Possible Tomorrows

by Groff Conklin (Ed. )

  Any time the Unit seemed to be stopped, it was Lorraine who started things going again. Brent, Helen and lone introduced things, but they had to be taken up by Dick or Lorraine before they came to anything. Dick’s suggestions and conclusions were never summarily thrown out except by Lorraine.

  Seeing Lorraine’s importance to the Unit I wasn’t surprised when I realized that the first thing they had done this time was throw out all the conclusions they’d reached the last time. Presently I saw that they were really on to something, though I had no idea what it was. Soon after this I gathered that they were looking for something, trying to locate something or other by not looking for it but by probabilities—the way they had drawn up a list of three possible assassins in the ship from the passenger list.

  I wondered if they thought they could determine the Traders’ base by inspired guesswork. It seemed unlikely. If that had been possible, one of the other forty-six Units would have done it long since.

  Yet I knew Units, like individuals, differed in their capabilities. And I thought mine was a particularly good Unit. I knew, of course, that most Unit Fathers thought that—just as most parents thought their child the most wonderful in the world.

  Suddenly the session was suspended—suspended, not stopped. They were all looking at me, except Lorraine, who had closed her eyes, suddenly looking tired again.

  “Edgar,” said Dick. “Go and find out who the first man was who opened this North-South split. Who actually started it The first speech in the Assembly, the first article in a paper, whatever it was. Go back as far as you can. Never mind the later people, the people who took it up. Get two names—someone in Benoit City and someone in Sedgeware.”

  I got up. “Do I have to keep my interest secret?” I asked.

  “No—we’ll be ready to follow it up as soon as you’ve got it Try the newspapers, the Assembly records before the split, the police. You’ll probably have to go to Benoit City. Come back when you’ve got two names.”

  I didn’t ask for any more information. I left them—reflecting wryly that this showed exactly how important Unit Fathers were. When his Unit was in full cry it ordered him about like an errand-boy, and he did as he was told.

  I went to the Twendon Times office and asked to see the librarian. It wasn’t the librarian they took me to see but the chief editor. If I was only an errand-boy to my Unit, I was a very important person to everybody else.

  “I only want to have a look at your files,” I protested. “I needn’t take up your time, Mr. Caise.”

  “I know all that’s in the files,” the lean, hungry-looking man behind the desk informed me. “Is there a story in this, Mr. Williamson?”

  “There will be.”

  “What do you want to know? Shoot.”

  “Who started the trouble between Benoit City and Sedgeware?” I asked abruptly.

  He couldn’t give me a straight immediate answer. He knew everything the newspaper had reported as he claimed, but I had to keep directing him. He suggested a lot of things, but there was always something earlier.

  At last he said doubtfully: “Well, I guess the first thing of all was an article that came in . . . we didn’t run it, but all the Sedgeware newspapers did. Only thing is, you wouldn’t know that was the beginning until afterwards—when you knew everything, I mean.”

  “That’s what I want,” I said confidently. “What was in the article, and who wrote it?”

  Dick had asked for two names. I had one of them, and it had taken me less than half an hour to get it. The other wasn’t going to be so easy to get.

  I flew to Benoit City. It took fifty-five minutes.

  Benoit City had never been as friendly toward us as Sedgeware. That was natural, for Benoit City was never as friendly toward anybody as Sedgeware was.

  North and South are pretty much the same anywhere. The North is business-like, in a hurry, brash, confident, hard, cynical, with the heart of gold well concealed by the pocketbook. The South is hospitable, friendly, easy-going, lazy, romantic, tradition-loving, happy, optimistic.

  Again I went to the local newspaper. Again I was shown into the presence of the chief, only this time he was called the managing editor. His name was Morrissey.

  Morrissey heard what I had to say, then said immediately: “What you’re looking for is something a visiting actress said. It was . . .”

  He told me what it was, and he was right. That had set things moving so that in Benoit City a short time later the council had voted against the teaching of Earth in schools.

  But I was at a loss. The actress had been on a tour of the galaxy and had probably forgotten Perryon by this time. She wasn’t in this, I was certain.

  “Who spoke to her,” I asked, “before she said that? Who in this city, I mean?”

  “Just one of my reporters. Jenson. I’ll get him for you.”

  “No,” I said quickly. “Don’t say anything to him.”

  “If there’s a story,” said the editor bluntly, “is it mine?”

  “It’s yours,” I said. “But you’ll have to share it with Caise of the Twendon Times.”

  “That’s all right,” he said. “They don’t circulate here.”

  I left him and flew back to Twendon.

  I’d been away from the ward where the Unit was deliberating for three hours. But they were still at it when I got back. I cast an anxious glance at Lorraine.

  She grinned weakly. “I think I’ve lost my fourteen pounds,” she said. “But we’re through now. Go away, all of you, and let me sleep.”

  Dick, Helen, lone, Brent and I filed out “Before we do anything else,” I said, “that reply has to go to the UA Do you realize we got the radiogram four hours ago.”

  “Is that all?” said Dick. “Seems like years.” He was tired too. “Send Nine. And put out a direct call for a fleet.”

  I gaped at him.

  “I’d like to make it Ten—” Dick said, “but we’re not quite certain enough.”

  I got the two calls away without delay. It’s no use being impatient with a Unit They won’t tell you anything until they’re good and ready.

  “Now we have twelve hours,” said Dick, “to do a lot of work.”

  “Seven,” I said. “Twelve hours was minimum. The fleet will be here in seven hours.”

  Dick groaned. “And we can’t take Lorraine with us,” he said. “Oh well. What was that first name?”

  “Look,” I said, “I have to know something. You don’t need to tell me the whole story, but I’ve got to know what we’re trying to do.”

  “Instead of trying to keep us away,” said Dick, “the Traders wanted us here. They even started the domestic squabble here to make sure a Unit was sent out. We were supposed to be sent here, lose Lorraine on the way, or here, it didn’t matter, decide this wasn’t the Trader base, decide Fry on was, and give that to U-A as our conclusion.”

  “You mean the Traders thought they could outsmart a Unit?” I exclaimed.

  “A Unit minus one,” Dick reminded me. “But even when they knew Lorraine wasn’t dead, I don’t think they were worried. Which means they were very confident.”

  “Which means they were crazy!” I exclaimed.

  Dick shook his head. “Which means they had a Unit of their own,” he said.

  I didn’t say it was impossible, I didn’t say anything.

  We started out to look for George Zamorey, who was the man who had written the article which sparked off the Sedgeware attitude.

  He was a young, nice-looking fellow. When he saw us he looked puzzled, but not puzzled enough.

  “So you’re the one,” said Dick. “I thought we’d have to go further, find who told you to say that”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Zamorey.

  “Oh yes, you do. Have you by any chance got four friends?”

  He was watching Zamorey very closely. Zamorey’s reaction couldn’t have been right, however. Dick was disappointed, and made no effort to hide it.


  “What do you know, Zamorey?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know what you—”

  “We haven’t time,” said Dick impatiently. “Brent, you’ll have to persuade him.”

  I never liked strong-arm methods, and if I’d known more of what was going on I’d have stopped Brent. I wish I had anyway. Zamorey must have had a poison sac in his mouth. After five minutes of Brent’s treatment Zamorey went limp and we found he was dead.

  “One lead gone,” said Dick. “We’ll have to be more careful with the other one.”

  We flew to Benoit City, all of us. I went straight to Morrissey and had him send for Jenson.

  He was almost too quick few us. He came all right, but almost before he’d opened the door, certainly before he’d entered the room, he’d seen us, slammed the door and was running along the corridor.

  We chased him. Dick and I were useless, and Brent though powerful, was slow. It was Ione who tore after Jenson like a greyhound. Brent was next then Helen, then Dick, with me last.

  Nevertheless I saw the capture. Ione sent herself flying at Jenson’s legs and he came down. Jenson might have handled lone, but he certainly couldn’t handle Brent, who was on him in an instant.

  When I came up, panting, Jenson was being held firmly by Brent and Dick was asking: “Who are your four friends, Jenson?”

  To my amazement Jenson made no further resistance. He surrendered immediately and told us all we wanted to know.

  Dick didn’t find it strange. He said later that Jenson, being a sort of Uniteer himself, knew better than any ordinary person what he was up against and didn’t waste any time pretending not to know what we were talking about. It still seemed incredible to me that Jenson cracked right away and told us everything.

  It was much later that Lorraine, who always liked me, told me the real reason.

  Units aren’t loyal. They work for good, they work for law and order, they work for progress, because they consider these things better than evil, anarchy and regression. But they aren’t loyal. Loyalty is trust beyond reason, and no Unit ever trusted beyond reason.

  Units work for the U-A because the UA is working for things they agree about. But if a Unit finds itself in an impossible position, it won’t fight to the last man. It’ll surrender. As Jenson surrendered. This is what he told us.

  The U-A, after all, wasn’t the only organization which could make and train a Unit The Traders had realized that to have any chance against the UA they’d have to have a Unit of their own. They’d bribed a psychologist to join them, clear five of the Traders and train them as a Unit working for them.

  We should have guessed this sooner. It was inevitable that Stoner or later anything used by the forces of law and order should be used by the other side too.

  “If Kelman or West had done his job properly,” Jenson told us, “we’d have beaten you. We knew what you’d decide. We could think as you were going to think. You were to decide our base was Fry on. The Unit on Fry on was to get certain hints once you’d given them the lead. Five of our ships were to be found and destroyed. After that the Traders would go under cover, and it would have been years Before the UA bothered us again.”

  “Very clever,” Dick agreed. “Only you were bound to fall anyway, Jenson.”

  Jenson frowned at that “Because there were so many Units against us? That wouldn’t have mattered. We’d have—”

  “No, because you weren’t a good Unit” said Dick. “Nonsense. We’re every bit as good as you.”

  Dick shook his head. “No. Because you had to be trained to serve the Traders. You were given a bias.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Jenson, “but you’re wrong. We didn’t have to be biased. We were Traders already, remember.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” said Dick. “You see, whenever you were cleared, you ceased to be Traders. Cleared, you became law-abiding, and if you’d been properly trained you’d have been a genuine Unit You’d have realized the Traders couldn’t be allowed to continue, and refused to work for them. They probably didn’t tell you about it, but the men who trained you had to instil a compulsion—loyalty to the Traders. And you know as well as I do that any compulsion decreases the efficiency of a Unit”

  Jenson shut his mouth firmly and wouldn’t say another word. I think despite the compulsion he realized the truth of what Dick was saying.

  We rounded up the rest of the Trader Unit ourselves. It was easy and undramatic. Like Jenson, each of the members we found realized the game was up and gave no trouble.

  But there was a grandstand ending to the episode nevertheless—and everybody on Perryon saw at least some of it.

  In a message to the police, when we were handing over the Trader Unit, we mentioned the fleet and its time of arrival. We knew that somehow the Traders would get this information. Although the police in general weren’t under Trader control, the Traders were bound to have some access to all important official information.

  The time we gave was an hour out.

  When the Trader fleet toed: off to make its getaway before the arrival of the fleet, it ran right into them.

  I’ve said already that the lucky man really manufactures his luck. Units always seem to be lucky, because they fix things so that chance is generally working for them, not against them.

  Only a Unit would have gambled on the chance that the Traders, warned, would rush to their ships and try to get away, giving themselves an hour’s leeway. So only for a Unit could it pay off.

  The Trader ships tried to fight, which was a mistake. Probably why they fought was because the Traders were angry. They hadn’t expected anything like this.

  From Benoit City we saw the first Trader ship gleaming dull red, then rosy pink, then white. It seemed to light the whole sky. As it came down in a giant arc it must have been visible over a quarter of the surface of Perryon. And before it struck another ship had begun to glow.

  The Traders scored a hit on one patrol ship. But it, ten times the size of the Trader ships and with more than ten times their defenses, merely glowed with a curious green light and withdrew rapidly from the battle.

  Two Trader ships glowed at once and slanted down across the sky, tracing fairy patterns. It was an incredibly beautiful sight. I stared at the wonder of it, and only as the first ship struck with a shock which could be felt but not heard realized with sudden horror that there had been men on that ship.

  When I remembered that the battle couldn’t be over too soon for me. I understood how an executioner must feel. We had sent those ships up to meet a patrol.

  Before that we had left Rhoda Walker to go and warn Kelman and be strangled. We had staged an accident in which Kelman died.

  I realized as yet another incandescent ship blazed across the night sky just what it was to be a Unit Father.

  The Uniteers were amoral. They worked for the general good—but they did it like this, without mercy, without remorse, without the irrational bat very human feelings of pity that often stop ordinary human beings doing harsh things they know should be done . . . for the general good.

  Still another ship blazed through the colon of fire. I turned away. I couldn’t take pleasure any more in the excellent job we had done.

  “Let’s go back to Twendon,” I said, “and tell Lorraine all about it”

  “Yes, we’ll do that,” Dick agreed. And he too tamed his back on the destruction of the Traders.

  GONE FISHING

  James H. Schmitz

  There probably will never come a society of human beings without its human parasites. The notion that material progress through the invention and development of the technical bases for a universally high standard of living will bring with it a perfecting of man’s moral fiber—if it ever really existed, as it may have in some naive minds during the Nineteenth Century—simply will not work. It is not only the lure of “something for nothing” that makes such parasites—con men, blackmailers, what have you—tick, it is also the excitement of using one’s wi
ts, the hatred or contempt of conventional society, or the feeling of power that comes from putting something over on another person. These are basic supra-economic motivations for people like Schmitz’s “anti-hero.”

  If all this is so, the only cure (for individual parasites, anyhow) is somehow to change their motivations. This is a noble goal, but just try and do it! Whether the pretty drastic punishment that is envisioned in this story as being used against the successful sharpie who got caught would actually reform him in “real” life is a matter of acerb controversy. However, what is not controversial is the fact that in telling us about it the author has had a ball, and helps us to have one, too.

  CHARMINGLY VIOLENT!

  Barney Chard, thirty-seven- financier, entrepreneur, occasional blackmailer, occasional con man, and very competent in all these activities—stood on a rickety wooden lake dock, squinting against the late afternoon sun, and waiting for his current business prospect to give up the pretense of being interested in trying to catch fish.

  The prospect, who stood a few yards farther up the dock, rod in one hand, was named Dr. Oliver B. McAllen. He was a retired physicist, though less retired than was generally assumed. A dozen years ago he had rated as one of the country’s top men in his line. And, while dressed like an aging tramp in what he had referred to as fishing togs, he was at the moment potentially the country’s wealthiest citizen. There was a clandestine invention he’d fathered which he called the McAllen Tube. The Tube was the reason Barney Chard had come to see McAllen.

  Gently raising and lowering the fishing rod, and blinking out over the quiet water. Dr. McAllen looked preoccupied with disturbing speculations not connected with his sport. The man had a secrecy bug. The invention, Barney thought had turned out to be bigger than the inventor. McAllen was afraid of the Tube, and in the forefront of his reflections must be the inescapable fact that the secret of the McAllen Tube could no longer be kept without Barney Chard’s co-operation. Barney had evidence of its existence, and didn’t really need the evidence. A few hints dropped here and there would have made McAllen’s twelve years of elaborate precaution quite meaningless.