The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works 1911-1987

by C. L. Moore

  "Mr. Tarbell!" the man greeted him. "I'm still buying, but this is crazy. You'd better get out while the getting's good."

  "I will—but tell me just one thing. Is Pan-Argyle Oil on the board?"

  "Uh—yes. Nothing bid, three asked. But that's as bad as AGM. Pan-Argyle's a cheap wildcat outfit—"

  "Never mind," Tarbell snapped. "Sell AGM and buy all the Pan-Argyle you can get your hands on. Margin!"

  The broker threw up his hands and reached for the telephone. Tarbell examined the book. The numeral was gone.

  And that left four chances. Maybe five—five at most. He'd play safe. Say, four chances to outwit Meg and get rid of her permanently. Then—if this oil deal worked out as he expected—he could sit back and relax.

  He headed for a bar and toasted himself silently. Then he toasted the book. A handy little volume! If Napoleon had possessed it, there'd never have been a Waterloo—provided the chances had been used wisely. The point was, apparently, to play for big stakes.

  Tarbell grinned. The next step—Meg. As for security, what was he worrying about? With sufficient money, he'd have security enough. As much as any man could. The powers of the book were limited, obviously; they couldn't change a man into a god. Only the gods were completely happy—if, indeed, they were.

  But a fortune would be enough. Perhaps he'd go to South America—Buenos Aires, or Rio. Travel was restricted, in these days. Necessarily. Just the same, he could enjoy himself there, and there would be no difficulty with the law, in case his blackmailing proclivities were ever raked up. Extradition is difficult when a man has enough money.

  A shadow flashed past his eyes, and he turned in time to see the tail of a cat vanish out the door. He caught his breath and grinned. Nerves.

  But, unmistakably, the warmth of the book made itself felt against his side.

  Very slowly Tarbell took it out.

  Page 44.

  "Poison?"

  Tarbell looked thoughtfully at the whiskey sour before him. He beckoned to the bartender.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Was there a cat in here a minute ago?"

  "A cat? I didn't see any ... no, sir."

  A little man sitting near Tarbell turned his head. "I saw it. It came over and jumped up on the bar. Sniffed at your drink, but it didn't touch it. Guess cats don't like whiskey." He giggled.

  "What sort of cat was it?" Tarbell asked.

  The little man looked at him oddly. "Ordinary sort of cat. Big fella. White feet, looked like. What of it?"

  "Nothing." Tarbell turned back to his drink and sniffed it. There was an unmistakable bitter-almonds odor. Prussic acid, the conventional poison.

  Tarbell left the bar, his face rather white. Three chances. Perhaps he had miscalculated, after all. But ten, in the beginning, had seemed an abundance.

  There was no sign of Meg.

  He didn't bother to go back to the Journal, though he phoned to get a report on Pan-Argyle. He was not surprised to learn that a new field had suddenly been brought in somewhere in Texas. It looked big—plenty big. He had got in just under the wire.

  He phoned his broker, and the news was eminently satisfying. Buying on margin had its advantages. As a result, Tarbell was already a rich man.

  "It may peter out, though," the broker said. "Shall I hang on?"

  "It won't peter out." Tarbell's voice was confident. "Keep buying, if there's any stock left floating around."

  "There isn't. But you've got almost a controlling share."

  "Good." Tarbell hung up and considered. He'd have to move fast now.

  Three chances—

  He cheered himself up by buying a car from an acquaintance who had been pressed for money lately; and presently was tooling the big sedan along Wilshire Boulevard, squinting against the sunset. The next step was to find Meg and maneuver himself into a very dangerous position, where only the familiar's destruction could save him.

  Quite suddenly Tarbell saw the way.

  It would take two chances—but that would still leave one for emergencies. And it would get rid of Meg permanently.

  He turned on La Brea and headed for Laurel Canyon. It was necessary to get in touch with the familiar. Under the circumstances, time counted. No more of the irreplaceable pages must be used up now. Not until the final test.

  Tarbell grinned sardonically. He had had ten chances; the result was money. Well, the aphorism about spilt milk was consoling, after a fashion. He swung into Sunset, and thence to Laurel Canyon Road.

  After that he went cautiously. He was hoping that Gwinn's body had not yet been discovered, and that he could get in contact with Meg at the magician's house. It was a slim chance, but he could think of no other.

  Luck was with him. The house loomed dark and silent. Letters stuck out of the metal mailbox at the curb. The rising wind caught one and fluttered it away into the twilight.

  Instinctively Tarbell's eyes sought the cat, but it was nowhere in evidence. He parked the sedan in the roadway behind the house, hidden by dwarf trees and underbrush. Then he went back and climbed the steps, his heart beating faster than normal.

  The door was closed but unlocked. He pushed it open and entered.

  The room was slightly changed. A pentagram was traced on the floor, and the remnants of several oil lamps were broken shards. Oil had soaked into the carpet, and was strong in Tarbell's nostrils. The body of Gwinn sat motionless behind the table.

  "Meg!" Tarbell said softly.

  The cat came out of the shadows, green eyes gleaming.

  "Yes?"

  "I ... I wanted to talk to you."

  Meg sat down, waving her tail. "Talk away. But you have used seven pages of the book already, you know."

  "Then Barney Donn and the demons counted separately."

  "Yes. You have three pages left."

  Tarbell said, standing motionless in the twilit room, horribly conscious of Gwinn's corpse:

  "Will you take a sporting chance?"

  "Perhaps. What is it?"

  "I'll gamble with you. My life as the stake. If I win, you—call it off. If I lose, I'll destroy the book."

  Meg waved her tail. "I'm no fool. If we gamble, and you're in danger, the book will help you."

  "Then I won't use it," Tarbell said, his voice a little unsteady. "Here's the proposition. We'll guess at a card's suit. Two guesses each. If I lose, I ... I'll destroy the book. Only I make one stipulation."

  "What?"

  "I want twelve hours to set my affairs in order. Twelve hours from now, if I lose, I'll throw the book in the fire at my apartment and wait for you."

  Meg looked at the man inscrutably. "And you won't use the book to help you win?"

  "Right."

  "I agree," the cat said. "You'll find cards on that shelf." It waved a white-mittened paw.

  -

  Tarbell got the cards and shuffled them expertly. He spread them out on the carpet and looked at Meg. "Will you draw? Or shall I?"

  "Draw," the familiar murmured. Tarbell obeyed, but did not turn the card over. He laid it face down on the oil-soaked carpet.

  "I choose—"

  His side felt warm. Instinctively he drew out the book. On the front cover two numerals were black against the luminous white disk:

  33

  "Don't open it," Meg said, "or the deal's off."

  For answer, Tarbell placed the book at his side, unopened. His voice shaking, he whispered, "Hearts and spades."

  "All right." The cat flipped the card over with a deft paw. It was the jack of clubs.

  The numeral on the book's cover vanished abruptly.

  Meg flicked out a lazy pink tongue. "Twelve hours, then, Tarbell. I'll be waiting as patiently as possible."

  "Yeah—" Tarbell was looking at the book on the floor beside him. "Twelve hours," he repeated softly. "Then I'll ... destroy ... this and you'll kill me, I suppose."

  "Yes," the cat said.

  A new numeral appeared in the white oval: 9. Tarbell said, "I'll be gett
ing on," and picked up the book. He thumbed it idly.

  Page 9 said, "Start a fire."

  Tarbell took out a cigarette and lit it. The flaming match he tossed down to the oil-soaked carpet. And—

  Fire blazed up, reflecting crimson and green in Meg's eyes as she bounded up, hissing. The feline side was in the ascendant now. Tail erect, back arched, she leaped to the table, spitting and snarling.

  Tarbell jumped back to the door. The fire was spreading. He slid the book into his pocket and tossed the cigarette into a dark corner of the room. The red spark flashed out into flame.

  "Like it, Meg?" he whispered above the increasing crackle and roar. "I don't think you do. Because it's the only thing that'll save my life—and I'm pretty sure that means your death."

  The cat sprang to Gwinn's shoulder, glaring at Tarbell. Its hissing became articulate. "Not my death—but you've won! My term on earth ends when my warlock's body is destroyed. I won't survive him."

  "I remember. You told me that once before, but I didn't guess the right answer. Sorry, Meg!"

  "My powers are waning already, or you'd die now. Yes, you've won. I'll see you in Hell."

  "Not for a while," Tarbell grinned, opening the door. The draft drew a gust of flames toward him, and he backed off hurriedly. "I still have one page in the book left, and that'll keep me alive for a while—especially with you out of the way, and a fortune at my finger tips. It's just a matter of logic, Meg. Every human action can be boiled down to a basic equation"—he jumped back again—"and the only trick is to learn how to use the book. If Napoleon had owned it, he'd have conquered the world."

  Fire was crawling toward the cat, yet she did not move from Gwinn's shoulder. She spat at Tarbell.

  "Napoleon did own it," she snarled—

  Then the flames drove Tarbell out of the house. Laughing quietly, he raced down the steps and around to where he had left his car. He had won—tricked both Meg and the book neatly by maneuvering himself into a position where only the familiar's death would save his own life. And there was still one page left.

  A window crackled and broke. Fire poured out from it. Instantly the dry brush caught. Tarbell stopped short, a dozen feet from his car. He gave back, realizing instantly that this way of escape was blocked.

  It didn't matter. He was invulnerable, as long as he had the book—as long as there was one chance left. He turned and ran for the road, wind gusting coldly against his sweating cheeks.

  It was, perhaps, a mile down to Laurel Canyon, where he could get a lift. But it was all downhill, and he was in good condition. Even though the wind was rising, he could make it easily. And, at worst, the book would save him.

  -

  So Tarbell ran down the road, until, ten minutes later, he stopped short at sight of a trail of flame rushing down a gully in his path.

  He took the first branch that forked, and cut down into another canyon. It was past sunset now, but the hills had become crawling towers of scarlet light. A siren screamed in the distance.

  Tarbell went on. Once he took out the book and looked at it, but there were no numerals on the cover. He wasn't in serious danger yet.

  A thought of panic struck cold into his mind. Perhaps he had, somehow, used up the ten chances! But no—that was impossible. He had kept careful count. When an emergency arose, the book would save him.

  The increasing fury of the brush fire drove Tarbell down the canyon, until at last he was halted by another comb of flames racing up toward him. He was—apparently—trapped. Standing hatless and panting, he jerked out the book again, and this time a tiny moan of relief escaped him. There was no mistake; the tenth chance lay in his hand, ready to solve his problem. Page 50.

  Tarbell opened the book to Page 50. It was easy to read the message, in the bloody light of the fire. It was rather horribly easy to read the message; its clarity had a touch of inhuman malice about it. Tarbell understood then, of course, about Napoleon, and about what Gwinn had seen in the book before his death; and he also realized how the unknown author had managed to boil all human crises down to fifty patterns. Forty-nine of them covered forty-nine eventualities, and told the logical solution. The fiftieth covered everything else, and was equally logical.

  The letters on the fire-reddened fiftieth page said:

  The End

  PIGGY BANK

  Astounding Science-Fiction - December 1942

  with Henry Kuttner

  (as by Lewis Padgett)

  Ballard's diamonds were being stolen as fast as he could make new ones. Insurance companies had long since given him up as a bad risk. Detective agencies were glad to offer their services, at a high fee, but, since the diamonds were invariably stolen, anyhow, this was simply more money down the drain. It couldn't keep up. Ballard's fortune was founded on diamonds, and the value of gems increases in inverse proportion to their quantity and availability. In ten years or so, at the present rate of theft, unflawed blue-whites would be almost worthless.

  "So what I need is a perfect safe," Ballard said, sipping a liqueur. He stared across the table at Joe Gunther, who only smiled.

  "Sure," Gunther said. "Well?"

  "You're a technician. Figure it out. What do I pay you for?"

  "You pay me for making diamonds and not telling anybody I can make 'em."

  "I hate lazy people," Ballard remarked. "You graduated top man at the Institute in 1990. What have you done since then?"

  "Practiced hedonism," Gunther said. "Why should I work my head off when I can get everything I want just by making diamonds for you? What does any man want? Security, freedom, a chance to indulge his whims. I got that. Just by finding a formula for the Philosopher's Stone. Too bad Cain never guessed the potentialities of his patent. Too bad for him; lucky for me."

  "Shut up," Ballard said with soft intensity.

  Gunther grinned and glanced around the gigantic dining hall. "Nobody can hear us." He was a little drunk. A lock of lank dark hair fell over his forehead; his thin face looked sharp and mocking. "Besides, I like to talk. It makes me realize I'm as much of a big shot as you are. Swell stuff for my soul."

  "Then talk. When you're quite finished, I'll get on with what I've got to say."

  Gunther drank brandy. "I'm a hedonist, and I've got a high I.Q. When I graduated, I looked around for the best way of supporting Joe Gunther without working. Building something new from scratch wastes time. The best system is to find a structure already built, and add something more. Ergo, the Patent Office. I spent two years going through the files, looking for pay dirt. I found it in Cain's formula. He didn't know what it was. A theory about thermodynamics—he thought. Never realized he could make diamonds simply by developing the idea a bit. So," Gunther finished, "for twenty years that formula has been buried in the Patent Office, and I found it. And sold it to you, on condition that I keep my mouth shut and let the world believe your diamonds were real."

  "Finished?" Ballard asked.

  "Sure."

  "Why do you recapitulate the obvious on an average of once a month?"

  "To keep you reminded," Gunther said. "You'd kill me if you dared. Then your secret would be quite safe. The way I figure it, ever so often you work out a method of getting rid of me, and it biases your judgment. You're apt to go off half-cocked, get me killed, and then realize your mistake. When I'm dead, the formula will be made public, and everybody can make diamonds. Where'll you be, then?"

  Ballard shifted his bulky body, half closing his eyes and clasping large, well-shaped hands behind his neck. He regarded Gunther coolly.

  "Symbiosis," he said. "You'll keep your mouth shut, because diamonds are your security, too. Credits, currency, bonds—they're all apt to become worthless under current economic conditions. But diamonds are rare. I want to keep 'em that way. I've got to stop these thefts."

  "If one man builds a safe, another man can crack it. You know the history of that. In the old days, somebody invented a combination lock. Right away, somebody else figured out the answer—
listening to the fall of the tumblers. Tumblers were made noiseless; then a crook used a stethoscope. The answer to that was a time lock. Nitroglycerin canceled that. Stronger metals were used, and precision jointures. O.K.—thermite. One guy used to take off the dial, slip a piece of carbon paper under it, replace it—and come back a day later, after the combination had been scratched on the carbon. Today it's x rays, and so forth."

  "A perfect safe can be made," Ballard said.

  "How?"

  "There are two methods. One, lock the diamonds in an absolutely uncrackable safe."

  "No such thing."

  "Two, leave the diamonds in plain sight, guarded by men who never take their eyes from them."

  "You tried that, too. It didn't work. The men were gassed once. The second time, a ringer got in, disguised as one of the detectives."

  Ballard ate an olive. "When I was a kid, I had a piggy bank made of glass. I could see the coins, but I couldn't get 'em out without breaking the pig. That's what I want. Only—I want a pig who can run."

  Gunther looked up, his eyes suddenly sharp. "Eh?"

  "A pig who's conditioned to flight—self-preservation. One who specializes in the art of running away. Animals do it—herbivores chiefly. There's an African deer that reacts to movement before it's made. Better than split-second reaction. A fox is another example. Can a man catch a fox?"

  "He'd use dogs and horses."

  "Uh-huh. So foxes run through herds of sheep, and cross water, to spoil the scent. My pig must do that, too."

  "You're talking about a robot," Gunther said.

  "The Metalman people will make us one to order, with the radioatomic type of brain. A seven-foot robot, studded with diamonds, conditioned to running away. An intelligent robot."

  Gunther rubbed his jaw. "Lovely. Except for one thing. The intelligence must be limited. Metalman have made robots of human mind-power, but each one covers a city block. Mobility's lost as intelligence increases. They haven't yet found a substitute for the colloid brain. However—" He stared at his fingernails. "Yeah. It could be done. The robot must be conditioned in one line only, self-preservation. It must be able to build logically from that motivation, and that's all it needs."