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[Transcriber's Note: This story was published in _Analog_, February 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
With No Strings Attached
A man will always be willing to buy something he wants, and believes in, even if it is impossible, rather than something he believes is impossible. So ... sell him what he thinks he wants!
David Gordon
Illustrated by Schelling
The United States Submarine _Ambitious Brill_ slid smoothly into herberth in the Brooklyn Navy Yard after far too many weeks at sea, asfar as her crew were concerned. After all the necessary preliminarieshad been waded through, the majority of that happy crew went ashore toenjoy a well-earned and long-anticipated leave in the depths of thebrick-and-glass canyons of Gomorrah-on-the-Hudson.
The trip had been uneventful, in so far as nothing really dangerousor exciting had happened. Nothing, indeed, that could even be calledout-of-the-way--except that there was more brass aboard than usual,and that the entire trip had been made underwater with the exceptionof one surfacing for a careful position check, in order to make surethat the ship's instruments gave the same position as the stars gave.They had. All was well.
That is not to say that the crew of the _Ambitious Brill_ wereentirely satisfied in their own minds about certain questions that hadbeen puzzling them. They weren't. But they knew better than to askquestions, even among themselves. And they said nothing whatever whenthey got ashore. But even the novices among submarine crews know thatwhile the nuclear-powered subs like _George Washington_, _PatrickHenry_, or _Benjamin Franklin_ are perfectly capable ofcircumnavigating the globe without coming up for air, suchperformances are decidedly rare in a presumably Diesel-electric vesselsuch as the U.S.S. _Ambitious Brill_. And those few members of thecrew who had seen what went on in the battery room were the mostsecretive and the most puzzled of all. They, and they alone, knew thatsome of the cells of the big battery that drove the ship's electricmotors had been removed to make room for a big, steel-clad box hardlybigger than a foot locker, and that the rest of the battery hadn'tbeen used at all.
With no one aboard but the duty watch, and no one in the battery roomat all, Captain Dean Lacey felt no compunction whatever in saying, ashe gazed at the steel-clad, sealed box: "What a battery!"
The vessel's captain, Lieutenant Commander Newton Wayne, looked upfrom the box into the Pentagon representative's face. "Yes, sir, itis." His voice sounded as though his brain were trying to catch upwith it and hadn't quite succeeded. "This certainly puts us well aheadof the Russians."
Captain Lacey returned the look. "How right you are, commander. Thismeans we can convert every ship in the Navy in a tenth the time we hadfigured."
Then they both looked at the third man, a civilian.
He nodded complacently. "And at a tenth the cost, gentlemen," he saidmildly. "North American Carbide & Metals can produce these unitscheaply, and at a rate that will enable us to convert every ship inthe Navy within the year."
Captain Lacey shot a glance at Lieutenant Commander Wayne. "All thisis strictly Top Secret you understand."
"Yes, sir; I understand," said Wayne.
"Very well." He looked back at the civilian. "Are we ready,Mr. Thorn?"
"Anytime you are, captain," the civilian said.
"Fine. You have your instructions, commander. Carry on."
"Aye, aye, sir," said Lieutenant Commander Wayne.
* * * * * * * * * *
A little less than an hour later, Captain Lacey and Mr. Thorn were inthe dining room of one of the most exclusive clubs in New York. Mostclubs in New York are labeled as "exclusive" because they excludecertain people who do not measure up to their standards of wealth.A man who makes less than, say, one hundred thousand dollars a yearwould not even qualify for scrutiny by the Executive Committee. Thereis one club in Manhattan which reaches what is probably close to thelimit on that kind of exclusiveness: Members must be white,Anglo-Saxon, Protestant Americans who can trace their ancestry aswhite, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant Americans back at least as far as theAmerican Revolution _without exception_, and who are worth at leastten millions, and who can show that the fortune came into the familyat least four generations back. No others need apply. It is said thatthis club is not a very congenial one because the two members hateeach other.
The club in which Lacey and Thorn ate their dinner is not of thatsort. It is composed of military and naval officers and certaincivilian career men in the United States Government. These men areprofessionals. Not one of them would ever resign from governmentservice. They are dedicated, heart, body, and soul to the UnitedStates of America. The life, public and private, of every man Jack ofthem is an open book to every other member. Of the three living menwho have held--and the one who at present holds--the title ofPresident of the United States, only one was a member of the clubbefore he held that high office.
As an exclusive club, they rank well above England's House of Peersand just a shade below the College of Cardinals of the Roman CatholicChurch.
Captain Lacey was a member. Mr. Richard Thorn was not, but he wasamong those few who qualify to be invited as guests. The carefullyguarded precincts of the club were among the very few in which thesetwo men could talk openly and at ease.
After the duck came the brandy, both men having declined dessert. Andover the brandy--that ultra-rare Five Star Hennessy which isprocurable only by certain people and is believed by many not to existat all--Captain Lacey finally asked the question that had beenbothering him for so long.
"Thorn," he said, "three months ago that battery didn't exist. I knowit and you know it. Who was the genius who invented it?"
Thorn smiled, and there was a subtle wryness in the smile. "Genius isthe word, I suppose. Now that the contracts with the Navy have beensigned, I can give you the straight story. But you're wrong in sayingthat the thing didn't exist three months ago. It did. We just didn'tknow about it, that's all."
Lacey raised his bushy, iron-gray eyebrows. "Oh? And how did it cometo the attention of North American Carbide & Metals?"
Thorn puffed out his cheeks and blew out his breath softly before hebegan talking, as though he were composing his beginning sentences inhis mind. Then he said: "The first I heard about it was four monthsago. Considering what's happened since then, it seems a lot longer."He inhaled deeply from his brandy snifter before continuing. "As headof the development labs for NAC&M, I was asked to take part as awitness to a demonstration that had been arranged through some of theother officers of the company. It was to take place out on Salt LakeFlats, where--"
* * * * * * * * * *
It was to take place out on Salt Lake Flats, where there was no chanceof hanky-panky. Richard Thorn--who held a Ph.D. from one of the finesttechnological colleges in the East, but who preferred to be addressedas "Mister"--was in a bad mood. He had flown all the way out to SaltLake City after being given only a few hours notice, and then had beenbundled into a jeep furnished by the local sales office of NAC&M andscooted off to the blinding gray-white glare of the Salt Flats. It washot and it was much too sunshiny for Thorn. But he had made thearrangements for the test himself, so he couldn't argue or complaintoo loudly. He could only complain mildly to himself that the businessoffice of the company, which had made the final arrangements, had, inhis opinion, been a little too much in a hurry to get the thing overwith. Thorn himself felt that the test could have at least waiteduntil the weather cooled off. The only
consolation he had was that,out here, the humidity was so low that he could stay fairlycomfortable in spite of the heat as long as there was plenty ofdrinking water. He had made sure to bring plenty.
The cavalcade of vehicles arrived at the appointed spot--umpteen milesfrom nowhere--and pulled up in a circle.
Thorn climbed out wearily and saw the man who called himself Sorensenclimb out of the second jeep.
From the first time he had seen him, Thorn had tagged Sorensen as anAngry Old Man. Not that he was really getting old; he was stillsomewhere on the brisk side of fifty. But he wore a perpetual scowl onhis face that looked as though it had been etched there by too manyyears of frustration, and his voice always seemed to have an acid edgeto it, like that of an old man who has decided, after decades ofobservation, that all men are fools. And yet Thorn thought heoccasionally caught a
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