that this could ruin us."
"The automobile ruined the buggy-whip makers and threw thousands ofblacksmiths out of work," Bending pointed out. "Such things areinevitable. Every new invention is likely to have an effect like that ifit replaces something older. What do you think atomic energy would havedone to coal mining if it weren't for the fact that coal is needed inthe manufacture of steel? You can't let considerations like that standin the way of technological progress, Mr. Olcott."
"Is it a question of money?" Olcott asked quietly.
Bending shook his head. "Not at all. We've already agreed that I couldmake as much as I want by selling it to you. No; it's just that I'm anidealist of sorts. I intend to manufacture the Converter myself, inorder to make sure it gets into the hands of the people."
"I assure you, Mr. Bending, that Power Utilities would do just that--assoon as it became economically feasible for us to do so."
"I doubt it," Sam Bending said flatly. "If any group has control overthe very thing that's going to put them out of business, they don'trelease it; they sit on it. Dictators, for instance, have throughouthistory, promised freedom to their people 'as soon as it was feasible'.Cincinnatus may have done it, but no one else has in the lasttwenty-five centuries.
"What do you suppose would have happened in the 1940s if the moviemoguls of Hollywood had had the patent rights for television? How manyother inventions actually have been held down simply because theinterested parties _did_ happen to get their hands on them first?
"No, Mr. Olcott; I don't think I can allow Power Utilities to have afinger in this pie or the public would never get a slice of it."
Olcott stood up slowly from the chair. "I see, Mr. Bending; you're quitefrank about your views, anyway." He paused. "I shall have to talk thisover with the Board. There must be some way of averting total disaster.If we find one, we'll let you know, Mr. Bending."
* * * * *
And that was it. That was the line that had stuck in the back ofBending's mind for two weeks. _If we find a way of averting totaldisaster, we'll let you know, Mr. Bending._
And they evidently thought they'd found a way. For two weeks, there hadbeen phone calls from officers of greater or lesser importance in PowerUtilities, but they all seemed to think that if they could offer enoughmoney, Sam Bending would capitulate. Finally, they had taken thedecisive step of stealing the Converter. Bending wondered how they hadknown where it was; he had taken the precaution of concealing it, justin case there might be an attempt at robbery, and using it as powersupply for the lab had seemed the best hiding place. But evidentlysomeone at Power Utilities had read Poe's "Purloined Letter," too.
He smiled grimly. Even if the police didn't find any clues leading themto the thieves who'd broken into his lab, the boys at Power Utilitieswould find themselves in trouble. The second they started to open theConverter, it would begin to fuse. If they were quick, whoever opened itshould be able to get away from it before it melted down into anunrecognizable mass.
Sam Bending took the tape from the playback and returned it to hisfiles.
He wondered how the Power Utilities boys had managed to find where theConverter was. Checking the power that had been used by BendingConsultants? Possibly. It would show that less had been used in the pasttwo weeks than was normally the case. Only the big building next doorwas still using current from the power lines. Still, that would havemeant that they had read the meter in the last two weeks, which, inturn, meant that they had been suspicious in the first place or theywouldn't have ordered an extra reading.
On the other hand, if--
The visiphone rang.
It was the phone with the unregistered number, a direct line that didn'tgo through his secretary's switchboard.
He flipped it on. "Yes?" He never bothered to identify himself on thatphone; anyone who had the number knew who they were calling. Themild-looking, plumpish, blond-haired man whose face came onto the screenwas immediately recognizable.
"How's everything, Mr. Bending?" he asked with cordial geniality.
"Fine, Mr. Trask," Bending answered automatically. "And you?"
"Reasonable, reasonable. I hear you had the police out your way thismorning." There was a questioning look in his round blue eyes. "Notrouble, I hope."
Sam understood the question behind the statement. Vernon Trask was thego-between for some of the biggest black market operators in thecountry. Bending didn't like to have to deal with him, but one had verylittle choice these days.
"No. No trouble. Burglary in the night. Someone opened my safe andpicked up a few thousand dollars, is all."
"I see." Trask was obviously wondering whether some black marketoperator would be approached by a couple of burglars in the next fewdays--a couple of burglars trying to peddle apparatus and equipment thathad been stolen from Bending. There still were crooks who thought thatthe black market dealt in stolen goods of that sort.
"Some of my instruments were smashed," Bending said, "but none of themare missing."
"I'm glad to hear that," Trask said. And Bending knew he meant it. Theblack market boys didn't like to have their customers robbed ofscientific equipment; it might reflect back on them. "I just thought I'dexplain about missing our appointment this morning," Trask went on. "Itwas unavoidable; something unexpected came up."
Trask was being cagey, as always. He didn't talk directly, even over aphone that wasn't supposed to be tapped. Bending understood, though.Some of the robotics equipment he'd contracted to get from Trask wassupposed to have been delivered that morning, but when the deliveryagent had seen the police car out front, he'd kept right on goingnaturally enough.
"That's all right, Mr. Trask," Bending said. "What with all this troublethis morning, it actually slipped my mind. Another time, perhaps."
Trask nodded. "I'll try to make arrangements for a later date. Thanks alot, Mr. Bending. Good-by."
Bending said good-by and cut the connection.
Samson Bending didn't like being forced to buy from the black marketoperators, but there was nothing else to do if one wanted certain piecesof equipment. During the "Tense War" of the late Sixties, the Federaland State governments had gone into a state of near-panic. The war thathad begun in the Near East had flashed northwards to ignite the eternalPowder Keg of Europe. But there were no alliances, no general war; therewere only periodic armed outbreaks, each one in turn threatening to turninto World War III. Each country found itself agreeing to an armisticewith one country while trying to form an alliance with a second anddefending itself from or attacking a third.
And yet, during it all, no one quite dared to use the Ultimate Weapons.There was plenty of strafing by fighter planes and sorties by smallbomber squadrons, but there was none of the "massive retaliation" ofWorld War II. There could be heard the rattle of small-arms fire and therumble of tanks and the roar of field cannon, but not once was there theterrifying, all-enveloping blast of nuclear bombs.
But, at the time, no one knew that it wouldn't happen. The UnitedStates and the Soviet Union hovered on the edges of the war, two colossiwho hesitated to interfere directly for fear they would have to come togrips with each other.
The situation made the "Brinksmanship" of former Secretary Dulles lookas safe as loafing in an easy-chair.
And the bureaucratic and legislative forces of the United StatesGovernment had reacted in a fairly predictable manner. The "security"guards around scientific research, which had been gradually diminishingtowards the vanishing point, had suddenly been re-imposed--this time,even more stringently and rigidly than ever before.
Coupled with this was another force--apparently unrelated--which actedto tie in with the Federal security regulations. The juvenile delinquentgangs had begun to realize the value of science. Teen-age hoodlums armedwith homemade pistols were dangerous enough in the Fifties; add aimedrockets and remote-control bombs to their armories, and you have analmost uncontrollable situation. Something had to be done, and variouslaws controlling the sale of
scientific apparatus had been passed by thefifty states. And--as with their liquor and divorce laws--no two of thestates had the same set of laws, and no one of them was without gapingflaws.
By the time the off-again-on-again wars in Europe had been stilled bythe combined pressure of the United Nations--in which the United Statesand the Soviet Union co-operated wholeheartedly, working together in away they had not done for over twenty years--the "scientific controllaws" in the United States had combined to make scientific researchalmost impossible for the layman, and a matter of endless red tape,forms-in-octuplicate, licenses, permits, investigations, delays, andconfusion for the professional.
The answer, of course, was the black market. What bootlegging had donefor the average citizen in the Twenties, the black market was doing forscientists fifty years later.
The trouble was that, unlike the Volstead Act, the scientificprohibitions aroused no opposition from the man in the street. Indeed,he rather approved of them. He needed and wanted the products ofscientific research, but he had a vague fear of the scientist--the"egghead." To his way of thinking, the laws were cleverly-designedrestrictions promulgated by that marvelous epitome of humanity, thecommon man, to keep the mysterious scientists from meddling with thingsthey oughtn't to.
The result was that the Latin American countries went into full swing,producing just those items which North American scientists couldn't gettheir hands on, because the laws stayed on the books. During the nextten years, they were modified slightly, but only very slightly; but theefforts to enforce them became more and more lax. By the time the lateSeventies and early Eighties rolled around, the black marketeers weredoing very nicely, thank you, and any suggestion from scientists thatthe laws should be modified was met with an intensive counterpropagandaeffort by the operators of the black market.
Actually, the word "operators" is a misnomer. It was known by theauthorities at the time that there was only one ring operating; themarket was too limited to allow for the big-time operations carried onby the liquor smugglers and distillers of half a century before.
Sam Bending naturally was forced to deal with the black market, just aseveryone else engaged in research was; it was, for instance, the onlysource for a good many technical publications which had been put on theRestricted List. Sam wasn't as dependent on them as college anduniversity research men were, simply because he was engaged inindustrial work, which carried much higher priorities than educationalwork did.
Sam, however, was fed up with the whole mess, and would have given hiseyeteeth to clear up the whole stupid farce.
* * * * *
Irritated by every petty distraction at his office, Sam Bending finallygave up trying to cope with anything for the rest of the day. At threein the afternoon, he told his secretary that he was going home, jammedhis hat on his head, and went out to his car.
He got in, turned the switch, and listened to the deep hum of theelectric motors inside. Somehow, it made him feel so good that theirritations of the day lessened a great deal. He grinned.
Power Utilities hadn't even thought of this hiding place. The Converterin the rear of the car gave the vehicle far more power than it needed,but the extra juice came in handy sometimes. The driving motors wouldn'ttake the full output of the generators, of course; the Converter hardlyhad to strain itself to drive the automobile at top speed, and, as longas there was traction, no grade could stall the car. Theoretically, itcould climb straight up a wall.
Not that Sam Bending had any intention of climbing a wall with it.
He even had power left over for the sound-effects gadget and theair-heater that made the thing appear to be powered by an ordinaryturbo-electric engine. He listened and smiled as the motors madesatisfying sounds while he pulled out of the parking lot and into thestreet. He kept that pleased, self-satisfied grin on his face for sixblocks.
And then he began to notice that someone was following him.
At first, he hadn't paid much attention to it. The car was just a commonFord Cruiser of the nondescript steel blue color that was so popular.But Bending had been conscious of its presence for several blocks. Helooked carefully in the mirror.
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it had been several cars of that same colorthat had moved in and out of the traffic behind him. Well, he'd soonsee.
He kept on going toward the North-South Expressway, and kept watchingthe steel-blue Ford, glancing at his rear view mirror every time hecould afford to take his eyes off the traffic.
It moved back and forth, but it was never more than three cars behindhim, and usually only one. Coincidence? Possibly.
At Humber Avenue, he turned left and drove southwards. The steel-blueFord turned, too. Coincidence? Still possible.
He kept on going down Humber Avenue for ten blocks, until he came to thenext cross street that would take him to a lower entrance to theNorth-South Expressway. He turned right, and the Ford followed.
At the ramp leading to the northbound side of the Expressway, the Fordwas two cars behind.
Coincidence? No. That's pushing coincidence too far. If the men in thecar had actually intended to go north on the Expressway, they would havegone on in the direction they had been taking when Bending first noticedthem; they wouldn't have gone ten blocks south out of their way.
Bending's smile became grim. He had never liked the idea of beingfollowed around, and, since the loss of one of his Converters, he waseven touchier about the notion. Trouble was, his fancy, souped-upLincoln was of no use to him at all. He could outrun them on a clearhighway--but not on the crowded Expressway. Or, conversely, he couldjust keep on driving until they were forced to stop for fuel--but thatcould be a long and tedious trip if they had a full tank. And besides,they might make other arrangements before they went dry.
Well, there was another way.
He stayed on the Expressway for the next twenty miles, going far northof where he had intended to turn off. At the Marysville Exit, he wentdown the ramp. He had been waiting for a moment when the Ford would be alittle farther behind than normal, but it hadn't come; at each exit, thedriver of the trailing car would edge up, although he allowed himself todrop behind between exits. Whoever was driving the car knew what he wasdoing.
At the bottom of the ramp, Bending made a left turn and took the roadinto Marysville. It was a small town, not more than five or six thousandpopulation, but it was big enough.
There weren't many cars on the streets that led off the main highway.Bending made a right turn and went down one of the quiet boulevards inthe residential section. The steel-blue Ford dropped behind as theyturned; they didn't want to make Bending suspicious, evidently.
He came to a quiet street parallel to the highway and made a left turn.As soon as he was out of sight of his pursuers, he shoved down on theaccelerator. The car jumped ahead, slamming Bending back in his seat.At the next corner, he turned left again. A glance in the mirror showedhim that the Ford was just turning the previous corner.
Bending's heavy Lincoln swung around the corner at high speed and shotback toward the highway. At the next corner, he cut left once more, andthe mirror showed that the Ford hadn't made it in time to see him turn.
They'd probably guess he'd gone left, so he made a right turn as soon ashe hit the next street, and then made another left, then another right.Then he kept on going until he got to the highway.
A left turn put him back on the highway, headed toward the Expressway.The steel-blue car was nowhere in sight.
Bending sighed and headed back south towards home.
* * * * *
Sam Bending knew there was something wrong when he pulled up in front ofhis garage and pressed the button on the dashboard that was supposed toopen the garage door. Nothing happened.
He climbed out of the car, went over to the door of the garage, andpushed the emergency button. The door remained obstinately shut.
Without stopping to wonder what had happened, he sprinted around to the
front door of the house, unlocked it, and pressed the wall switch. Thelights didn't come on, and he knew what had happened.
Trailing a stream of blue invective, he ran to the rear of the house andwent down the basement stairs. Sure enough. Somebody had taken his houseConverter, too.
And they hadn't even had the courtesy to shunt him back onto the powerlines.
At his home, he had built more carefully than he had at the lab. He hadrigged in a switch which would allow him to use either the Converter orthe regular power sources, so that he could work on the Converter if hewanted to. His basement was almost a duplicate of his lab in the city,except that at home he built gadgets just for the fun of watching themwork, while at the lab he was doing more serious research.
He went over to the cabinet where the switch was, opened it, and punchedthe relay button. The lights came on.
He stalked back up the stairs and headed for the visiphone. First, hedialed his patent attorney's office; he needed some advice. If PowerUtilities had their hands on two out of three of his Converters, theremight be some trouble over getting the patents through.
The attorney's secretary said he wasn't in, and she didn't know if heexpected to be back that day. It was, she informed Bending ratherarchly, nearly five in the afternoon. Bending thanked her and hung up.
He dialed the man's home, but he wasn't there, either.
Sam Bending stuck a cigarette in his mouth, fired it up, walked over tohis easy-chair and sat down to think.
According to the police, the first Converter had been stolen on Fridaynight. The second one had obviously been taken sometime this morning,while he was in the
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