The Year's Best Science Fiction 5

by Judith Merril

  A cigar came out of Mr. Melchior’s case. He flicked his gold cigarette lighter. “All right,” he said. “Now that we know what they are—how do we find them out in time?”

  With a smile, “The FBI would like to know too, Mr. Melchior.”

  “Yes, but the FBI isn’t asking you. Anthony Melchior is asking you. I have been very impressed with everything you’ve told us, and I feel quite confident you can do it.”

  “Well, thank you very much. But … let me ask you … why are you interested in weeding out only psychopaths? Why not people with other defects—paranoiacs, let’s say?”

  His employer seeming somewhat at a loss to answer this, Edward Taylor stepped almost instantly into the breech. “Mr. Melchior feels that men who suffer from more obvious defects are much more likely to be noticed. It is the man who appears to be all right, who seems to function normally, who is actually more in need of being detected. Once found out, our task would naturally be to see that this man is given the proper help. We see it as a three-fold program: discover him—remove him—help him.” He smiled; his smile was rather charming, but it came and went too quickly.

  Melchior nodded vigorously; Colles, more slowly. Was it a matter of time? he was asked. A matter of money? Neither factor should dissuade him: Melchior Enterprises would assist him one hundred percent. Dr. Colles smiled, pursed his lips, shook his head. Then he frowned. He rubbed his eyes with his fingers.

  “It would be an interesting project,” he said, “it might be a very fruitful one. I could try … I would promise you nothing in the way of results. But I could try—if I were to take on fewer projects with other corporations, perhaps …”

  His host’s thin lips stretched in a brief smile. “Good. Very good. And so now, just for a start—” He took out a gold fountain pen and a checkbook. Dr. Colles looked at the moving hand until the last letter of the signature was done; then—missing Mr. Melchior’s upturned glance by a shaved second—he fixed his look on the wall. The check changed hands.

  · · · · ·

  Dr. Colles told his assistant not to make any more appointments for him until further notice. “I’m going to be working on a private research project which will be taking up a great deal of my time,” he explained. “You’ll have to do some legwork for me … I’ll have a list of books for you to get, and quite a number of articles published in professional journals. Then, too, these men are to be phoned—you see: Dr. Sherwind, of the Department of Correction, and so on—and you ask them if you can drop by and pick up case histories for me, as noted here.”

  The assistant was an unmarried and intelligent young woman, who had been (and had looked) a good bit younger when she first came to work for Dr. Colles. He had talked at one time about marriage—not during the past few years, however. Why buy milk if you’re friendly with the cow?

  “ ‘The Psychopathic Personality Among Prisoners …’ “ she read aloud from the list, pinching her lip: two unlovely habits she’d developed. It occurred to her employer that it would probably be easier (and wiser) to break himself of the habit of her, than to try to break her of any of her own habits.

  He hummed a bit when she had gone. After all, the world was full of cows—He took out his bankbook and regarded with favor both the latest entry and the considerable amount in cash folded neatly inside the little book. He had stopped off at the bank directly after leaving Mr. Melchior. The business baron had seemed quite in earnest, but, still, one never knew …

  Dr. Colles was a prudent man.

  · · · · ·

  The test had been going on for most of the day. First one section went down to take it, then another. There had been some apprehension at first, but this vanished, by lunchtime, in a rumble of laughter which ran through the whole plant: “So he hands back the papers when he’s finished, and he says to the guy from Personnel, ‘Hey, Mac, how come they wanna know is my sex-life satisfactory: they plannin’ t’ use me f’ stud purposes?’ “

  When Joe Clock finally reached the head of the line, the girl there gave him a sheaf of papers and a pencil. “Take any seat at one of the tables and fill these out, please,” she said.

  Joe’s eyes traveled from her to the papers and back again. Her hair, it was obvious, was not naturally red, and her expression was discontented. But she was young, and her figure—”If I had a nickel for every one of these I filled out, I’d be rich,” he said.

  For a moment their eyes met. “And if I had a nickel for every guy who said that, I’d be rich, too.” Not too bad a beginning. He rapidly calculated his finances, took a breath, and was about to ask her what she was doing that night. But her eyes went past him, she picked up a sheaf of papers and a pencil, handed them to the man behind him. “Take any seat—” she began.

  Joe Clock sighed, sat down at the table and took up the pencil. If they wanted to pay him to play school for an hour instead of running the lathe, it was all right with him. And it was easier on the feet. So now let’s see … I like mechanics magazines. Yes. No. What a question to ask a machinist! Sure he liked them. You knew where you were with a mechanics magazine. It showed you what to do and how to do it. No dopey stories to figure out, why the guy acts so dopey trying to get the girl. There’s an obstruction in the pipe, ream it out. Another guy steps out with the girl, kick him in the crotch. Joe circled the Yes. Next. I have a good appetite. Hell, Yes. Then a real stupid one: I would rather collect stamps than go fishing. Joe put a heavy circle around the No. He relaxed. Collect stamps, for crysake! This was going to be easy. Eskimos live in Europe. Joe almost had to laugh at that one, another No; good thing he didn’t have to say where they did live: Aleutia, or some place like that. Well …

  A sensible man takes what he can get in this world. Isn’t that the truth, though! Every damn time, and all you can get, too. Hell, yes. Canada belongs to England. That was right. The damn Canadian money has the King of England’s face on it and you got to be careful because once Joe had got stuck with some of that English money from Canada, only he passed it on damn quick, too. It is important to help a friend. What do they mean, “a friend”? He paused, peered at the next one. It is not so important to help a stranger. He hesitantly put Yes for the first, No for the second. It makes good sense to worry about a stranger. He snorted. The hell it does. Catch a stranger worrying about you! A guy that you, like, want to borrow his car, now—but a stranger?

  Henry Ford played a major role in developing … Molasses is made from … A sensible man does what he is paid to do. Of course he does. Yes.

  I sleep well and wake up fresh and rested. Sure. Yes. A stranger will risk his life to help you. What a laugh. A guy’d have to be crazy! No!

  There are lots worse crimes than murder. Probably … Sure. Lots worse. The average person will do anything for money. Absolutely right they would. Why not, if you can get away with it? Sure. And the same way, that’s why you got to watch out for yourself.

  There are worse things than losing your home. What? Catching leprosy?

  And then the way to answer the question changed. Now you had to pick out an answer. Like, Most people who hit someone with their car at night would (a) report to the police first (b) give first aid (c) make a getaway if possible. Well, any damn fool would know it was the last. In fact, anyone but a damn fool would do just that. That’s what he did that time. (c)

  Now, a dope like Aberdeen: he’d probably stop his car. Stick his nose in someone else’s tough luck. Anybody stupid enough to lend his rent money—

  If you saw a man about to jump in the river, would you (a) move his clothes so he wouldn’t trip on them (b) call your friends to watch (c) get something to eat afterwards (d) none of these things.

  The important thing with women is (a) have a knife in your pocket (b) make sure your hair is combed (c) drive a red car (d) something else.

  Bright lights are a sign of (a) rain (b) foreign domination (c) poisoned drinking water (d) none of these things.

  National security means (a) warmer weather than
we used to have (b) television programs (c) political influence (d) something else.

  The main point in criminal activity is (a) dressing real warm if it’s cold (b) not to get caught (c) keep in your own lane on the highway (d) avoid such activity.

  Test was kind of interesting, Joe thought, as he handed in the papers. And now—back to the lathe. Go around the long way, avoid Aberdeen’s machine. Gahdamn pest.

  · · · · ·

  Dr. Colles took a good look around his office. It had never seemed so cramped and grubby before. Once again he found himself wondering if he ought not to get out of test construction and evaluation—way out—into some more lucrative field of psychology. Not many clients paid so well as Melchior Enterprises; in plain fact, none of them had. Not by a long shot. And his work for them was about over now, anyway. A competent personnel man like Taylor could carry on the tests without the constructionist. There was something about Taylor … smooth, knowing … without too much eagerness, he considered asking the young man to send him follow-up reports on how the psychopaths turned up by the special test were responding to treatment. Of course, some of them were bound to reject treatment. And they couldn’t be obliged to accept, either, worse luck. Well, that wasn’t his responsibility. He didn’t even know who was doing the therapy.

  Except that they would get the credit. But that was how it went. Therapy, therapy, that was all the public thought about. How many articles in general publications did you ever see about test consctructionists? Let alone movies or TV. “I do the work, others get the credit,” Dr. Colles thought with some bitterness.

  Feeling the inevitable postproject let-down, Colles’ eyes wandered over the top of his desk. Mail … He’d checked through the mail: nothing of interest. Idly, he picked up a brochure-like thing on glossy paper. It had failed to attract his preoccupied attention earlier.

  Ease-A-Just News Jottings. Published by and for the employees of Ease-A-Just Gear and Tool (a Melchior Enterprise). Oh, yes, he recalled talking to Taylor’s assistant concerning a short piece about the test, for the house organs. He started to lay it aside, then opened it. Might be something about the test in there. Of course, the real reason hadn’t been explained to the employees.

  “Old friends of Mabel Quinn (formerly Stoltzfus), of the cafeteria staff, will be glad to learn that she and Patrolman Quinn are now the proud parents of twin boys. Congratulations, Mabel, we knew you had it in you!” Dr. Colles winced, turned a page. “Maintenance Wins Softball Tiff”—well, good for Maintenance … No, nothing here. He started to toss it away once more, but something caught his eye and was gone before he could fix what it had been. This is annoying. With a sigh, he opened the paper again, began a systematic search. He had to find it, or it would haunt him. There: a name.

  The box score:

  Maintenance

  Machine Shop

  AB

  R

  H

  AB

  R

  H

  Smead cf

  1

  0

  0

  Guthrie 2b

  2

  0

  1

  Clock rf

  2

  0

  0

  Brandt ss

  3

  0

  0

  Dupont 1b

  2

  0

  0

  Rayan 1b

  3

  1

  2

  And the name was Clock. Frowning slightly, Dr. Colles repeated it. He muttered it again, as he took several files from the cabinet and leafed through the contents. Clock!

  Dr. Colles whistled. Then, being a systematic man, he wrote down all the names in the Ease-A-Just News Jottings, rewrote them in alphabetical order; then began to compare them with the names in his files. He whistled again.

  The door opened. His assistant said, “If you want me, Doctor, please call me by name. I’m not your dog; don’t whistle.”

  For several seconds he stared at her, expressionless. Then he said, “My apologies, Miss Blick. It won’t happen again. But, since you are here—Don’t we subscribe to a clipping service on the various corporations which—We do. Thank you. Then, if you will be kind enough to bring me the clippings relating to Melchior Enterprise …Thank you, Miss Blick.”

  Most of the clippings were from the financial and industrial pages of the papers and did not long engage Dr. Colles’ attention. Several, however, were from the news sections, and these he proceeded to read. Once or twice he pursed his lips as if to whistle, but each time he glanced at the door and restrained himself. Instead, he said, “Well, well …”

  Industrialist Linked to Forced Sales of Beer. “Well!” Murdered Man Revealed As Former Melchior Employee. “Well, well!” Grand Jury Probes Alleged Tie-in of Melchior with Local … “Well, well, well!”

  · · · · ·

  Dr. Colles was coming out of the Personnel Office when he met Edward Taylor coming in. “Your assistant told me you wouldn’t be in today,” Colles said.

  “I didn’t expect to be in … This is a rather large outfit, you know—not that it couldn’t be larger if—yes, I’ve been occupied at another office. Can I help you?” He looked at Colles with cool gray eyes.

  “No, I don’t think so, but thank you. Your assistant was very helpful.”

  With smile swift as always, though perhaps a trifle less charming, Edward Taylor said he was glad of it. “Where are you heading for now? To see Mr. Melchior? Ah, yes. A. M. thinks a lot of you. As do I.” His manner, as they parted, seemed rather thoughtful.

  Doctor Colles, crossing the large expanse of floor between the door and Mr. Melchior’s desk, had ample time to note and admire the quality of the thick rug and massive furniture. “You do me an honor,” said the businessman, shaking hands. “If you’d told me you were coming, I’d’ve sent my car.”

  The psychiatrist waved his hand. “I found myself with no appointments today,” he said. “So I decided to catch up on things I’d been putting off. I discharged my assistant. And I came out here.” Melchior said, Oh? He inquired if the assistant hadn’t given satisfaction. “Not for a long time,” said Dr. Colles. “Anyway. Yes, I wanted to ask you—how are those tests working, which I devised for you? Are they giving satisfaction?”

  “Perfectly, Doctor.”

  “I’m naturally gratified to hear that. I was wondering how the idea was working out. I was wondering, too, if you’d tell me the names of the gentlemen who are working on the rehabilitation end of the scheme. The ones who are treating the people whom my special test has turned up.”

  He looked expectantly at Mr. Melchior. The latter said, after a moment, “Well, I wouldn’t know about those details, Doctor. Edward Taylor, being in charge of personnel, would be in a better position to know. He knows the men, and they know him. But I kind of have an idea that the other part of the plan is still in its planning stage. But you could write to Edward and I’m sure he’ll be happy to give you the details.”

  Dr. Colles nodded. “Odd sort of notion came to me this morning,” he said. “Shall I tell you about it?”

  Mr. Melchior, no longer quite so cordial, looked at his watch. “All right, if you want to,” he said.

  “You know, I was wondering how the whole idea was working out. So I called up your assistant personnel manager and asked to see the records. He told me to come over and help myself.”

  There was a pause. “He shouldn’t have done that, Doctor,” Mr. Melchior said. “Not without consulting me first. Those records are confidential.”

  Colles said he could understand that. He apologized, hoped it would not make any trouble for the assistant personnel manager. “I have a feeling, Mr. M.,” he said, “that he was not fully aware of the implications of the testing scheme, anyway. May I elaborate? Thank you … I do appreciate your not reminding me that you are a very busy man. Well.” He cleared his throat. He waited, but as nothing else was offered, he continued, “Now, in regard t
o my own especially constructed test: only certain particular questions were used in the marking, as you know, the others being either window-dressing, or designed to lull the testee into a state of unawareness, so that the chances of getting true answers to the others were increased. What were the results? Thirty-three individuals scored above the ninetieth percentile, showing marked psychopathic tendencies. Of these, eleven were women, and I rather imagine that they were sent packing pretty damned quick—though I hope in such a manner as not to hurt their feelings. The Mad Bomber and all that, eh, Mr. Melchior? Now, of the remaining twenty-two—a check of the records is in your personnel office, Mr. Taylor being fortuitously absent—twenty are still employed. What happened to the other two?” he shot the question.

  “Quit,” said Mr. Melchior. “We’re planning to get rid of the others as soon as we can manage for them to get the treatment.”

  “Oh, I don’t think you are,” Colles said. There was a pause.

  “No? Well … what do you think, Doc?”

  “What do I think?” Dr. Colles asked. “I combined the information I’ve just mentioned with certain intelligence gleaned from the newspapers, and I think that you, Mr. Melchior, are an Emperor of Crime—if I may wax a trifle purple in my prose—and that your purpose is not to weed the psychopaths out, but to weed them in.”

  The tycoon smiled a thin, cold smile. “Doc, you speak the most beautiful English I ever heard. But you flatter me. I’ll level with you. An emperor? Not even a king. Maybe,” he shrugged modestly, “a grand duke, let’s say.”

  The doctor slowly let out his breath with a sound like that which Yoga calls Sitali, or serpent-hiss. He looked the other in the eyes. “But you will rise,” he said. “You are bound to.”