The director smiled slightly while he thought a moment. Then he looked at the Police Commissioner. “Vane,” he said, “our friend here is suffering from a surfeit of idealism. I think he needs a rest, and perhaps a bit of treatment. Will you see to it? But,” he held up his hand, “nothing violent. When he is cured, I shall expect him to continue to run his Computer, so, be careful. Cure him, but don’t kill him.”
“Yes, sir.” Vane smiled, and it was a grim smile. And grasping Phillip’s arm, he turned the Computer man around and marched him out a side door.
Reynolds, feeling that implacable hand on his arm, trembled at what lay ahead. He had no illusions of what the “cure” might mean; he had no illusions at all about die nature of the police state that was the world under Marcus. And yet, there was also gladness in his heart. Now he was not only committed to the plan—his plan— but he was actually started on it. Now the dice were cast, and rolling to their destined end.
And there was something more. In himself Phillip Reynolds recognized some certain masochistic pleasure at the thought of what lay before him. There was a sense of satisfaction in it, a feeling of ultimate justice. It was he who had made Marcus—quite deliberately, and with full knowledge of what he was doing. It was, in a sense, irrelevant that he had created the director only to save the world, that Reynolds still believed that there had been no other way to save humanity. People had suffered because of it. They had died; their souls had been tortured and drugged out of them, their pride destroyed with malice. It was fitting that he should suffer in his turn, even in the act of retribution.
And Peter. Peter did not believe in him; his brother thought him a traitor to humanity, and had rejected him. There was an irony in the thought that he should be made to suffer to save the boy from the folly of a doomed revolt. And Phillip was amused to think that by and in this act, he hoped to prove that Peter was wrong.
He was afraid, but also he was other things.
IV
It was the morning of the fifth day that Phillip Reynolds was taken out of the bleak building where he had spent those five eternities, and was brought to a waiting car. When the car had brought him to the Computer budding, the guards were not gentle as they pulled him out. And when, finally, they shoved him through the door of what had been his own office, they took positions just inside with guns held ready in their fists.
Through eyes that could not focus well, he saw that Vane was seated in his favorite chair. The main people of his group were standing uneasily along the opposite wall—Selma, Dirk, Ranee Kirsten, Henry Cortson of Maintenance, Ralph Martin of Personnel, Jim Coster of Purchasing. Behind the Police Commissioner were several uniformed men, quite undistinguished except by the brutality of their faces.
Phillip straightened up and threw a smile at his own people. Then he nodded curtly at the policeman. “Hi, Vane. Or must I now say Mr. Vane?”
“I don’t care what you call me,” the other said, his voice rasping harshly. “Just do the job you’re here for. Or else.”
Phillip opened up his mouth to answer when there was a sudden commotion at the door behind him. He turned to see it swing open and two men in the uniform of Marcus’ own guard enter. Behind them were two others. The first pair stalked across the room where they turned to look with hard eyes around the room. The second two stayed near the door. “Mr. Vane,” one of them said, his voice cold and impersonal. “You will have your men leave; they may find a nearby room to wait.”
Vane was startled. Then he jumped to his feet and motioned his men out with a jerk of his head.
There was a moment’s pause while the room waited with quick breath; then suddenly two more uniformed men came in, these with their guns in their hands. At their signal, the other guards drew their guns. Then Marcus entered and quietly sat down in the chair. He nodded at Vane’s salute and said: “I was told you had brought Mr. Reynolds here. I will handle this myself.”
“I…I…Certainly sir.” The Commissioner was clearly flabbergasted. “I thought I could handle it myself and did not want to bother you. But I will be most happy to…” His voice trailed off.
“It does not matter whether you could or not,” the director said. “Without the Computer, the State is in jeopardy, and the affair is certainly worth my own interest.”
“I don’t really think it’s that serious, sir,” Vane said. He would have gone on, but the director interrupted him.
“You don’t, eh?” Marcus asked. “Look at this.” He pulled a paper from his pocket and held it out. “The daily production record of key items that is put on my desk each morning. Do you see what it says? Yesterday, in all the world, there was produced exactly forty-seven pounds of steel. Pounds, mind you. Not megatons or even kilotons, but pounds! That is the data that the Computer gave me this morning. I’ve had technicians question over my printer; I thought it was in error. I’ve had Lemark send me over his own report. It was only this morning that I found that his printer was saying the same thing, and that he was faking up the sheets that he was sending me. It is not the printer that is in error, but the Computer; this is the data that it gives, and it is wrong!
“Do you know what this means? Or are you so engrossed in your own small problems that you cannot think? I tell you that without true data the world will be in chaos in a matter of weeks, maybe less. We cannot live without the Computer, even as you could not live without your nervous system. We could not in the old days; there was war and famine and dissolution.
“Now we are organized, far more highly organized than we ever were before. And, too, we have forgotten how to operate without this tool, even so far as we ever knew. Without the Computer, there can not now be any hope of the survival of our civilization.
“Mr. Vane, this is a very serious matter.” The director’s eyes were hard and tight, and there was a whiplash in his voice.
“Yes, sir, I see, sir. I…I’m happy you will take over, sir.” Vane was flustered and could not seem to find his balance. “I had just started, sir. Mr. Reynolds came in just the minute before you did, sir; I had been questioning the others. They claim they do not know what the matter is, and…that they had been doing everything they could to find and fix it.”
“Perhaps,” the director agreed. “But I am aware of a strong coincidence, here. Mr. Reynolds comes to me with an idiot plea. I place him in your care, and immediately the Computer breaks down. Coincidence or purpose, Mr. Reynolds?”
‘
Phillip, looking into those cold eyes, felt more afraid than he ever had in his life. But, drawing on his reserves of strength, he took a deep breath and answered: “Marcus, sir, I still believe you have an opportunity before you now that will not come again. 1 still hope you will take it and release the world for freedom. As to what is the matter with the Computer, 1 do not know, and 1 do not think you can find out. Coincidence? No, I do not think so. But what are you going to do about it?”
There was a moment’s silence, before Marcus, in an almost gentle voice said: “There are ways of finding out, Mr. Reynolds. And I think I have demonstrated in the past my willingness to use those ways.”
“Marcus, sir,” Phillip answered, “I am aware of that. But consider. You do not have much time; you cannot stand for many days the loss of the Computer. Your directorship will fall into chaos if you do not find the answer fast.
“And consider further: I may or may not have the answer. So may or may not each of these others here. Which of us will you question? This is an important point, and you should study it well, for your methods of obtaining the truth are rough; they depend on drugs or torture. And your methods are so rough that if a person really does not know the answer—why, he will give you an answer, anyway. How will you know if the answer you get is the right one?”
“If it is the right one it will work,” Marcus said.
Phillip nodded. “That’s true; but if it’s the wrong one, its trial may do incalculable and irreparable harm. Myself, for instance. Any answer you get from me will
be in the form of a coded sequence for the master control board. The code for that board is nowhere written down; I have always considered it too dangerous to write down. And how are you to know that I have not given you the sequence that wipes out all of the Computer’s memories?
“If you asked the question wrongly, that might be a good answer; at least it would prevent the Computer from giving wrong answers. But, once done, it could not then be undone; it would take five years to get the Computer back even to where it is now. Could you take that risk? Would you dare to try out any answer I might give you?” “If I was sure I had the right person, yes.” The director’s voice was cold and flat.
“That is exactly the question,” Phillip said; “but how can you know?” He dared to smile.
“I have a way.” Marcus also smiled. “I shall ask Ranee.” There was a movement of surprise in all the Computer people. Dirk spun to look at the fat man, his face darkening with understanding and with anger. “So you’re a spy.” He spat out the words.
The fat man heaved a sigh. “Yes, I am a spy. Matter of fact, I’m his brother.” He nodded at Marcus. “Probably other spies here, but I’m Mark’s.” He waddled over to a chair and sat down. “Glad it’s out in the open; now I can sit down.” He sighed again, from comfort.
“Well?” Marcus barked. “What’s the answer?”
Ranee shrugged. “There isn’t any. Everybody here is capable of it. They live and dream revolution, here; everybody—except maybe the spies, and they have to pretend. Phillip’s in it, no doubt; he’s acting from no visible surprise. But it’s quite possible he doesn’t know what’s been done. In fact, if he did not do it, he probably doesn’t know. Better way to do things: each man knows only what he has to know. The man you want is the man who actually sabotaged the machine. Could be anyone.”
“I think you know,” Marcus answered. “Or if you don’t know, you could guess. And with your intuition, your guess would probably be right. What’s your guess?” “Won’t tell you,” Ranee said, “because they’re right; you’re through. Supposing you do break this, find out what’s wrong and fix it. Shall I tell you your future? Shall I prophesy just how long you’ll last? It’s not long.
“Right now you’re at the top. But things are building up, and you’ll end up in the gutter. Me, I’m a spy, yes. But I’m a spy for you, Mark, not for the directorship; and I’m telling you to be a hero.”
“That’s up to me to decide.” Marcus’ voice was tight. ‘Tell me what you think, or 1’U tear you apart to get the answer.”
Ranee closed his eyes and was silent a moment. When he spoke, his voice was so low as to be almost inaudible. “I am your brother, Mark. I don’t like your threatening me; if I thought you meant it, I’d be your enemy. Don’t try to prove it to me, because I think I’d be a dangerous enemy for you. You’re through, Mark; you’re through, regardless of what happens here. The only option you have is how to take it.”
The aura of tension in the room was oppressive; Ranee’s fat, full face, with the eyes still closed, seemed carved from icy rock. Marcus, his face betraying no emotion, but masklike and impervious, was still and brooding. Selma’s eyes were wide, and her motions were jerky as she looked from one to the other. Dirk looked pleased as if there were deep laughter inside him at the drama of this scene. The others, each to his temperament and understanding, were fixed in fear or surprise.
Phillip Reynolds felt quite calm, and yet he knew he would not ever remember with any clarity what had happened here; it would seem like a dream, uncertainly recalled. But he was pleased to note that his voice was normal as he asked: “Marcus, sir, which will it be? Will you force chaos, or will you accept the opportunity to be the savior of mankind?”
Phillip’s words seemed to break the spell. The director smiled slightly. “Mr. Vane,” he asked, “do you concede now that this is an affair somewhat beyond your authority?”
He stood up, not waiting for an answer, and turned to Phillip. “It is your hand, I believe, Mr. Reynolds. I fear you hold all the cards.” He smiled a bit more widely. “But the game is still interesting. My friends and staff members will not approve; if they find out, I will not live to become your hero. The challenge of that circumstance is interesting. And afterwards…afterwards there will be still further trouble. They will not easily give up the power that they have; I fear that they will have to die.”
He walked to the door, and then turned once more. “So that I may live until tfce Anniversary Celebration, you will all remain within this building. Even you, Ranee; and you, Mr. Vane; and your men; and those of my men who are in this room. My other men will guard the door, and they will have orders to kill. Afterwards, when the die is cast, then I will need Mr. Vane; I think he will work for me because he has a good nose for a winning side. And…I have no doubt that I will win. You are undoubtably correct that the tide of history is moving.”
His eyes were still cold as they swept around the room. “I will expect the Computer to be corrected at a very early time.” He turned and walked out.
It was Ranee who first moved. He heaved himself to his feet and waddled toward the door. “I will leave when I can,” he said. “It is too bad, too, because I have liked it here; but the old order passeth.” He went out.
Vane and the other policemen, and the men of Marcus* guard, followed him out; they walked as if in a state of shock, not yet comprehending what had happened.
Henry Cortson, Ralph Martin, and Jim Coster also drifted out, looking stunned but happy. They would drift into the lounge, Phillip thought, to talk it over, trying to make sense out of it all, and wondering what would happen. They would talk about it, he knew, and then gradually drift into active planning; they were good fellows.
They were all good fellows, even Ranee. The chap had been a spy—but still, it had been he who had told Phillip this was the time, not for plotting, but for a pure power play. And he had been right; it had been the time. The men around Marcus were beginning to jockey for position, each aiming at the pinnacle. Until now, they had been together, fearing the world; but now that they felt the directorship secure, they were beginning to maneuver to seize it for themselves. And Marcus knew this; he knew —though perhaps he had not admitted it to himself—that this would soon destroy his power, and that his days were numbered closely.
And then, too, this was the psychological time. Marcus had conquered the world; the only thing that was left for him to do was to conquer the hearts of men. He could only do that by such an act as they had forced him into.
But whatever the reason, events had proven this was in fact the time to strike. The die had been cast; Phillip had won his bet. And it was Ranee who, at the end, had called the score and made the director see it. Phillip would die, he supposed, still wondering what manner of man Ranee was.
There was only Selma and Dirk left in the room with Phillip. He looked at them, smiling, wondering what to say that would not be anticlimax. But the girl saved him the problem. “Oh, Phillip,” she said, “that was wonderful.” And on sudden impulse she bounded over to him and kissed him soundly.
“It certainly was,” Dirk chimed in. “Got to hand it to you.”
Selma whirled on him. “What are you putting your two bits in for?” she asked. “You dessicated mechanic, you wouldn’t lift a finger; in fact, you worked your fool head off trying to repair Matilda. You’d better go crawl into a vacuum tube.”
Dirk stared at her. Then with a shrug, he went over to the control panel and his fingers began to fly over the buttons. Having put in the opening sequence, he moved to the typewriter and, apparently, rattled off a series of questions without even looking at the answers. After giving the closing sequence, he ripped out the paper from the other typewriter, glanced at it, nodded once, and tossed it on the table. Then he stalked out without saying anything at all.
Phillip picked it up and read what it said:
“Subject: Coding.
“Information received re steel. Coding number. Query.
> “Reply query: 236/648/76.
“Information transmitted re steel. Coding number. Query.
“Reply query: 236/648/75.
“Material whose coding number for receipt of information is the same as that given in response 2nd query. Query.
“Reply 3rd query: Steroid No. 6742.
“End.”
Phillip smiled. So that was the material of which only forty-seven pounds had been made the day before; he had wondered. But this was of no significance; what was of profound significance was that Dirk had, by his series of questions to the Computer, shown that he knew exactly what had been done to Matilda. For Phillip Reynolds had simply instructed the Computer to code incoming data one unit higher than normal, and to use the normal code for all other operations. Hence, all the data received had been simply misfiled; and Dirk had known this.
Selma was starting to say something, but Phillip interrupted her. “You are a fool,” he said, but his voice was kindly. “Dirk knew what he was doing; he is too good a computerman not to be able to figure out what had happened. This paper proves it. He did not find out what was wrong with Matilda quite simply because he took good care not to.”
Selma stared at him with wide eyes. Then, with a little, wordless cry she turned around and darted out the door.
Reynolds laughed. The two of them together would make a good team, once they learned to understand each other. And this time, he thought, they probably would.
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