Here.” Hawkins gave him his pants, but Barlow was excitedly counting the money.

  “Eighty-five, eighty-six—and it’s dollars, too! I thought it’d be cred-its or whatever they call them. ‘E Pluribus Ununi’ and ‘Liberty’—just different faces. Say, is there a catch to this? Are these real, genuine, honest twenty-two-cent dollars like we had or just wallpaper?”

  “They’re quite all right, I assure you,” said the potter. “I wish you’d come along. I’m in a hurry.”

  The man babbled as they stumped toward the shop. “Where are we going—The Council of Scientists, the World Coordinator or some-thing like that?”

  “Who? Oh, no. We call them ‘President’ and ‘Congress.’ No, that wouldn’t do any good at all. I’m just taking you to see some people.”

  “I ought to make plenty out of this. Plenty! I could write books. Get some smart young fellow to put it into words for me and I’ll bet I could turn out a best seller. What’s the setup on things like that?”

  “It’s about like that. Smart young fellows. But there aren’t any best sellers any more. People don’t read much nowadays. We’ll find some-thing equally profitable for you to do.”

  Back in the shop, Hawkins gave Barlow a suit of clothes, deposited him in the waiting room and called Central in Chicago. “Take him away,” he pleaded. “I have time for one more firing and he blathers and blathers.

  I haven’t told him anything. Perhaps we should just turn him loose and let him find his own level, but there’s a chance-”

  “The Problem,” agreed Central. “Yes, there’s a chance.”

  The potter delighted Barlow by making him a cup of coffee with a cube that not only dissol
ved in cold water but heated the water to boiling point. Killing time, Hawkins chatted about the “rocket” Bar-low had admired and had to haul himself up short; he had almost told the real estate man what its top speed really was—almost, indeed, re-vealed that it was not a rocket.

  He regretted, too, that he had so casually handed Barlow a couple of hundred dollars. The man seemed obsessed with fear that they were worthless since Hawkins refused to take a note or I.O.U. or even a definite promise of repayment. But Hawkins couldn’t go into details, and was very glad when a stranger arrived from Central.

  “Tinny-Peete, from Algeciras,” the stranger told him swiftly as the two of them met at the door. “Psychist for Poprob. Polassigned spe-cial overtake Barlow.”

  “Thank Heaven,” said Hawkins. “Barlow,” he told the man from the past, “this is Tinny-Peete. He’s going to take care of you and help you make lots of money.”

  The psychist stayed for a cup of the coffee whose preparation had delighted Barlow, and then conducted the real estate man down the corduroy road to his car, leaving the potter to speculate on whether he could at last crack his kilns.

  Hawkins, abruptly dismissing Barlow and The Problem, happily picked the chinking from around the door of the number two kiln, prying it open a trifle. A blast of heat and the heady, smoky scent of the reduction fire delighted him. He peered and saw a corner of a shelf glowing cherry red, becoming obscured by wavering black areas as it lost heat through the opened door. He slipped a charred wood paddle under a mug on the shelf and pulled it out as a sample, the hairs on the back of his hand curling and scorching. The mug crackled and pinged and Hawkins sighed happily.

  The bismuth resinate luster had fired to perfection, a haunting film of silvery-black metal with strange bluish lights in it as it turned be-fore the eyes, and the Problem of Population seemed very far away to Hawkins then.

  Barlow and Tinny-Peete arrived at the concrete highway where the psychist’s car was parked in a safety bay.