Collected Short Fiction

by C. M. Kornbluth

  “Maybe it’s a mistake,” Clifton said uncertainly.

  Then he cursed himself. “Mistake! Mistake! Why don’t I act my age? Mistakes like this them boys don’t make. The acceleration couch. They designed it eight years ago on paper. It works better than them things the Air Force been designing and building and field-testing for fifteen years now.”

  Novak said: “People who can do that aren’t going to get the throat and chamber so wrong they don’t look like any throat and chamber ever used before. They’ve got a fuel and they know its performance.”

  Clifton was looking at the data. “MacIlheny designed it—it says here. An insurance man three months ago sat down to design a chamber and throat, did it, checked it, and turned it over to you to develop the material and fabricate the pieces. I wonder where he got it, Mike. Russia? Argentina? China?”

  “Twenty countries have atomic energy programmes,” Novak said. “And one year ago the A.S.F.S.F. suddenly got a lot of money—a hell of a lot of money. I ordered thirty-two thousand dollars’ worth of gear and Friml didn’t turn a hair.”

  Clifton muttered: “A couple of million bucks so far, I figure it. Grey-market steel. Rush construction—overtime never bothered them as long as the work got done. Stringing the power line, drilling the well. A couple million bucks and nobody tells ya where it came from.” He turned to Novak and gripped his arm earnestly. “Nah, Mike,” he said softly. “It’s crazy. Why should a country do research on foreign soil through stooges. It just ain’t possible.”

  “Oh, God!” said Novak. His stomach turned over.

  “What’s the matter, kid?”

  “I just thought of a swell reason,” he said slowly. “What if a small country like the Netherlands, or a densely populated country like India, stumbled on a rocket fuel? And what if the fuel was terribly dangerous? Maybe it could go off by accident and take a couple of hundred miles of terrain with it. Maybe it’s radiologically bad and poisons everybody for a hundred miles around if it escapes. Wouldn’t they want the proving ground to be outside their own country in that case?”

  There was a long pause.

  Clifton said: “Yeah. I think they might. If it blows up on their own ground they lose all their space-ship talent and don’t get a space ship. If it blows up on our ground they also don’t get a space ship, but they do deprive Uncle Sam of a lot of space-ship talent. But how—if the fuel don’t blow up California—do they take over the space ship?”

  “I don’t know, Cliff. Maybe MacIlheny flies it to Leningrad and the Red Army takes it from there. Maybe Friml flies it to Buenos Aires and the Guardia Peronista.”

  “Maybe,” said Cliff. “Say, Mike, I understand in these cloak-and-dagger things they kill you if you find out too much.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of that, Cliff. Maybe we’ll get the Galactic Cross of Merit posthumously. Cliff, why would anybody want to get to the Moon bad enough to do it in a crazy way like this?”

  The engineer took a gnawed hunk of tobacco from his hip pocket and bit off a cud. “I can tell ya what MacIlheny told me. Our president, I used to think, was just a space hound and used the military-necessity argument to cover it up. Now, I don’t know. Maybe the military argument was foremost in his mind all the time.

  “MacIlheny says the first country to the Moon has got it made. First rocket ship establishes a feeble little pressure dome with one man left in it. If he’s lucky he lives until the second trip, which brings him a buddy, more food and oxygen, and a stronger outer shell for his pressure dome. After about ten trips you got a corporal’s squad on the Moon nicely dug in and you can start bringing them radar gear and launchers for bombardment rockets homing on earth points.

  “Nobody can reach you there, get it? Nobody. The first trip has always gotta bring enough stuff to keep one man alive—if he’s lucky—until the next trip. It takes a lotta stuff when ya figure air and water. The first country to get there has the bulge because when country two lands their moon pioneer the corporal’s squad men hike on over in their space suits and stick a pin in his pressure dome and—he dies. Second country can complain to the U.N., and what can they prove? The U.N. don’t have observers on the Moon. And if the second country jumps the first country with an A-bomb attack, they’re gonna die. Because they can’t jump the retaliation base on the Moon.”

  He squirted tobacco juice between his teeth. “That’s simplified for the kiddies,” he said, “but that’s about the way MacIlheny tells it.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” Novak said. “Personally I am going right now to the nearest regional A.E.C. Security and Intelligence Office. You want to come along?” He hoped he had put the question casually. It had occurred to him that, for all his apparent surprise, Clifton was a logical candidate for Spy Number One.

  “Sure,” said Clifton. “I’ll drive you. There’s bound to be one in L.A.”

  V.

  There was, in the Federal Building.

  Anheier, the agent in charge, was a tall, calm man. “Just one minute, gentlemen,” he said, and spoke into his inter-com. “The file on the American Society for Space Flight, Los Angeles,” he said, and smiled at their surprise. “We’re not a Gestapo,” he said, “but we have a job to do. It’s the investigation of possible threats to national security as they may involve atomic energy. _ Naturally, the space-flight group would be of interest to us. If the people of this country only knew the patience and thoroughness—here we are.”

  The file was bulky. Anheier studied it in silence for minutes. “It seems to be a very clean organization,” he said at last. “During the past fifteen years derogatory informations have been filed from time to time, first with the F.B.I. and later with us. The investigations that followed did not produce evidence of any law violations. Since that’s the case, I can tell you that the most recent investigation followed a complaint from a certain rank-and-file member that Mr. Joel Friml, your secretary-treasure, was a foreign agent. We found Mr. Friml’s background spotless and broke down the complainant. It was a simple case of jealousy. There seems to be a certain amount of, say, spite work and politics in an organization as—as visionary as yours.”

  “Are you suggesting that we’re cranks?” Novak demanded stiffly. “I’m a Doctor of Philosophy of the University of Illinois and I’ve held a responsible position with the A.E.C. And Mr. Clifton has been a project engineer with Western Aircraft.”

  “By no means, by no means!” Anheier said hastily. “I know your backgrounds, gentlemen.” There was something on his face that was the next thing to a smile, Novak was suddenly, sickeningly sure that Anheier, with patience and thoroughness, had learned how he had socked his A.E.C. director in the jaw and how Clifton had been fired after a fight with his boss. A couple of congenital hotheads, Anheier would calmly decide; unemployables who can’t get along with people; crank denouncers and accusers.

  Anheier was saying, poker-faced: “Of course we want complete depositions from you on your—your information.”

  He buzzed and a stenographer came in with a small, black, court machine. “And if investigation seems in order, of course we’ll get going with no lost time. First give your name and personal data to the stenographer and then your facts, if you please.” He leaned back calmly, and the stenographer zipped out the paper box of his machine and poised his fingers. He looked bored.

  “My name is Michael Novak,” Novak said, fighting to keep his voice calm and clear. The stenographer’s fingers bumped the keys and the paper tape moved up an inch. “I live at the Revere Hotel in Los Angeles. I am a ceramic engineer with the B.Sc. from Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute and M.Sc. and Ph.D. from the University of Illinois. I was employed after getting my doctorate by the U.S. Atomic Energy Commission in various grades, the last and highest being A.E.C. 18. I—I left the A.E.C. last month and took employment with an organization called the American Society for Space Flight at its Los Angeles headquarters.

  “I had no previous knowledge of this organization. I was told by officers that
it is now making a full-scale metal mock-up of a moon ship to study structural and engineering problems. Purportedly it has no space-ship fuel in mind and intends to ask the co-operation of the A.E.C. in solving this problem after it has solved all the other problems connected with the design of a space ship.

  “I believe, however, that this is a cover story. I believe that about one year ago the organization was supplied with funds to build an actual space ship by a foreign power which has developed a space-ship fuel.

  “My reasons for believing this are that the organization has liberal funds behind it which are supposed to be private contributions from industry, but there are no signs of outside interests in the project; further, I was ordered to execute an extremely unorthodox design for a reaction chamber and throat liner, which strongly suggests that the organization has an atomic space-ship fuel and knows its characteristics.

  “I want to emphasise that the unorthodox design which aroused my suspicions was purportedly drawn and checked by James MacIlheny, president of the organization, an insurance man who disclaims any special technical training. In other, nonvital details of the space ship, designing was done mostly by technical men employed in the aircraft industry and by local college students and teachers following space flight as a hobby of a technical nature. It is my belief that the reaction chamber and throat liner were designed by a foreign power to fit their atomic fuel and were furnished to MacIlheny.

  “I do not know why a foreign power should erect a space ship off its own territory. One possibility that occurs to me is that their fuel might be extremely dangerous from a radiological or explosive standpoint or both, and that the foreign power may be unwilling to risk a catastrophic explosion on its own ground or radiation sickness to large numbers of its own valued personnel.”

  He stopped and thought—but that was all there was to say.

  Anheier said calmly: “Thank you, Dr. Novak. And now Mr. Clifton, please.”

  The engineer cleared his throat and said aggressively: “I’m August Clifton. I been a self-educated aero engineer for nine years. For Douglas I designed the B-108 air frame and I rode production line at their Omaha plant. Then I worked for Western Air, specializing in control systems for multijet aircraft. Last year I left Western and went to work for the A.S.F.S.F.

  “My ideas about the A.S.F.S.F.’s backing and what they’re up to are the same as Novak’s. I been around the Society longer, so I can say more definitely than him that there is not one sign of any business or industry having any stake in what’s going on out at the field. That’s all.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Clifton. They’ll be typed in a moment.” The stenographer left. “I understand there’s one prominent industrialist who shows some interest in the Society? Mr. Stuart?” There was a ponderously roguish note in Anheier’s voice.

  “Ya crazy, Anheier,” Clifton said disgustedly. “He’s just looking after his daughter. You think we’re nuts? You should hear Iron Jaw take off on us?”

  “I know,” smiled Anheier hastily. “I was only joking.”

  “What about MacIlheny?” asked Novak. “Have you investigated him?”

  Anheier leafed through the A.S.F.S.F. file. “Thoroughly,” he said. “Mr. MacIlheny is a typical spy——”

  “What?”

  “——I mean to say, he’s the kind of fellow who’s in a good position to spy, but he isn’t and doesn’t. He has no foreign contacts and none of the known foreign agents in this country have gone anywhere near

  “What ya talking?” demanded Clifton. “You mean there’s spies running around and you don’t pick them up?”

  “I said foreign agents—news-service men, exchange students, businessmen, duly registered propaganda people, diplomatic and consular personnel—there’s no end to them. They don’t break any laws, but they recruit people who do. God knows how they recruit them. Every American knows that since the Rosenberg cases the penalty for espionage by a citizen is, in effect, death. That’s the way the country wanted it, and that’s the way it is.”

  “Why do you say MacIlheny’s typical?” asked Novak. He had a half-formed hope that this human iceberg might give them some practical words on technique, even if he refused to get excited about their news.

  “Mata Hari’s out,” said Anheier comfortably. “You’ve seen spies in the papers, Dr. Novak.” To be sure, he had—ordinary faces, bewildered, ashamed, cowering from the flash bulbs. “I came up via the accountancy route myself so I didn’t see a great deal of the espionage side,” Anheier confessed a bit wistfully. “But I can tell you that your modern spy in America is a part-timer earning a legitimate living at some legitimate line. Import-export used to be a favourite, but it was too obvious.”

  “Hell, I should think so,” grinned Clifton.

  Anheier went on: “Now they recruit whatever they can, and get technical people whenever possible. This is because your typical state secret nowadays is not a map or code or military agreement but an industrial process.

  “The Manhatten District under General Groves and the British wartime atomic establishment were veritable sieves. The Russians learned free of charge that calutron separation of U-235 from U-238 was impractical and had to be abandoned. They learned, apparently, that gaseous diffusion is the way to get the fissionable isotope. They learned that implosion with shaped charges is a practical way to assemble a critical mass of fissionable material. They were saved millions of dead-ended man-hours by this information.

  “Security’s taken a nice little upswing since then, but we still have secrets and there are still spies, even though the penalty is death. Some do it for money, some are fanatics—some, I suppose, just don’t realize the seriousness of it. Here are your depositions, gentlemen.”

  They read them and signed them.

  Anheier shook their hands and said: “I want to thank you both for doing your patriotic duty as you saw it. I assure you that your information will be carefully studied and appropriate action will be taken. If you learn of anything else affecting national security in the atomic area in your opinion, I hope you won’t hesitate to let us know about it.” Clearly it was a speech he had made hundreds of times—or thousands. The brush-off.

  “Mr. Anheier,” Novak said, “what if we take this to the F.B.I.? They might regard it more seriously than you seem to.”

  The big, calm man put his palms out protestingly. “Please, Dr. Novak,” he said. “I assure you that your information will be thoroughly processed. As to the F.B.I., you’re perfectly free to go to them if you wish, but it would be wasted motion. Cases in the atomic area that come to the FIB.I. are automatically bucked to us—a basic policy decision, and a wise one in’ my opinion. Technical factors and classified information are so often involved——”

  In the street Novak said disgustedly: “He didn’t ask us any questions. He didn’t ask us whether we were going to quit or not.”

  “Well—are we?”

  “I guess I am—I don’t know, Cliff. Maybe I’m wrong about the whole business. Maybe I’m as crazy as Anheier thinks I am.”

  “Let’s go to my place,” Clifton said. “We oughtta go to the A.S.F.S.F. membership meeting tonight after we eat.”

  “Cripes, I’m supposed to make a speech!”

  “Just tell ’em hello.”

  They got into Clifton’s car, the long, tall, 1930 Rolls with the lovingly maintained power plant, and roared through Los Angeles. Clifton drove like a maniac, glaring down from his height on underslung late models below and passing them with muttered fusillades of curses. “Me, I like a car with character,” he growled, barreling the Rolls around a ’56 Buick.

  His home was in a pretty, wooded canyon dotted with houses. Gravel flew as he spun into the driveway.

  “Come and meet Lilly,” he said.

  Outside, the Clifton house was an ordinary five-room bungalow. Inside it was the dope-dream of a hobbyist run amuck. Like geologic strata, tools and supplies overlaid the furniture. Novak recognized plasticene, clay, glazes, m
odeling tools and hooks, easels, sketch boxes, cameras, projectors, enlargers, gold-leaf burnishers, leather tools, jeweller’s tools and the gear of carpenters, machinists, plumbers, electricians and radio hams. Lilly was placidly reading an astrology magazine in the middle of the debris. She was about thirty-five: a plump, grey-eyed blonde in halter and shorts. The sight of her seemed to pick Clifton up like a shot of brandy.

  “Mama!” he yelled, kissing her loudly. “I’m sick of you. I brought you this here young man to run away with. Kindly leave without making no unnecessary disturbance. His name is Mike.”

  “Hallo,” she said calmly. “Don’t pay him no attention; he alvays yokes. Excuse how I talk; I am a Danish. How many letters you got in your full complete name?”

  “Uh—twelve.”

  “Good,” she dimpled. “I am twelve also. We will be friends, it means.”

  “I’m very glad,” Novak said faintly.

  “Mike, you’ve been factored?”

  “I don’t think I understand——”

  “It’s biomat’ematics. You know? You go to a biomat’ematicist and he finds the mat’ematical for-moola of you subconscious and he factors out the traumas. It’s va-j-ary simple.” Her face fell a little. “Only I got a Danish-speaking subconscious of course, so vit’ me it goes a fiddle slow. Funny”—she shook her head—”same t’ing happened to me years ago vit’ di’netics. Cliff, you gonna give Mike a drink or is he like the other young feller you had here last month? Feller that broke the big mirror and you nineteen-inch cat’ode-ray tube and my Svedish pitcher——”

  “How the hell was I supposed to know?” he roared. In an aside: “That was Friml, Mike. He got pretty bad.”

  “Friml?” asked Novak incredulously. The ice-water kid?”

  “He should go to a biomat’ematicist,” sighed Lilly. “If ever a boy needed factoring, it’s him. Make me only a fiddle one please; I don’t eat yet today.”