Rare Science Fiction

by Ivan Howatd (ed. )

  His hand looked as if it moved of its own intent as it punched out on the buttons the sequence to switch off the board. rfhe man himself seemed in a state of shock.

  There were two weeks before the Anniversary Celebration in honor of the final union of the whole world in the slavery of Marcus. Two weeks of grace; two weeks of life for Peter. That was all. If anything could be done, there was only two weeks in which to do it.

  II

  After sitting hunched for several minutes, Phillip Reynolds got up and started pacing back and forth. Selma looked at him; then she looked at Dirk and got up herself. “I guess this isn’t the time to press my resignation. Anyway, he’s all stirred up, which is what I wanted to do anyway. So let’s get out of here.” Dirk nodded, a sardonic expression in his eyes. He wondered if he should point out that it was not her threat to quit that had stirred Phillip up; it had taken the knowledge that Peter was in danger to do it. But he shrugged, mentally. Selma was not a girl to try to fool herself, and he doubted if it would be an effective taunt. So, without saying anything, he just followed her out.

  It was about a minute later that the door opened again and Ranee came in. Ranee Kirsten was huge—in width at least. A vast mountain of a man with a face that rarely showed emotion, and whose eyes seemed perpetually hidden beneath rolls of flesh. He sighed slightly as he lowered himself carefully into a chair. He did not like exertion and, in fact, rarely even left his room.

  Phillip nodded at him vaguely. He knew Kirsten as a remarkable man, thinking of him as an extension of the Computer, for Ranee had a strange faculty of intuition. The fat man, he knew, spent his time sprawled in a comfortable chair watching a large screen he had had built into one wall of his room. Across that screen moved the data being carried on various channels that Ranee selected, apparently at random. How much of the information Kirsten absorbed, Phillip did not know; but he did know that out of it Ranee somehow synthesized an awareness of the future that even the Computer could not give.

  “Hi,” the big man grunted. “Thought you might want to talk to me.” Phillip looked at him in surprise. It was true; he did want to talk to Ranee—but he had not known it until now. And how had Ranee known? He shrugged, and rapidly told the other what the problem was. “And what do I do now?” he ended.

  Ranee blinked. “What do you want to do?” he asked.

  “Well,” Phillip said slowly, his face furrowed with thought, “I want to save my brother, of course. He’s eight years younger than me, you know; I guess I got in the habit of taking care of him when we were kids. But there’s more than that. He’s an idealist; thinks people should be free, and that Marcus is about the worst thing that ever happened to the world. He’s never forgiven me for letting Marcus use the Computer to build his empire. And the worst of it is that he may be right.

  “I thought mankind needed a strong hand to do the reorganizing that had to be done. 1 thought it needed time, and that even Marcus was not too high a price to pay for time. But I’m not sure, and Peter could be right that that’s too high a price for anything. If he is right, and if he dies for his beliefs, then I’m the one who killed him, for it’s I who gave Marcus his power.” There was a bitter twist to his mouth and he paced back and forth for a minute in silence.

  “And there’s more, too,” Reynolds finally continued. “I never thought of Marcus as more than a temporary answer. But he’s too strong. Eventually, I suppose, he’ll fall; if it’s a slow dissolution, or if it comes by the chaos of revolution, what happens then? What comes after? Do we go back to chaos and wars and economic turbulence? Maybe it’s up to me to do something; maybe if I don’t, the time I’ve bought will go for nothing. But what can I do?” He turned to the fat man, desperation on his face.

  “You know,” Ranee said, his voice low, “we talk a lot about revolution in here. When do you suppose they’re going to arrest us for it?”

  Phillip looked at him in surprise. “Us?” He was however, almost used to Ranee’s wandering methods of discussion. “Oh, they won’t arrest us; they tried to several years ago. We had a big argument. Told them I wouldn’t stand for it, and convinced them I meant it. They knew they needed the Computer and that there wasn’t anybody else could run it. So, there was a lot of facesaving, but it kind of worked out that they don’t come in here, and we don’t go out there.”

  He smiled, remembering that period. Vane, the head of the Secret Police, had writhed in frustration; he had panted and fumed and roared. But in the end, confronted with Reynolds’ unwavering logic, he had collapsed into sullen silence. And quietly Phillip had built his walls, using the full talents of some very smart people, and of the Computer, to keep Vane from ever getting knowledge of what went on inside the sanctuary of the Computer building.

  “So you don’t think they find out what goes on here?” Kirsten asked. “Well, maybe they don’t; but if I were Vane, I’d at least have my spies in here; wouldn’t you?”

  “Sure,” Phillip shrugged. “He probably does. Only they can’t send word out; all they can do is walk out themselves, and then we don’t let them back. So their spies don’t do them much good.”

  “No,” Ranee agreed. “Except that if we started actively plotting, then that would be news that it would be worth sacrificing a spy for, wouldn’t it? So it seems like it’s kind of a stalemate between us and Vane, doesn’t it?”

  “You mean that we’re safe as long as we don’t start mixing in?” Phillip swung toward the fat man, a puzzled look on his face. “Sure. But so what? That’s what I pointed out to Vane long ago, and you must have known this.” He paused, and then his face lit up. “Or are you just reminding me?” Suddenly he drooped. “But that is true. There’s nothing I can do; any funny stuff and I cut our own throats.”

  Ranee heaved himself out of his chair and waddled to the door. After he had opened it, he turned and looked back at Phillip. “Nothing wrong with ’funny stuff.’ The only thing you can’t do is plot. Subtlety—that’s what you got to avoid like the poison.” He started to swing around, but stopped and looked back again. “One other thing. A piece of information for you that you can’t get from Matilda. Marcus is strong now, as strong as he’s going to get. From here out it’s a downward road for him, a fight to hold what he’s got, and he probably knows it.” This time he did leave, closing the door gently as Phillip started to ask him some more questions.

  Staring at the closed door, Phillip asked himself questions. What, he wondered, had Ranee been driving at? He wished he understood the man better; sometimes it seemed as if the man enjoyed being cryptic. Maybe he did. Anyway, it seemed clear that Kirsten did have some idea of what might be done. From his last words, it almost sounded as if he thought this was the ideal time. But ideal for what? That was the question. What could be done? Selma wanted to juggle the Computer so that it would give false answers—not false enough to worry Marcus or his people, but just enough to give the revolutionists a break. Dirk did not think it could be done. For himself, Reynolds was sure it could not be. Not by changing the orders to the Computer or juggling its codes. Perhaps it could be accomplished by cutting into the transmission lines, to put in false information and wrong orders. But that would take activity, and Kirsten had pointed out that that would be sure suicide. No, Ranee must have some other answer, and Phillip could not think what it might be.

  It was late at night, after many hours of intense concentration, that Reynolds finally thought he saw the light. He was frightened at the answer. It would be he who took the risk of it, and if it failed, it would be he who paid the penalty by starring in the next big trial. But it did seem to have a chance of working.

  He started to pick up the phone to call Ranee, and maybe Selma and Dirk, but he stopped. It would be far better if none of them knew what he planned. Safer for them, and perhaps even safer for him and for his plan. And maybe that had been in Kirsten’s mind, too—that he should not tell the exact details. Maybe Ranee had some good reason for not wanting to know the details. No, it was h
is show, alone, Phillip Reynolds decided; and he would have to do it alone.

  After once more going over his plan in detail, Phillip finally sat down in the chair of the Computer control unit. His fingers flew, and symbols danced across the screen in answer to his questions and his orders. Twice he checked his results to make sure there was no error in what he had done; and then, very carefully, he erased the record of what he had done. With a final checking of the results, he nodded in satisfaction and closed down the unit.

  Moving to the phone-box he pushed the button and spoke a series of numbers. The voice that answered him was cold and impersonal. “Let me speak to Vane,” Phillip said. The voice answered him: “Mr. Vane is not available.” There was the barest accent on the title. Reynolds made his voice equally cold. “This is Phillip Reynolds; I wish to speak to Vane. You will please inform him.” There was a moment’s silence, and then the voice accepted, and asked him to hold the line.

  It was a full minute before he heard Vane’s rasping voice: “Vane here.” Phillip leaned forward, his eyes glazed with concentration, his voice slow and careful: “Mr. Vane, I have matters of considerable importance to communicate. Will you please arrange an appointment for me and yourself with Marcus in the morning.”

  “What are these matters?” the Police Commissioner asked.

  “That I will explain tomorrow,” Phillip said; “not tonight.” He tried to put finality in his voice.

  “You will tell me what you know,” Vane said, “and I will be the one to decide if it is a matter for Marcus’ ear.”

  “That is impossible,” Reynolds answered. “Actually, this is not a Police matter. I would, however, like to have you present when I discuss it with Marcus. If you don’t care to cooperate, I shall have to proceed without you. This will take longer, of course, and time is very short. However, I am prepared to accept this delay if you insist; if you do, I believe you will ultimately regret your decision.”

  He smiled and his eyes glinted as, after a moment’s pause, he went on: “You will also remember that, through the Computer, I have access to knowledge that you do not. What 1 will discuss with Marcus is based on that knowledge. It is not, however, directly concerned with revolution. I do not expect, for example, to mention your connection with the man known as Rimaldi.”

  All of the people high in service of Marcus had their own hidden connections, as the Computer had deduced. Rimaldi, a powerful man in the underworld, was Vane’s chief ace-in-the-hole. “I would prefer, as I say, to have you there, but it is not really essential.” A little blackmail Phillip thought, might get results.

  Vane was quiet for a moment. When he did speak, his voice was carefully controlled, giving no sign of what he might be feeling. “Very well, Reynolds, I will see what I can do.” The light on the box went out, indicating the connection was broken.

  He had won his point, Phillip knew; Vane was perhaps the one man in all the world who could always get to see Marcus on request. Not that Marcus trusted him; quite the contrary. But Marcus trusted no one else, and Vane was the one most likely to bring him news of the others.

  So now, Phillip thought, he was committed. This was the point beyond which there was no possibility of withdrawal. Vane knew now that something was afoot, and he would not rest until he knew what that something was. Now, whether his plan was good or bad, he must go through with it.

  The next morning, in answer to Vane’s summons, Phillip called a car and left the Computer building. Not having been outside the building for better than six months, he stopped a moment at the door to breathe unfiltered air, and to remember the feel of wind on his cheek.

  As he stepped to the car, two men fell in a step behind him, one on each side. They did not say anything, and neither did Reynolds. He was not surprised; this was routine whenever he left the sanctuary of the building. And when he got in the car, one of them sat beside him, while the other sat beside the driver.

  At the door to the private offices of Marcus, he was, according to custom, made to strip and then examined with X-ray and with other instruments. Finally donning the silk robes provided for all guests, and noting with his usual amusement how skillfully they were designed to hamper motion, he was admitted to the anteroom. Vane was already there, dressed in a similar robe, standing in the center of the room looking impassive.

  The Police Commissioner gave him a hard look and a nod. Probably, Reynolds thought, Vane would love to ask him questions but did not dare since the room was no doubt well equipped with listening devices. Phillip sat down in a chair and prepared to wait.

  It was not a long wait, as these things went. About an hour and a quarter, Phillip noted, before a man opened a door and nodded to them to come in. They entered side by side, pacing off in measured steps the carpet that led up the long hall toward the desk at its end. That desk was the only furniture in the room. On the walls, there were maps of the world, and overhead there were the patterns of the constellations. Did that mean, Phillip wondered, that Marcus claimed the allegiance, not only of the world but of the stars as well? But he did not let the smile that was in his mind show on his face.

  III

  The desk itself was so big as to dwarf the man behind it; and yet, you could not ignore the man—for there was a magnetism to him that commanded all attention. His eyes were dark and brooding, deepset in his hawklike face. The mouth was a grim slit that turned down at the comers. The man himself was probably small. He did not often let himself be seen standing, but his shoulders were broad and he looked powerful; and his hands were big and brutal. He looked at Vane.

  The two of them gave the conventional salute, and then Vane spoke: “Sir, this man, Phillip Reynolds, who is Operating Chief of the Computer, has requested this interview. With your permission, I will let him speak.”

  The director’s eyes gleamed with malice. “You mean you don’t know why he’s here?” His voice was deep and resonant, an excellent speaking voice. “What kind of a hold does he have over you? No matter; we will hear what he has to say.” And he looked over towards Phillip.

  “Marcus, sir,” Phillip said, hesitating just a moment to collect his thoughts, “you stand now as the ruler of the entire world. Under you, the world has learned to live in peace, without fear of hunger or of the cold; you will be recorded in history as the man who has achieved what no man has done before. Napoleon, Bismark, Hitler,

  Stalin, these and others had the same dream as you. But they failed, and you have succeeded.”

  Marcus nodded slightly. “This I know; are you flattering me, or are you leading up to something?”

  “Marcus, sir, I am trying to say that you now stand at a turning point. Because you have succeeded, you have an opportunity before you that no man has ever had before.” He paused, but the director said nothing, only looked at him with guarded eyes. “A man who accomplishes so much as you have, must act in that accomplishment against the dreams of many other men. These other men are little people; perhaps you do not think them worth considering—and perhaps they are not. And yet, it is the irony of history that it is those same small people—or their children—who will judge you; it is they who will determine the name that you will carry through the coming centuries.”

  “You are long-winded, Mr. Reynolds,” the director said. “What are you proposing?”

  “Marcus, sir,” Phillip answered, “you are now at the peak of your power. Nothing remains for you to do except to fight to hold that power. Unless…Unless you use that power to build the future of mankind.”

  “I was under the impression,” Marcus said, his voice dry, “that I had already built that future; did you not say so yourself?”

  “Marcus, sir,” Phillip hesitated, to choose his words with care, “I have said that you have built an empire of the world. But you, sir, must know better than anyone else that you have not yet built the future; that will be built by your lieutenants. Samo has the army. It is his; so much is official.

  “But you must also know that seventeen perce
nt of that army does not exist, and that the money so diverted is used to finance his own spy system.

  “Lemark has the industry of the world; this, too, is official. But steel and other industries report no profit, and that is false. And the profits that are not there, are used for arms hidden near his labor camps; this, too, you must know. And Vane, I am sure, will confirm my words.”

  He looked at the Police Commissioner who stared back at him impassively. Phillip shrugged and went on: “Fer-rar, Richards, Benin, and the others. These are smaller men and their opportunities are more limited. But each has a similar story.

  “Where is your future there, Marcus, sir? You balance their powers, playing this one against that. You are a master of this juggling. But someday you will weaken. Someday you will grow tired or bored. What then, Marcus, sir? I am quite confident, sir, that you know better than anyone else what uncertainty there lies in the future.”

  The director’s face was completely impassive. “And what, Mr. Reynolds,” he said, “are you proposing that I do?”

  Phillip bit his lip, and his eyes shifted for a moment, but then he straightened up. “Marcus, sir, I am proposing that you do what no other dictator has ever done. Others have risen when the time was ripe for strong personal rule, and organization; some have honestly believed that what they did was for the ultimate good of mankind. But none have been able to relinquish power when that time was ripe, and because they wouldn’t, all they built decayed within a generation or less—where it was not destroyed in the wars they invoked in order to retain their power.

  “I am proposing, Marcus, sir, that you go farther than they did—that you earn yourself the title in history of the man who not only unified the world, and saved it from chaos—but also of the man who unified it in freedom and in love. It would be a wonderful thing, sir, if, at your Anniversary Celebration, while acknowledging the acclaim of the world, you should also announce that you would, six months from thence, resign your leadership in favor of a democracy of the world. And that you were even then calling together a congress of the world’s thinkers to devise a constitution for that democracy. This, sir, would be a wonderful thing, and one that would truly earn you a unique place in history.”