Astounding Science Fiction Stories: An Anthology of 350 Scifi Stories Volume 2 (Halcyon Classics)

by Various

  "Thanks, Mr. Pettigill."

  "Arthur. Call me Arthur. Formality really isn't necessary among Mid Echelon, do you think? Section Secretary Andrews has often requested I call him Morton, but I just can't seem to bring myself to such informality. After all, he is Sub-Prime Echelon. It makes one uncomfortable, shall we say, to step out of one's class?" He stopped talking and the corners of his mouth dropped quickly as if he had just been given one minute to live. "You--you are only Mid Echelon, aren't you? I mean, if you are Sub-Prime, I shouldn't be--"

  "Relax, Mr. Pettigill--'Arthur'--I am Mid Echelon. And I'm only that because my father was a man of far more industry than I; I inherited my classification."

  "So? Well, now. Interesting--very. He must have been a great man, a great man, Mr. Bartle."

  "So I am told, Arthur. But let's get on with it," Bartle said, taking some scrap paper and a pencil stub from his tunic pocket. "Now, tell me about yourself and the Melopsych Center."

  "Well," the little man began with a sigh and blinked his eyes peculiarly as though he were mentally shuffling events and facts like a deck of cards. "Well, I--my life would be of little interest, but the Center is of the utmost importance. That's it--I am no more than a physical extremity that functions in accord with the vital life that courses through the great physique of the Center! No more--I ask no more than to serve the Center and in turn, my fellow citizens, whether they be Prime, Sub-Prime, Mid, or even Sub-Lower!"

  He stopped speaking, affecting a martyr-like pose. Bartle covered a smile with his hand.

  "Well, Bartle, as you know, the Center--the Melopsych Center, a thoroughly inadequate name for the installation I might say--is the point of broadcast for these many taped musical selections contrived by Mass Psych as a therapeutic treatment for the various Echelon levels. It is the Great Psychiatrist--the Father Confessor. For where can one bare one's soul, or soothe one's nerves and disposition frayed by a day's endeavor, better than in the tender yet firm embrace of music?"

  * * * * *

  Bartle was straining to follow the train of thought that was lost in the camouflage of Pettigill's flowery phraseology.

  "You see all about you these many recorders, Mr. Bartle?"

  Bartle nodded.

  "On those machines, sir, are spools of tape. Music tapes, all music. My heavens, every kind: classical music, jazz, western, all kinds of music. Some tapes are no more than a single melodious note, sustained for whatever length of time necessary to relax and please the Echelon level home it is being beamed to. Oh, I tell you, Mr. Bartle, when the last tape has expended itself for the day, as our service code suggests, I leave this great edifice with a feeling of profound pride in the fact that I have so served my fellow man. You share that feeling too, don't you Mr. Bartle?"

  Bartle shrugged. Pettigill paused and looked at the watch he carried on a long chain attached to a clasp on his tunic.

  "A Benz chronometer, given to me by Section Secretary Andrews on the completion of my twenty-five years of service. It's radio-synchronized with the master timepiece in Greenland. It gives me a feeling of close communion with my superiors, if you understand what I mean."

  Bartle did not. He said, "Am I keeping you from your work? If I am, I believe I can fill in on most of this back at the paper; we have files on the Center's operation."

  The little man hurriedly put out a hand to restrain Bartle who was easing out of the chair.

  "Not yet, Mr. Bartle," he said, suddenly much more sober. Then his incongruous pomposity appeared again. "My gracious, no, you aren't keeping me from my work. I just must start the Mid-Lower Echelon tape. It won't take a moment. Tonight, they receive 'Concerto For Ass's Jawbone.' Sounds rather ridiculous, doesn't it? Be that as it may, there is a certain stimulation in its rhythmic cacophony. Aboriginality--yes, I would say it arouses a primitive exaltation."

  He flicked a switch above the recorder, turned a knob, and pressed the starter button on the machine. The tape began winding slowly from one spool to another.

  "Is it 'casting'?" Bartle asked. "I don't hear a thing."

  Pettigill laughed. "My stars, no; you can't hear it. See--" He pointed at a needle doing a staccato dance on the meter face of the machine. "That tells me everything is operating properly. Mass Psych advises us never to listen to 'casts. The selections were designed by them for specific social and intellectual levels. It could cause us to experience a rather severe emotional disturbance."

  A peculiar look came over Bartle's face. "Is there ever a time when all the machines run at once? That is, when every Echelon home is tuned to the melopsych tapecasts?"

  Pettigill registered surprise. "Why, certainly, Mr. Bartle. Don't you know Amendment 34206-B specifically states that all Echelon homes must receive music therapy at 2300 hours every night? Of course, different tapes to different homes."

  "That's what I mean."

  "Haven't you been abiding by the directive, Mr. Bartle?"

  "I told you I owed my classification to my father's industry. I am definitely lax in my duties."

  Pettigill laughed--almost wickedly, Bartle thought.

  "What I'm getting at, is," Bartle continued, "what if the wrong 'casts were channeled into the various homes?"

  "I remind you, sir, I am in charge of the Center and have been for thirty years. Not even the slightest mistake of that nature has ever occurred during that time!"

  "That, I can believe, Pettigill," Bartle said, his voice edged with sarcasm. "But, hypothetically, if it were to happen, what would the reaction be?"

  The little man fidgeted with his watch chain. Then he leaned close to Bartle and said in a barely audible whisper, "This isn't for publication in your article, is it?"

  "You don't think the Government would allow that, do you? No, this is to satisfy my own curiosity."

  "Well, since we're both Mid Echelon--brothers, so to speak--I suppose we can share a secret. It will be disastrous! I firmly believe it will be disastrous, Mr. Bartle!" He moved closer to the tall man. "I recall a secret administrative directive we received here twenty years ago concerning just that. In essence, it stated that, though music therapy has its great advantages, if the pattern of performance were broken or altered, a definite erratic emotional reaction would develop on the part of the citizens! That was twenty years ago, and I shudder to think what might be the response now; especially if the 'cast were completely foreign to the recipient." He gave a little shudder to emphasize the horror of the occurrence. "It would make psychotics of the entire citizenry! That's what would happen--a nation of psychotics!"

  "The fellow who didn't hear the 'miscast' would be top dog, eh, Pettigill? He could call his shots."

  * * * * *

  Pettigill twirled the watch chain faster between a forefinger and thumb. "No, he'd gain nothing," he said, staring as though hypnotized by the whirling, gold chain. "It would take more than one sane person to control the derelict population. Perhaps--perhaps two," he mumbled. "Yes, I think perhaps two could."

  "You and who else, Pettigill?"

  Pettigill stepped back and drew himself erect. "What? You actually entertain the idea th--" He laughed dryly. "Oh, you're pulling my leg, eh, Mr. Bartle."

  "I suppose I am."

  "Well, such a remark gives one a jolt, if you know what I mean. Even though we are speaking of a hypothetical occurrence, we must be cautious about such talk, Mr. Bartle. Although our government is a benevolent organization, it is ill-disposed toward such ideas." He cleared his throat. "Now, is there anything else I can tell you about the Center?"

  Bartle arose from the chair, stuffing the scrap paper and unused pencil back in his pocket. "Thanks, no," he said, "I think this'll cover it. Oh yes, the article will appear in this Sunday's edition. Thanks, Pettigill, for giving me your time."

  "Oh, I wish to thank you, Mr. Bartle. Being featured in a Bulletin article is the ultimate to a man such as I--a man whose only wishes are to serve his country and his brothers."

  "I'm sure you're doing both
with great efficiency," Bartle said as he apathetically shook Pettigill's hand and started toward the door.

  "A moment, Mr. Bartle--" the little man called.

  Bartle stopped and turned.

  "I perceive, Mr. Bartle, you are a man of exceptional ability," Pettigill said and cleared his throat. "It seems a shame to waste such talent; it should be directed toward some definite goal. Do you understand what I mean? After all, we're all brothers, you know. It would be for my benefit as well as yours."

  "Sure, sure, 'brother'," Bartle snorted and left.

  He started for the paper office but decided to let the story go until morning. What the hell, he had a stock format for all such articles. The people were the same: selfless, heroic type, citizens working for the mutual good of all. Only the names were different. And yet, this Pettigill had disturbed him. Perhaps it was something he had said that Bartle could not remember.

  * * * * *

  He walked into his warm flat and extracted the pre-cooked meal from the electroven. He ate with little relish, abstractly thinking of the foolish little cog in the governmental machine he had talked with that afternoon. Or was Pettigill that foolish little cog? Bartle could not help but feel there was something deep inside him that did not show in that wizened and seemingly open little face. He thought about it the rest of the evening.

  He looked at the clock on the night table--2300 hours. "Pettigill's Lullaby Hour," he thought. Bartle chuckled and switched off the bed light. He was asleep before the puffs of air had escaped from under the covers he pulled over himself.

  When the phone rang at 0300, Bartle was strangely not surprised, although, consciously, he was expecting no call.

  "Hello," he said sleepily.

  "Bartle? This is Pettigill." The voice was Pettigill's but the nervous, timid, quality was gone. "I assume you did not hear the 2300 'cast?"

  "You assume correctly, Pettigill. What d'you want?"

  "Come on over to the Center; we'll split a fifth of former Section Secretary Andrews' Scotch."

  "What the hell do you mean?"

  "Were you serious about that 'therapy revolution' we were talking about this afternoon?"

  "I'm always serious. So what?"

  "Excellent, excellent," Pettigill laughed. "I've spent thirty years just waiting for such a man as you! No, I'm serious, my cynical friend--what position would you like in the new government?"

  "Let's see--why don't you make my descendants real peachy happy and make me, say, Administrator of Civilian Relations. That sounds big and important."

  "Fine, fine! Tell me, Bartle--how are your relations with psychotics?"

  Bartle leaped to the floor. Instantly he recalled what Pettigill had said that had disturbed him. When they had been discussing the repercussions of a miscast, Pettigill had said, "it will be disastrous" and not "it would be disastrous." The devil had been planning just such a thing for God knows how long!

  "How many of 'em, Pettigill?" Bartle asked.

  "A lot, Bartle, a lot," the little man answered. "I would say 170 million! I might even say, a nation of psychotics!" He giggled again.

  A smile sliced through Bartle's sallow cheeks. "My relations with them would be the best! Keep that Scotch handy, Pettigill. I'll be right over."

  * * *

  Contents

  JUNIOR ACHIEVEMENT

  By William Lee

  Fallout is, of course, always disastrous-- one way or another

  "What would you think," I asked Marjorie over supper, "if I should undertake to lead a junior achievement group this summer?"

  She pondered it while she went to the kitchen to bring in the dessert. It was dried apricot pie, and very tasty, I might add.

  "Why, Donald," she said, "it could be quite interesting, if I understand what a junior achievement group is. What gave you the idea?"

  "It wasn't my idea, really," I admitted. "Mr. McCormack called me to the office today, and told me that some of the children in the lower grades wanted to start one. They need adult guidance of course, and one of the group suggested my name."

  I should explain, perhaps, that I teach a course in general science in our Ridgeville Junior High School, and another in general physics in the Senior High School. It's a privilege which I'm sure many educators must envy, teaching in Ridgeville, for our new school is a fine one, and our academic standards are high. On the other hand, the fathers of most of my students work for the Commission and a constant awareness of the Commission and its work pervades the town. It is an uneasy privilege then, at least sometimes, to teach my old-fashioned brand of science to these children of a new age.

  "That's very nice," said Marjorie. "What does a junior achievement group do?"

  "It has the purpose," I told her, "of teaching the members something about commerce and industry. They manufacture simple compositions like polishing waxes and sell them from door-to-door. Some groups have built up tidy little bank accounts which are available for later educational expenses."

  "Gracious, you wouldn't have to sell from door-to-door, would you?"

  "Of course not. I'd just tell the kids how to do it."

  Marjorie put back her head and laughed, and I was forced to join her, for we both recognize that my understanding and "feel" for commercial matters--if I may use that expression--is almost nonexistent.

  "Oh, all right," I said, "laugh at my commercial aspirations. But don't worry about it, really. Mr. McCormack said we could get Mr. Wells from Commercial Department to help out if he was needed. There is one problem, though. Mr. McCormack is going to put up fifty dollars to buy any raw materials wanted and he rather suggested that I might advance another fifty. The question is, could we do it?"

  Marjorie did mental arithmetic. "Yes," she said, "yes, if it's something you'd like to do."

  We've had to watch such things rather closely for the last ten--no, eleven years. Back in the old Ridgeville, fifty-odd miles to the south, we had our home almost paid for, when the accident occurred. It was in the path of the heaviest fallout, and we couldn't have kept on living there even if the town had stayed. When Ridgeville moved to its present site, so, of course, did we, which meant starting mortgage payments all over again.

  * * * * *

  Thus it was that on a Wednesday morning about three weeks later, I was sitting at one end of a plank picnic table with five boys and girls lined up along the sides. This was to be our headquarters and factory for the summer--a roomy unused barn belonging to the parents of one of the group members, Tommy Miller.

  "O.K.," I said, "let's relax. You don't need to treat me as a teacher, you know. I stopped being a school teacher when the final grades went in last Friday. I'm on vacation now. My job here is only to advise, and I'm going to do that as little as possible. You're going to decide what to do, and if it's safe and legal and possible to do with the starting capital we have, I'll go along with it and help in any way I can. This is your meeting."

  Mr. McCormack had told me, and in some detail, about the youngsters I'd be dealing with. The three who were sitting to my left were the ones who had proposed the group in the first place.

  Doris Enright was a grave young lady of ten years, who might, I thought, be quite a beauty in a few more years, but was at the moment rather angular--all shoulders and elbows. Peter Cope, Jr. and Hilary Matlack were skinny kids, too. The three were of an age and were all tall for ten-year-olds.

  I had the impression during that first meeting that they looked rather alike, but this wasn't so. Their features were quite different. Perhaps from association, for they were close friends, they had just come to have a certain similarity of restrained gesture and of modulated voice. And they were all tanned by sun and wind to a degree that made their eyes seem light and their teeth startlingly white.

  The two on my right were cast in a different mold. Mary McCready was a big husky redhead of twelve, with a face full of freckles and an infectious laugh, and Tommy Miller, a few months younger, was just an average, extroverted, well adj
usted youngster, noisy and restless, tee-shirted and butch-barbered.

  The group exchanged looks to see who would lead off, and Peter Cope seemed to be elected.

  "Well, Mr. Henderson, a junior achievement group is a bunch of kids who get together to manufacture and sell things, and maybe make some money."

  "Is that what you want to do," I asked, "make money?"

  "Why not?" Tommy asked. "There's something wrong with making money?"

  "Well, sure, I suppose we want to," said Hilary. "We'll need some money to do the things we want to do later."

  "And what sort of things would you like to make and sell?" I asked.

  The usual products, of course, with these junior achievement efforts, are chemical specialties that can be made safely and that people will buy and use without misgivings--solvent to free up rusty bolts, cleaner to remove road tar, mechanic's hand soap--that sort of thing. Mr. McCormack had told me, though, that I might find these youngsters a bit more ambitious. "The Miller boy and Mary McCready," he had said, "have exceptionally high IQ's--around one forty or one fifty. The other three are hard to classify. They have some of the attributes of exceptional pupils, but much of the time they seem to have little interest in their studies. The junior achievement idea has sparked their imaginations. Maybe it'll be just what they need."

  Mary said, "Why don't we make a freckle remover? I'd be our first customer."

  * * *

  "The thing to do," Tommy offered, "is to figure out what people in Ridgeville want to buy, then sell it to them."

  "I'd like to make something by powder metallurgy techniques," said Pete. He fixed me with a challenging eye. "You should be able to make ball bearings by molding, then densify them by electroplating."

  "And all we'd need is a hydraulic press," I told him, "which, on a guess, might cost ten thousand dollars. Let's think of something easier."

  Pete mulled it over and nodded reluctantly. "Then maybe something in the electronics field. A hi-fi sub-assembly of some kind."