by Various
He picked up the martini glass and drained it.
Looking apologetically at my ogle he picked up the pastels again and said, "Sorry. Care for one?"
I said sure. You have to go all the way or nowhere with these things. Besides, a drink might stop the rumbling in my stomach. "Make it a rye," I said. "Triple."
He sketched it and signed it and handed it to me, and I said, "I see what you mean. Everything you sketch, huh?" The rye was good.
Willy sighed morosely. "Anything in color. And I made my name in color work. I can't do a black and white for beans."
"Why don't you--"
"Leave off my signature?" He smiled wanly. "You know better than that, Jim."
I did. He had a big name, and that, as is the way of commerce, is what the buyers paid for. Things looked hopeless for Willy. We sat. Red got up and stretched, then adjusted her halter, into which Willy had put too much imagination. She jumped from Willy's knee to the drawing desk, and stretched out on the pad. Willy looked at her hungrily, and she smiled warmly back at him. I was beginning to get that "third party" feeling--and then it hit me.
I leaned forward excitedly. "We will make a million!" I roared.
They stared at me. Coolly. I went to the back of the chair again. After a few minutes their contemptuous stares got my neck.
"Okay, okay," I muttered. "We won't make a million."
They waited expectantly for a compatible solution. To show that I was still working on it I started talking again.
"Let's sum up. You and Red want to get together. Which is only right, because you literally belong to each other. Check. But you can't, because Red's too small and you're too tall."
"Check," they said simultaneously. I stumbled on.
"Okay." I addressed Red. "Let's take you first. You are your--uh--natural size. You are satisfied with it. You cannot be projected up because it would distort you."
Red nodded. "I would consider it indecent."
"And anyway, you are satisfied with your element. You prefer it to Willy's."
"Immensely more. So would Willy."
"And what is your element?" I asked.
"Willy's mind."
* * * * *
I ignored that because it led to the shakes department. I turned to Willy. I was getting excited.
"Now, Willy. You are your natural size. You are unsatisfied with it, because--uh--your peculiar talent is lousing up your profession. What is more, Red's size and element is the preference manifested in your mind. Her element is doubly preferred, then, as against your own, by both of you, uh--"
"Making the preference unanimous," Willy suggested.
"Right," I said, pushing the thing out of my mind now that I'd stumbled through it. I spread my arms and gave what I hoped was a confident smile.
"There's your answer," I said.
I got blank looks.
"It's obvious!" I said to Willy. "You go to Red's element!"
Willy's meager features were perplexed, but Red caught the idea. She jumped excitedly back on her beau's lap. "Don't you see what he means, Willy? Draw yourself to my size!"
That is a verbatim report of what led up to Willy propping a full-length mirror in an easel and making a twelve-and-a-half inch full-length portrait of himself, with me drinking triple ryes while Red directed which of Willy's features should manifest the most prominence. It was a very good likeness of himself as he might have looked had he been the physical Adonis his mind pictured him as, which was only right, considering the element he was journeying to. Red insisted he wear a bathing suit that more or less matched her own.
When he was finished, he stepped back, naturally, to admire it.
"That's terrific!" I said, clapping him on the back.
"Watch on whom you're spilling the rye," Red flared. I apologized, and in my philanthropic state stooped to kiss her. She backed away.
"A kiss for the bride," I said, pouting. "That's all."
She laughed. "You'd swallow me." But she approached and stood up on tip-toe and bussed my nose.
"Break it up," Willy said, a new authority in his voice. "I've got to put my signature to the sketch." He tapped impatiently. "Red. Lie down beside the sketch."
Red flushed and placed her hands on her hips. "Now look here, Willy. Don't you go getting too big for your boots!"
I guffawed. "It's the other way 'round! He'll be too small for his boots."
This diverted the quarrel enough for Willy to give me final instructions, which he did from a prone position on the floor. "Is Red lying down beside the sketch, Jim?"
"Yup," I said, squinting at the once-again two-dimensioned Red-head.
"Now I'll transfer my mind to the sketch. I'll move an arm when I'm there."
He closed his eyes, and a straining expression twisted his features.
"Am I there yet?"
"Nope," I said, bringing my eyes to focus three inches from the sketch.
A few grunting moments passed. "Am I there yet?"
"Nope," I said, stifling a yawn.
"Something's wrong," he said. I turned to look down at him. His straining expression was now from thought. I turned back to the layout pad, and jumped.
"What's taking him so long?" Red demanded, sitting up.
"He can't transfer," I said.
She gave me the schoolmarm expression, hands on hips. "Haven't you killed him yet?"
"Mmm?" I asked.
"You've got to kill him, silly!"
I shook my head. "Unh-unh. Not me."
She started to cry. "I thought you wanted us to get together!"
* * * * *
Feeling like a louse, I turned to look down at Willy. "She says I've got to kill you."
"How?"
Red had come to the edge of the drawing desk. "What does it matter, how?" she said sternly. "You know perfectly well that the only way to get rid of the body you're in is to die." She looked back at me. "What are you waiting for?"
I rubbed my head. "Somehow it doesn't seem--"
She sat back and wailed. Willy jumped from the floor and cupped her tenderly in his hands. "Don't cry, sweet. After all, it is asking a lot of Jim."
"He gave us the solution," she cried, "and now he's backing out of his part in it!"
"Well," said Willy, "he wasn't expected to know he'd have to kill me--"
"How else can you leave the body you're in?" she sobbed. "What did he expect you'd do? Occupy two bodies at the same time?"
Willy looked at me. I shrugged. "Have to confess I hadn't thought of it," I muttered, only half aware that they had me over a barrel. I was half tempted to ask Willy to fill my rye glass with pastels again, but it seemed an imposition at the moment.
"Oh, what the hell," I said committingly. "I'm not the kind of guy to let a friend down over a technicality!"
Red leapt to my lap and clambered up my shirtfront. "I knew you wouldn't let us down!" she said happily, and bussed my chin. Before I could be modest about it she had bounded to the desk-top and was stretching herself out beside Willy's drawing of himself. Willy and I stared from her to each other.
"Well," Willy said. "Let's get to it."
I won't elaborate on the details on my act of friendship. I killed Willy in as gentle a manner as possible, and when I turned back to the layout pad they were sitting there embracing. Willy-the-Figment stood up proudly and extended his hand, the one Red wasn't clinging to.
"Thanks, Jim," he said, when I had shaken it warmly with my finger-tip. "I knew when I phoned you tonight that you were just the one who would come up with an unselfish, practical solution to my dilemma. I'd like to say--"
"Oh, come on, come on, Willy," Red said impatiently, pulling him back to the pad. "Jim knows how much we appreciate his help. Come on!"
"Oh, very well," said Willy, winking at me. I winked back. "Lucky sti--" I began, but then remembered Willy's corpse. That brought a nagging thought to my mind, but Willy and Red were lying side-by-side, half submerged in their second dimension, and Red
was beckoning impatiently, pointing to the dough rubber beside her.
"Hurry up," she said. "Rub us out."
I rubbed them out.
Willy's body vanished from the floor as I dropped the eraser. And just as suddenly I was sober. Cold, shaking sober.
Where was Willy? I looked around the room. Nobody but me. Me and my delirium tremens.
I got out of that apartment fast and headed for a long line of drinks. I had a big case of murder to wash away. Or did I?...
... So you see, that's how it is. Willy's gone, and nobody knows where. Nobody but me. And I don't know either. I keep thinking of what Red said about her "fourth dimension" world. I think about it a lot.
I've given up my job at the agency. My apartment too. I got a new one. Willy's. It's just as it was that night. Right down to the last pastel and brush. It's going to stay that way too. Everything just as it was. Every gadget that Willy used in his work.
I've got a use for everything in that apartment. I've got to know what happened. And there's only one real way to find out.
I spend my days thinking about my ideal woman. Each day she gets more vivid in my mind.
My evenings are spent at Art School. I'm learning fast....
* * *
Contents
GENERALS HELP THEMSELVES
By M. C. Pease
The admiral, affectionately known as the Old Man, did not reply until he'd closed the door, crossed the room, and dropped into the chair at his desk. Then he said:
"Go well? It did not go at all. Every blasted one of them, from the President on down, can think of nothing but the way the Combine over-ran Venus. When I mention P-boats, they shout that the Venusians depended on P-boats, too, and got smashed by the Combine's dreadnoughts in one battle. 'You can't argue with it, man,' they tell me. And they won't listen."
"But the Venusians fought their P-ships idiotically," the aide complained. "It was just plain silly to let small, light, fast ships slug it out with dreadnoughts. If they had used Plan K--"
The Old Man snorted.
"Are you trying to convince me? I've staked my whole reputation on Plan K. They wouldn't give me the money to build a balanced space-fleet, even when the fleets of the Combine of Jupiterian Satellite States were staring them in the face. So, I took what I could get and poured it into P-boats. I threw all our engineering and scientific staff into making them faster and more maneuverable than anyone ever thought a space-ship could be. I got them to build me electronic computers that could direct that speed. And, two years ago, every cent I could lay my hands on went to install the computers on all our ships."
"I remember," the aide said.
"But, now the chips are down, the people have funked out on me. I am one of the most hated men in the Federation. They say I destroyed their Navy. And, we are not going to get a chance to try Plan K. They decided, today, to accept the Combine's offer to send envoys in a month to discuss possible revision of the Treaty of Porran. When I left, they were wondering if there was any chance of getting out for less than Base Q."
"But, good lord, sir, Base Q supplies nine tenths of all our power. The Combine will have a strangle hold on us, if they get that."
"Quite. But the people will give it to them, rather than fight. And the President will sign."
"Surely, sir, the people are not all cowards?"
"No. If they had time to think, they would fight. That's why the Combine is striking now. The people are panicky. Hysterical. The collapse of Venus was so sudden, and the disaster to their P-boats so complete. They've just lost hope. Most people would rather live under a dictator than die to no purpose. They've just lost hope."
The pounding of the Old Man's fist measured his words and the depth of his anger.
"If we could only make them hope. Somehow. Anyhow."
Suddenly, his clenched fist stopped in mid-air. He frowned. Slowly, his hand opened. The frown relaxed and a smile replaced it.
"Maybe we can, at that. Maybe we can." He leaned back with his eyes half closed. His aide knew better than to interrupt him. Ten minutes later, he opened his eyes.
"Make arrangements to have Commander Morgan take command of Base Q as soon as possible. Within two days at the outside." His manner was curt and clipped. "And bring him here to me before he leaves."
"Yes, sir. But may I say, sir, I do not understand?"
"You're not supposed to."
"Yes, sir."
The aide was a competent man. Orders were written that afternoon, in complete disregard of normal red-tape. Base Q was advised of the imminent shift. Commander Stanley Morgan boarded a jet plane on the Australian desert that night. The next morning, he was shown into the Old Man's office.
"Commander," the Old Man said after the preliminaries were taken care of, "as you are well aware, you have been in considerable disgrace, recently, for getting too close to the Venusian-Combine war, in defiance of orders. It has been felt, in certain quarters, that you might have caused a serious international crisis."
* * * * *
The junior officer started to speak, but the admiral waved him to silence.
"You could, if you like, point out that the crisis has come, anyhow. As a matter of fact, I never felt that that phase of your action was too important. I did, however, deplore your disregard of orders--and still do." He paused a moment, while his steel gray eyes studied the younger man. "You are about to receive new orders. It is absolutely imperative that these orders be obeyed explicitly." His pointing finger punctuated his words with slow emphasis.
"These orders place you in command of Base Q. The Treaty of Porran, among other things, designates the asteroid Quanlik, or Base Q, as being the territory solely of the Federation and suitable for the establishment of a delta-level energy converter. Because this converter is the prime source of gamma-level, degenerate matter which is used as the fuel for nearly all our power generators, Base Q is recognized as a prime defense area of the Federation. A sphere, one hundred thousand miles radius about Quanlik, was designated by the treaty as a primary zone. Any ship or ships entering this zone may be ordered to leave within one hour. Upon failure to comply, our military forces may take such action as they deem necessary. A sphere, twenty thousand miles radius, is designated as the secondary zone. Assuming the prior warning has been given upon their entrance into the primary zone, full action may be taken against any ship entering this without delay or further warning.
"Standing orders with regard to Base Q are that any ship entering the primary zone shall be warned immediately. Upon failure to comply, after the one hour period, full action shall be taken with the forces stationed on Quanlik. Any ship entering the secondary zone shall be brought to action as soon as possible without warning.
"Your orders direct you to assume command of Base Q and to comply with existing standing orders regarding the maintenance of its security until and unless advised of a change in the standing orders or the Treaty of Porran." The Old Man paused for effect. "Any questions?"
"Yes, sir," the younger man said. "I am wondering if I should inquire what events you are anticipating. Would it be wise for me to ask?"
"No!" The monosyllable cracked out like a shot.
"No further questions, sir."
"I have one. While you were in Australia, I presume you kept well informed on recent developments of Plan K?"
"Yes, sir. The school I commanded taught advanced theory of Plan K."
"Very good. You will proceed immediately to Base Q. As a final word I will repeat the absolute necessity of obeying your orders to the letter! Good luck."
The young man saluted, collected his orders and walked out. Two hours later, he was in space.
* * * * *
Commander Morgan's office was perched in a plastic bubble high on a crag overlooking Base Q. Directly below it lay a few of the multitude of locks that provided haven for the protecting fleet of P-ships. A vast array of domes and other geometrical shapes bore witness to the hive of machine-shops, storer
ooms, offices, et al, that kept the fleet operating. And on the far horizon towered the mighty structure of the delta-level converter, the reason for the existence of Base Q. A quarter of a million tons of high-test steel and special alloys, machined to tolerances of less than a thousandth of an inch, with another hundred thousand tons of control equipment, it was yet delicate enough so that it could not have functioned in the gravity field of any planet. This asteroid, small as it was, was barely below the permissible limit.
The Commander sat at his desk, watching the latest flashes in the news-caster. They were not good. At this very moment, the President of the Federation was in conference with the representatives of the Combine, discussing the wording of the protocol that would probably be signed in a few hours. And no word--no hint--that anyone in the Federation outside the services was willing to dare anything at all. A red light flashed on his desk. A buzzer sounded a strident call. He flipped a switch. "Commander talking."
"Far-Search talking. Report contact with large group of ships, probably dreadnought warships. Range, two one oh. Bearing, four oh dash one nine. Speed, seven five. Course, approaching. That is all."
"Keep me advised any change or further details. Advise when contact range is one five oh."
"Wilco."
The Commander pressed a button on his desk. In response, his staff quickly assembled to brief him on the immediate status of Base Q as a war-making machine. As a matter of routine, it was always kept fully ready. His staff merely confirmed this for him.
Seventy-five thousand miles out in space, the Radars of the Far-Search net swept their paths. Men labored over their plotting tables, noting the information the radar echoes brought back; slowly piecing together the picture. Tight communication beams relayed the data back to the base as fast as it was obtained.
About an hour later, the red light flashed again. The assembled staff fell quiet as the Commander flipped the switch, again. "Commander talking."
