by Ib Melchior
"Mr. Hartley! The president will see you now."
A pompous man. A man accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed. But not recently?
"Sir! As publisher and president of the leading metropolitan newspaper —"
"Sshhh, young man! I know who you are. Don't let too many others find out! Why did you let your spy camera get into the wrong hands? Don't you know it is the unscrupulous, the ruthless who grab power whenever they can? What happens when that power is unconquerable???"
"But I—"
"You gave them the power to penetrate into all places. No more privacy! No more privacy — no more successful opposition to ruthless power."
"Your paper — can't you —"
"The freedom of the press? It is dead. Like all other freedoms — completely dead. You must conform, or else —"
They burst in unannounced. They were grim, and tall, and strong. They had black uniforms with a large silver H on the chest. H?
"I've been expecting you,"' said the pompous publisher resignedly. "I am ready!"
"And him?" growled one of Them tossing His head at Don.
"He is only Hartley!"
They shrugged — and left ...
The city was not the city. The people were not the people. There were no smiles, no joy. There were only flesh-and-blood robots with furtive eyes and haunted looks.
And It was everywhere. Watching! He could feel it. Not the deepest dungeon nor the farthest corner was safe. It was all over him. Like a sticky, hot, unbearable beam, stabbing at his closed eyes, burning his weary brain.
Don sat up with a start. The glaring sun stood overhead. What a fool he'd been to doze off in the sun like that. He'd probably gotten himself a nice burn. No wonder he'd had a nightmare.
He gathered himself up and began walking through the park. He felt sweaty and tired — and disturbed. And he still had to make up his mind. Where to go
The Network?
Industrial Exploitation?
The Government?
And that had been twenty-four hours earlier.
A buzzer sounded on the little secretary's desk. She was kind of cute at that — for all of her curiosity.
"You may go in now, Mr. Hartley," she announced pleasantly.
He walked towards the door. There was a black sign with white letters: V. P. GENL. ENGINEERING — W. BARNES
He entered.
"Hello, Don," said Barnes seriously, "sit down."
Don leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette.
"Now — what's it all about?"
He had to say it fast, or he might not say it at all.
"I guess I lost my head." He nearly tripped over the words. "I was hooking up the matting amplifier for Mr. Kenmore on the 'Planeteer" show — and I dropped the' worklight into it. I thought the whole thing had blown up. I got scared, and — and I just ran out of there. I don't know what came over me. I have no excuse." He stopped. It was done. There could be no turning back.
Barrnes looked at him for a moment. Then his stern face softened.
"Look, Don," he said kindly. "We all have accidents. But we can't afford to panic after every one. Still, it took courage to come here and face up to your mistake like this. I'm going to give you another chance."
He got up and put his hand on Don's shoulder. "Just don't lose your head again," he smiled. "And, Don, we'll take you off 'The Planeteers' for a while. I guess they can get along with another vidiot!"
He slapped Don on the back good-naturedly. In the boy's inside coat pocket. bunch of papers crackled softly. A bunch of papers which held the answer to an electronic device the boy had decided was too big. The world was not ready for the Hartleycam. Not yet
Not quite yet.
The End
About the Author
Ib Melchior (1917) was born in Copenhagen Denmark. He has written in a variety of genres including Science Fiction and Non-Fiction.
Other works by Ib Melchior
The Watchdogs of Abaddon
The Marcus Device
The Vidiot
The Winner and New . . .
The Racer
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