Collected Short Fiction

by C. M. Kornbluth

  Thirty seconds to get into a safety suit—if a man’s kept up his drill the way he ought to . . .

  l

  “Gobble the whobble mumble.”

  “Slump the anesthumbsia stroom.”

  “Buzz pulse and huspiration ‘Duffle.”

  “Quark the anode on the patient’s wrist.”

  “Yes, doctor.”

  “Pulse and respiration normal.”

  “That does it. You can take him from here.”

  Sloane opened his eyes and tried to focus. Faces swam above him; one of them said: “How’re you feeling; fella?”

  “Rotten. What happened?” he croaked. “I remember swimming for the safety-suit panels . . .”

  “Believe it or not, you made it.”

  “Dr. Vanderpoel too?”

  “That’s right. She’s alive and you’re a hero. They found the two of you bobbing up against the ceiling of the corridor compartment. Uh, Haywood didn’t make it.”

  “I saw. When the plate blew . . . where am I?”

  “Roosevelt Memorial-Hospital, D.C. Want to tell us about the break-in for our records?”

  HIS EYES were working better, and sensation was returning to his body. He saw three sympathetic-looking men in three chairs by his bedside; he was rolled over toward them a little, propped up with pillows along his hack. He tried to move and was restrained by things that cut into his limbs and belly.

  “What is this?” he asked, panicky. “Am I in a cast? Is my back all right?” They laughed and one of them said: “No, no; you’re all right. Should’ve told you; we gave you metrazol and globulin for shock. There’s no metrazol-reaction history on you, but some people get the jerks from it.”

  “You mean I’m about to have convulsions so you tied me down? That was a dirty damned trick.”

  “Probably not, since the stuff’s been in you for an hour now. But there’s still a faint chance, so if you don’t mind we really ought to keep the restrainers on a little longer. With them, nothing can happen. Without them—well, there’s always the chance of fractured spinal discs before we got you under control.”

  Sloane shuddered and said: “Leave ’em on.”

  “Sensible man! Now, about the accident—from the beginning.”

  He told them about the accident, from the beginning. They asked him to tell it again from the beginning, in case anything else occurred to him. They pointed out that he might have unconsciously noticed some detail, or heard some noise that would have a bearing on the cause of the accident. He told it again, conscientiously filling in every scrap he remembered. Fine, they told him. This time they’d take it down in shorthand. If he’d just begin once more.

  “What the hell is this?” he demanded, enraged. .“You people are the damndest doctors I ever ran into.”

  One of them said, suddenly cold: “We’re not doctors, Sloane; we’re F. B.I. agents. Ortega has squealed.”

  “Start talking, Sloane.”

  “The sooner the better if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Ortega turned you in; why protect the other rats?”

  “It’s a dirty business, but it’ll count for you if you cooperate.”

  “This is your chance to make up for some of the dirt you’ve done your country.”

  “Start talking, Sloane.”

  “You’re crazy!” he shrilled at them; “what am I supposed to say?”

  “He’s ready to tell us about it. Turn on the tape.”

  “Tape’s on. Go ahead, Sloane.”

  “Start with the first Latamer approach to you.”

  “Let me the hell alone, you damned fools!” he yelled. “I never heard of anything as idiotic as this!” Nor had he. And it was frightening, like the thought of a six-foot idiot who had conceived a dislike for you . . .

  “He thinks we’re bluffing. Get the tape on.”

  “Tape’s on. Listen, Sloane.”

  HE HEARD a mechanically-reproduced voice, the almost-accented voice of Ortega, the theatrical Latamer agent. “—I make this confession of my own free will for the following reason: I understand that North American jurisprudence sometimes recognizes such cooperation as this with the authorities, as grounds for reduction of sentence. I have been asked to specify, however, that no person has promised that this will occur in my case, and this is true. Also, I have been asked to say that I have not been subjected to physical indignities or psychological duress other than what any reasonable person understands is normal and inevitable in police practice; this also is true.

  “On September 17th I was advised by anonymous letter, bearing the correct code-designation, that I was to contact Mr. Lev Sloane, since he was sympathetic to our Latin-American cause. I waited for him that evening, letting myself in by an omnikey. We talked agreeably and I found him a most enthusiastic friend of my government and its principals.

  “In discussing how we might further our common end, Mr. Sloane suggested that he could be raised to a more effective position for sabotage in the S.M.R.C. if he were to distinguish himself for courage and patriotism. Bluntly, he suggested that I permit him to ‘capture and expose’ me. I demurred at this, but he persuaded me that my term would be only a short one, since he would not allege in court that I had done, or offered to do, any substantive damage to the American power. His glibness won me over, but I am now informed that I face a prison-term of twenty-five years on conviction, and therefore I am impelled to make this confession.”

  The voice stopped.

  Sloane told them: “I have nothing to say about that, except that it’s a pack of lies.”

  One of the F.B.I. men was looking over his head and grumbling: “I never did trust the damn things; where there’s smoke there’s fire.”

  Another of the agents suddenly thrust an object at him, yelling: “Have you ever seen this before?” It was an oxy-torch, pocket size.

  “I haven’t had an oxy-torch in my hand for ten years,” he said flatly. “Maybe that’s a torch I used ten years ago, so I can’t answer the question positively.”

  “Wise guy,” one of them muttered. The one looking over his head seemed glum and disappointed.

  “Why did you cut open the Dome bulkhead?” the third demanded.

  He laughed incredulously.

  “It isn’t funny, Sloane. This torch was found in the cafeteria. One man died and three hundred could have died—”

  “What do you men think you are doing?” a cool, angry voice demanded. Dr. Vanderpoel.

  “We’re questioning a suspected enemy agent, Miss. And from that bandage on your head, you’d better get back where you belong.”

  “Dr. Sloane saved my life and this is completely idiotic. Disconnect that lie-detector at once. Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you all right, Miss, but I don’t take orders from you.”

  “Call National 5-11783 immediately and appraise them of this situation,” she snapped.

  “How do you know that number?” asked an agent, astounded and suspicious.

  “Never mind; call it.”

  One of them left silently and Sloane saw the woman come into his limited field of vision. She wore a bandage like a skull cap. “Salaam aleikunt,” she said to him. “I thank the One God, and his servant the Ma’di, that nothing worse has happened to you than questioning by these buffoons.”

  “You’re all right?” he asked, trying to move.

  “You will be free soon. Yes, thank you. A slight concussion from a fragment of the wall’s plastic paneling. I was conscious intermittently throughout and can testify to your selflessness and courage. Do not worry about these people. Police are the same the world over. They are paid to do this sort of thing.”

  “Look, Miss—” one of the G-men growled.

  “Watch it, Renshaw!” warned a voice from the door. “Miss Vanderpoel, the chief says I should apologize to you, and we should release Sloane. I apologize; Renshaw, get him out of the polygraph.”

  The agent who had phoned looked down malignantly at Slo
ane as Renshaw unbuckled the fake restrainers which had camouflaged a lie-detector’s input pads. “Sloane,” he said, “I’ve been ordered to release you as not responsible for the dome break-in on Miss Vanderpoel’s say-so. On this other thing from Ortega, it’s dubious enough for us to leave you at large; without the Dome incident—which Miss Vanderpoel covers us on—there’s no corroboration. Yet. I’m warning you now not to leave town. If you try, the D.C. police will pick you up for spitting on the sidewalk. .As soon as you pay your fine they’ll pick you up again for loitering. And so on. Come on, men.”

  4

  THEY FILED disgustedly out with their polygraph as Sloane grinned and stretched his cramped limbs. The woman grabbed his bedside signal and pushed it ferociously. A thoroughly cowed nurse popped in, squeaking: “Yes, Miss Vanderpoel? What can I do for you?”

  “Release-forms at once, please. And Dr. Sloane’s clothes.”

  “Yes, Miss Vanderpoel!”

  “Who are you, anyway?” he asked her when the nurse had gone.

  She gave him an unexpected smile that was almost impish. “As Mr. Hennessey said, A Very Important Person.”

  “I’ll let it go at that, doctor. But why are you so certain that I’m innocent of all this?”

  “A simple matter of intercontinental relations,” she said, gravely again. “The present world alignment is Sino-Russia and Latin America versus Europe and United Africa. The role of North America is to maintain the balance of power by throwing its support to the weaker of the two alliances. Because of Sino-Russia’s immense manpower-reserves, and Latin America’s plentiful supply of fanatics and raw-materials, North America judges that the Europe-Africa alliance is the weaker and so supports it.

  “The great dream of the Sino-Russian and Latin American alliance is to win over Africa. They bombard us daily with propaganda—stupid propaganda, stressing the fact that the Chinese are yellow-skinned and many Latin-Americans brown-skinned. As if that were more important than cultural heritages!

  “Failing in this positive appeal, they have evidently resorted to a negative attempt to split Africa from North America.” She paused, broodingly. “My death, with the responsibility apparently North American, might have done it. I believe that the Dome accident was no accident, but an attempted murder by the Latin American and Sino-Russian alliance. I believe that you have been branded a Latin American agent because of your heroic rescue of me. In their propaganda they will represent it as a—Very Important Person—saved from death at the hands of the North Americans by a heroic agent of Latin America and Sino-Russia.”

  “Then you are in danger now!”

  “I am,” she said. “I have been in deadly danger since my incognito was penetrated by the Latin American spy-net in this country. I did not realize it had been broken until the Dome gave way.”

  The scared nurse came in with forms and Sloane’s Clothes, with the water wrinkles pressed out.

  “I’ve already signed mine,” she said. “Put your name here, dress and we can walk out.”

  He studied the form and its grim disclaimer of responsibility by the hospital. He signed it and asked: “I don’t see the reasoning behind this . . .”

  She moved a bedside chair two yards away, turned its back to him and sat in it. As he dressed, she told him: “I must get out of this place immediately. It would be too easy—there are poisons and surgical instruments in a hospital. I dare not go to our African Embassy; it is insufficiently-staffed, and not constructed to afford me safety. And above all, I dare not place my self under the protection of any North American officials. No matter how well I were guarded, there might be a mishap—and hours later there would be anti-North American riots and manifestos from Capetown to Alexandria. I trusted too much in my incognito. Perhaps—” For just a moment she showed a touch of indecision. “—I have been told I have a certain air of authority that might have betrayed me?”

  “That might possibly be it,” he agreed seriously. “I’m dressed now.” She rose and said: “Will you take me to the—the unlikeliest place you know? A place where nobody would dream of you appearing, but a place where there will be no complications or fuss about entry. No—don’t tell me what it is, please.”

  “They must surely be watching the hospital. Won’t we be followed—or shot down in the street?”

  “Yes,” she said. “That is why we shall leave by ambulance.”

  SHE HAD arranged it, too. Waiting on the roof was a nervous driver who demanded of Sloane: “Ya sure this is okay, Jack? I tried to say no, but—” He glanced at the woman and shrugged helplessly.

  Twenty minutes later, the ambulance hooted as it hovered above the 1200 block of avenue W and landed when traffic stopped at the intersections. Miss Vanderpoel tottered out, leaning heavily on Sloane’s arm. There were ah’s of sympathy from the crowd and the ambulance popped up into the air again on grasshopper legs.

  When they rounded the corner, Miss Vanderpoel straightened and her walk became brisk. 1347 Avenue Y was a two-story brick home of faded elegance. Bare spots and improvisations of plastic where there had been brass bell-pulls, name-plates, graceful iron railings, foot scraper and other forgotten accessories dated it badly.

  The old man opened the door himself, squinting into the afternoon light. “I’m afraid I can’t make out your faces,” he said in a voice that had grown thin and frail, but still had music in it. “You’re—you’re—?”

  “Lev Sloane, Professor,” said the engineer. “And a friend.”

  “Why, Sloane! How pleasant—please come in, and you, too—”

  “Miss Vanderpoel.”

  “—Miss Vanderpoel, of course. How pleasant!” His stooped figure went before them down a dim entrance hall. “It’s turning into quite a day for me. There are two other gentlemen here—but perhaps you knew?”

  Lev stopped in mid-stride, slightly off-balance, and the girl stopped at the same instant.

  “Who?” Sloane demanded.

  “Why . . . a Mr. Haines, and a Mr. Adanis. Do you know them? They were asking about you . . .?”

  “Professor,” Lev said rapidly and quietly. “I meant to explain this more gradually, but I’m afraid I’ve imposed on you. Miss Vanderpoel here is in some danger. I brought her here hoping to . . . to hide her. Is there any way . . .?”

  “Company Professor?” A door opened into the hallway, and a competent-looking man stepped out, with a gun in his hand.

  “Sir!” The old man turned on the intruder furiously. “Put that thing down. Have you forgotten you’re a guest in my house? Put it down, sir, and be so kind as to leave immediately.”

  “Happy to, Prof. In a few minutes. I think we’ve got what we were looking for. In here, everybody.” It was a square, low-ceilinged living room, with casement windows that opened on a brick-walled backyard flower garden. A fire twinkled in a fabulous brass grate, and there was an equally fabulous stand of wrought-iron fire tools beside it. Lev Sloane remembered those: North America’s gift to its savior, made from the first iron processed out of the first dome.

  THE GUN directed them to a slip-covered sofa where Lev had spent uncounted afternoons in the distant schoolday past, warming himself in front of the fire in the iron grate . . . and afire himself with the knowledge that old Barrios was giving him. The Professor ignored the pointing gun. Trembling with indignation, he collapsed into a club chair by a smoking stand where a wax taper burned in a holder. Adams’ partner—Haines—helped himself to a cigar from the humidor on the stand, and puffed it alight at the taper, grinning.

  At a threatening jerk from the man with the gun, Sloane sat down on the sofa. Slowly and regally, the girl settled herself next to him, smoothing her skirt as she sat, as if not crushing it were her only concern. Never in their brief acquaintance had Sloane seen her quite so imperious as now.

  “Okay, now let’s get the formalities over with,” Adams said genially. “You, miss . . . you go by the name of Huyler Ngomo?”

  “No,” she said steadily. “My name
is Vanderpoel . . . Miss Vanderpoel.”

  “That one’s good enough,” Adams said. “Be hard to make any mistake. Not many girls around that look just like you. We’ve got orders to take you back with us. I hope you’re not going to make any trouble.”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” she said indifferently.

  “Well, make your mind up. We ain’t got much time,” Haines put in.

  “Would it be too much to inquire whose orders you are following?” Dr. Barrios said from his chair.

  “Security,” Adams said, smiling.

  “Your identification?” the girl demanded.

  “Right here.” The man patted his gun with his free hand.

  “How did you know where to find us?” Lev asked suddenly.

  “We didn’t; we were hoping. Mostly we came to see if the Professor knew anything that would help. Now if the young lady will just come along, we won’t have any trouble at all.”

  “You think we should leave them?” Adams put in, looking worried.

  “Nobody said anything about two guys. We want the girl.”

  “Sure, but . . . okay, it’s your neck as much as mine.” Adams subsided, but he wasn’t satisfied.

  Old Barrios had gathered his poise again. “May I ask for what purpose you desire to have the lady’s company?”

  “Sure, you can ask,” Haines said boredly. “Ready, Miss Vanderpoel?”

  She stood up. “Yes,” she said wearily. Sloane could see her hand moving through the wool fabric of her dress pocket, fingering the worn brown book, the “Meditations.” Suddenly it was too much; there was a time not to be cautious.

  “I’ll tell you what for, Dr. Barrios; to kill her.”

  THE WORDS hung on the air. Then the Professor too stood up, and with the most ordinary manner crossed his room to the telephone.

  “That’s enough, Prof.” Adams clicked off the safety of his gun audibly; Barrios was not so old that the sound was meaningless to him. He mopped and turned to face them; his Mender shoulders sagging with defeat. A moment ago,” he said thinly, “you were joking about my riches. I am rich, you know. I was a great man once. What do you want? Name your price for the lady’s ransom.” He slumped into the chair by the smoking stand.