Block out every other thing but the light."
The guard shifted uneasily. This was a strange way to treat a sick man, and the light was shining right in his eyes. Perhaps he had better call the medico after all. He was half decided to do so, but he felt tired and the chair was comfortable. What was it Train was saying?
"By the time I have counted to twenty, you will be asleep. One…" The guard's eyes grew heavy. "Concentrate …block out everything but the light …everything but the light …seven …
The spot of light floated before the guard's face, distorting into strange shapes that shifted. He just barely heard Train drone "twelve" before he began to breathe deeply and hoarsely.
Train switched on the lights and slipped the flashlight into his pocket.
"Perfect specimen, Lawrence," he exulted. "You can always tell by the eyebrows."
"Fascinating," returned the erstwhile victim to conjunctivitis of the exegetical peritoneum as he climbed out of bed. "What now?"
Train rolled back the guard's eyelids with a practiced thumb. "Ask him anything," he said. "He'll tell you whatever we want to know."
Lawrence cleared his throat, bent over the sleeping man. "When are you leaving for Earth?"
"This afternoon. One hour from now."
"Do the others know you?"
"They never saw me, but they know my name."
"What are the passwords on the way to the ship?"
"Front gate, rabies. Second gate, tuberculosis. Field guard, leprosy.
Ship port, cancer."
"Someone must have had a grim sense of humor," whispered Lawrence to Train. "What are your duties on the ship?"
"I have no duties."
The chemist snapped: "One of us must take his place."
"Yes. Which one of us? No, we won't have to decide. I'm going. Aside from such details as the fact that his uniform will fit me, but would look suspiciously baggy on you, I have a chance to do something about this whole rotten system when I get back. You would only be able to commit more murders, or near-murders."
The chemist's lips whitened. "You're right," he whispered. "When you have the chance, promise me that you'll wipe out this asteroid and the filthy stuff they manufacture here. I don't think I'll be around by that time; exposure to the sun might get me sooner than we think."
"I know," said Train shortly, "and I promise." He gripped the other's hand and shoulder for the moment, then turned to the unconscious guard, and began a machine-gun fire of questions that were to stock his brain with every secret datum held inviolate by the militia of the man-made planetoid.
Ann Riley was frying breakfast bacon and eggs; she did not hear the door of her flat open softly and close. Behind her a voice suddenly spoke. "Cut me in on some of that."
She turned and gasped: "Barney, you sonova gun!" she yelled and flew into his arms.
"It was really nothing," he explained over the coffee. "They just hadn't figured on the hypnosis angle and I took care not to drop any bricks on the voyage. The inefficiency of that system is appalling. If I were managing it, I could step up production of their rotten stuff three hundred percent and see that no prisoner even thought of escaping."
"Yeah," she said skeptically, "I know. But what are you going to do now that you're back?"
"I'm safe for a month. That's how long it takes for a ship to get there and back, and they haven't any other means of communication. The nearness to the sun makes radio or beam messages impossible. So, first, I'm going swimming."
"No, you aren't," she said coldly, a gleam in her eye. "I've been redrafting Independent Fourteen, and all the details are there down on paper again—except for the ones you have in your head. We're going to build that machine and build it fast and powerful. Then we'll throw it in the teeth of T. J. Hartly and World Research, Incorporated. And we're going to fling it so hard there won't be a sound tooth left in their mouths."
"Yes, my pet. I must confess I had some such thought in my head when I decided to come back to Earth."
"We can rig up enough of a lab," she went on, "right here in my flat.
There's no more experimentation to do; we just need the bare essentials with a slight margin for error.
"Splendid," he nodded, reaching for another slice of toast. "We'll need about a hundred yards of silver wire, some standard castings, and a few tubes. You'd better go out and get them now—shop around; we can't afford to get the most expensive. Where have you got the plans?"
They rose from the table and Ann drew a huge scroll of paper from the closet. "Here they are. Full scale, this time."
Train scanned them. "Hey! This distributor wasn't on the designs I gave you."
"Oh, I just filled it in," she demurred.
The scientist scowled. "Hereafter," he proclaimed, "all filling in will be done by Doctor Train. Now gwan out and buy the stuff while I work out the missing circuits." He seated himself at a desk, brooding over the plans.
He looked up when a firm tap came on his shoulder.
"Well?" he asked without turning his head.
"Excuse me, young man, but a point of morality has just come up.
Where do you expect to live while you're building Independent Fourteen?"
"Right here," he answered calmly. "First, I can't afford to live anywhere else—even though I drew a guard's salary, and that isn't too small. But there's the danger to consider. You wouldn't want your collaborator to be snatched up and deported again, would you?"
"Fundamentally," she began in a determined voice, "I'm a conventional person. And I do not like neighbors talking about me as though I were a thing loathsome and accursed in the eyes of gods and men."
"What have neighbors to do with it?"
"Don't you think they would consider it a bit peculiar were a man suddenly to come to my flat and begin to live with me as though it were the most natural thing in the world?"
"Isn't it?" he replied. "In the eyes of Science nothing is unclean or to be shunned."
"Dr. Train!" she flared, "you are going to marry me whether you like it or not. At once!"
He stared at her. "I never really thought of it like that," he began …but Ann was already speaking into the mouthpiece of the phone.
"Central Services, please."
She returned to him. "There—that was easy, wasn't it? He'll be here in a moment; he lives a few houses down."
There was a knock on the door. "Central Service is Super Service,"
quoted Ann. "That's him now."
She rose to admit a sickly individual who greeted her in a brisk, flabby voice. "Miss Riley?"
"Yes. And that object is Doctor Train, my spouse-to-be."
"Thank you," said the agent, opening a book. "Please sign in duplicate."
Ann scribbled her name and passed the book to Train, who also signed.
"Two dollars for ceremony and registration," said the anemic Cupid.
Train handed over the money and limply accepted the certificate in return.
"Thank you," said the agent. "I now pronounce you man and wife." He walked out through the door, closing it gently behind him.
"Well," said Ann, after a long pause.
"Well, what?"
"Aren't you going to kiss the bride?"
"Oh." He did so until she pounded his back for air. "I must be a romanticist," he complained, "but I always wanted an old-fashioned wedding before a city clerk."
"Times have changed," she philosophized. "The tempo of life is accelerated; things move at a fast and furious pace in these mad days.
The old conventions remain, but one complies with them as swiftly and effortlessly as possible. It helps to retain the illusion of gentility."
"Then," he said, "since the illusion is saved, let's get to work. One hundred yards of silver wire—no, make it seventy; we can always buy more."
4
What's that thing?" asked Ann, peering curiously at an odd-looking setupTrain was working on. "A little something. I plan to scare hell out of Hartly with
it. A frequency inductor—I can get the wavelength of his inter-office system and bellow in his ear."
"Very cute," she said thoughtfully. "What's the second tube for?"
"Steps up the tertiary vibrations. I could have used a seven-phase transformer with better effect, but a tube's cheaper and we happened to have one left over."
He twisted a final screw contact into place. "Finished," he announced,
"shall we call up T. J?"
The curiosity was gone. There was only sudden anguish in her eyes as she clung to him. "Barney!" She buried her face against his shoulder.
"What shall we do if anything goes wrong?"
For a brief second her fears leaped through him as he comforted her in the only way he knew. Then cold reason reached in. His voice was steady as he answered: "Nothing will. Independent Fourteen's checked and triple-checked. We've tested it and it clicks every time. What are you worried about?"
"Hartly's a smart man. He has to be to stay on top of World Research. He must have things up his sleeve that no one has ever dreamed about.
Wasn't he a scientist himself before he rose from the ranks to the executive department? It's men like that you have to watch out for.
Never trust a reformed technician."
Train smiled happily. "There's nothing to be afraid of. It's the nature of Independent Fourteen that has him licked before he can start. With this priceless gimmick we have a machine that will give us unlimited personal power and protection. I'm going to play our cards for everything they're worth."
"Barney, isn't there a chance that we might compromise?" She waved aside the protests that sprang to his lips. "I know," she said. "The Syndicate's the greediest octopus that ever got its suckers around the life-blood of a world. It's utterly contemptible—and yet, it's too powerful for its own good—and maybe for ours. Couldn't we compromise and lull their suspicions?"
"Not one bloody chance in a billion!" Train snapped harshly.
"Independent Fourteen's our only trump card, but it's the winner in this game as soon as we see fit to play it."
"I guess you're right, Barney," said Ann wearily. "Call up Mr. Hartly on that gimmick while I warm up Fourteen." She turned to a corner of the room cleared except for a bulky piece of machinery, protrusive with tubes and coils, built around heavy castings bolted together, mounted on wheels. Ann fingered a switchboard carefully, and tubes began to glow with fiery electrical life while sparks snapped from point to point.
"Mr. Hartly, please," said Train quietly into a grid of his instrument.
"Hartly speaking," boomed from a loudspeaker connected with the tiny device. "Who is this?"
"Dr. Train. Do you remember?"
There was a sudden click. "You can't hang up, Hartly. If you look, you'll find that your phone's blown out. I'm using irregular channels."
A long pause, then Hardy's voice came through again, this time tinged with wonder. "How did you get back from M-15, Train, and when did you do it?"
"You paid me to come back, Hartly. I drew the full salary of a guard while returning to Earth on his regular vacation. I've been here some twenty days."
"Extraordinary," breathed the great man. "And I suppose you've been setting up that silly machine of yours?"
"Not so silly," replied Train ominously. "It works like Merlin's wand—
that neat and efficient."
"Then it's no use my sending men around to Miss Riley's flat—I assume that is where you are—to arrest you as an escaped convict."
"No use whatsoever. I can make them feel very foolish, if I so desire. Or I can simply wipe them out without any fuss at all. I'm a practical man, Hartly. Most scientists are—you were one once, yourself, I understand."
"Bacteriologist. Occupied in saving lives. It was wonderful for awhile, but I found eventually that there was no future in it."
"Despicable attitude, Hartly. It shows up throughout your career. It was your career, by the by, that I want to discuss with you, anyway."
"What about my career?"
"Just two words, Hartly. It's over."
Hartly's chuckle was silk-smooth. "How so, Doctor? I was under the impression that it had barely begun."
"I'm warning you, Hartly, not to take this as a joke. I haven't forgotten what it was you wanted to do to me on M-15, and what I was supposed to be doing in the process. I'd have more scruples about killing a scorpion than you, Hartly."
"No doubt about that," came the answer. "So would many misguided persons. But the interesting thing about it is that they have always ended up among insuperable difficulties. You may make me a concrete proposition, Doctor."
"I may and I will! The proposition is this: your unqualified resignation from the directorship and organization of World Research Syndicate, and an assignment to me of unlimited reorganization powers for the period of one year."
Hartly's voice was mocking in tone. "Yes? World Research is a rather large enterprise. Do you think one year would be enough?"
"Ample. Your answer?"
A long pause, then: "My answer is unqualified refusal."
"Based on what? Make no mistake: I shan't hesitate to blot you out any longer than you would hesitate to do the same to me—unless you capitulate. And the difference, T J., is that I can do it and you cannot."
"Admitted," came back Hartly's voice cheerfully. "But surely, Doctor, you didn't think that I have not been preparing—in fact, been prepared—for just such an occasion as this ever since I came into power?"
"Explain," snapped the scientist. "And talk fast and straight."
Hartly's voice was now unperturbed. "When a question of conflict arises, it's either a matter of personal gain or benefit to the world. I've been faced by determined men before, Train. Those who were after personal advancement could be compromised with and later eliminated by quick thinking and quicker action.
"However, altruists presented a different problem. Most of them could not be bribed. Some of them were powerful enough, by reason of their ability or backing, or both, to issue a flat defiance to me. Those I threatened with the thing they loved most—humanity."
"Come to the point, Hardy. I'm not too patient a man in some ways."
"I was a bacteriologist once," went on Hartly. "And, in the course of my research, I developed a nasty variety of bread-mold. It attacks anything organic and spreads like wildfire. I know of nothing to check it, nor does anyone else. It thrives at any temperature and flourishes off corrosive agents."
"So?"
"So, Doctor Train, make one false move, as they say in melodrama, and I release an active culture of that mold; you will then see your flesh crumble away. I realize that alone wouldn't stop you, but the thought of what will then happen to the teeming millions of Earth will."
Another silence, then: "I decided long ago, Train, that no one would wipe me out. True, someone might come along with bigger and better power, even as you have done, but, as you can see, if there's any blotting out to be done, I shall do it myself.
"It will mean the end of World Research and of me. It will also mean the end of all animal life on this planet. If you want a Pyrrhic victory, Train, you may have it."
"It's horrible!" cried Ann, her eyes wide with the shock of it. "Can he do it, Barney?"
"Miss Riley," came through the voice. "Perhaps you remember the occasion of our first meeting. Do you think me the type of man to try a bluff?"
Train turned to the transmitter of his tiny outfit. "I know you're not bluffing, Hartly. I know also that you'll try every means of persuasion you know first, because you don't particularly want to be wiped out, even by you own hands, yet. But it won't work; you'll try this last resort of yours because the ethics of business, which doesn't blink at the murder of an individual, wouldn't blink at the murder of a planet.
"We're going to make a call on you very soon, Hartly. My wife, myself, and Independent Fourteen."
5
Train paused for a moment in thought. "Ann," he said, "do you think Hogan woul
d want to help us?"
"That's a fine favor to ask of any neighbor. Let's see."
They knocked on the door of an adjoining apartment, and the staccato rattle of a typewriter suddenly cut short. The door swung open, and a little man presented himself. "Afternoon, Trains," he said. "What can I do for you?"
"Hogan," began Ann winsomely, "we think you ought to take the afternoon off. Your work's telling on you."
"Not so I've noticed it. What do you want me to do? More shopping for copper tubing? I'm a busy man, Mrs. Train."
"We know that, Hogan," broke in Barney. "But can you spare us a few hours? We need help badly. You'll have to push some heavy machinery and maybe do a bit of scrapping …"
"A fight! Why didn't you say so in the first place? Wait; I'll get me gun."
He vanished, and they heard the typewriter rattle off a few more steaming paragraphs.
The little man appeared again, hefting a ponderous automatic. "Who do we have to pop off?" he asked amiably.
Ann shivered. "Bloodthirsty, isn't he?"
"They bred us that way in South America. Is it a riot, or what?"
"No, none of them. We're going to blow up World Research."
"Splendid! I'd often thought of how elegant it would be to do that, if only some way could be figured out. Where's the machinery ye spoke of? I presume that is what you toss the bombs with."
"In our apartment. Only it isn't bombs; it makes the most powerful explosive look like a slingshot in comparison." They walked back to Train's flat and Ann pointed out Independent Fourteen.
"That's the junk," she said simply.
"It's a powerful-looking bit of machinery. But what does it do?"
Ann told him briefly.
"No!" he cried. "If it were as big as the Research Building it couldn't do that!"
"Calling us liars, mister?"
"Not a bit of it. All right. It does what you say it will—I hope. What's the campaign?"
"We march on the Syndicate Building, pushing Independent Fourteen before us. It's got wheels, you notice. The thing is nicely adjusted—it'll function on any violent shock as well as the hand controls; they know that, so they won't make any attempt to blow it up. In fact they know all about it, but I don't think they quite realize just how good it is.
His Share of Glory The Complete Short Science Fiction Page 100
