by Jerry
Still, he lingered outside. There was no one in the house, his wife having “gone visiting” more or less permanently after he acquired his fixation—which was understandable. After all, what kind of companionship could a woman have with a man whose emo-pattern blocked communication?
Morimet blinked on his infrared vision and puttered about in his wife’s flower garden until the call came from the Board.
“Morimet?” Domler’s voice sounded in his right ear.
“Yes?”
“We’ve decided in favor of your proposal. It was unanimous except for one abstention.”
Morimet grinned. “Grayme?” he asked.
“That’s correct,” the woman replied for herself.
Domler continued, “We’ve also studied the profiles of the young man you mentioned, Glan Combrit. He appears to be a suitable candidate, except for the motivation factor you mentioned. Possibly that lack can be remedied by an indoctrination course, which Grayme could conduct . . .”
Morimet straightened up from the flower he had been admiring and walked toward the house. He chortled. “Glan’s been around too much to be more than mildly affected by a pep talk. Don’t his profiles show that?”
“They suggest it,” Domler replied. “However, we’ve agreed that a mild improvement in his motivation will be sufficient. An Executive who was too hard-driving would tend to aggravate the ‘personality cult’ problem and—”
“I disagree,” Morimet interrupted. “High motivation is essential in that job. Consider my own example. I’m no brighter than many of the Board members, so why did I have the highest rightness score?” Nobody replied, so he hammered his point: “Why have you tolerated my eccentricity? Didn’t you do so out of tacit recognition that it was making me exceptionally useful to the Commonality?”
Another silence. Then Grayme snapped angrily, “Radge Morimet, if you are suggesting what I think you are . . .!”
“I’m suggesting that now’s the time to do things that just aren’t done!” he retorted sharply. “We have a war to keep going, damn it! But if it will make you feel better, Grayme, I’m not suggesting that a fixation be installed in Glan Combrit without his knowledge and willing consent.”
“To intentionally render a man unsane!” she yelped.
“Oh, don’t get so appalled,” he chided. “You happily supervise the indoctrination programs that direct the thinking, to a degree, of billions of individuals. I’m proposing to direct the thinking, to a somewhat greater degree, of just one man.”
Farsit’s voice sounded in his ear: “What would be the content of the fixation?”
“Oh, something to the effect that Combrit desired most urgently to be on the winning side in the war.”
“The winning side?” protested Domler. “But we don’t want to win the war! That would be almost as bad as losing it!”
“Of course,” Morimet agreed. “But the Executive should be trying to win. We can safely trust the Lontastans and their Monte creature to see that he doesn’t succeed. And bear in mind that this wouldn’t be a hate-the-enemy fixation, such as mine, that would put Combrit out of emo-communication. It would simply focus his drives along channels which are desirable in his job.”
After a pause, Domler said lamely, “This will require some discussion.”
“Call me back,” said Morimet shortly, flexing his ear to break the connection. He went into the house and prepared himself a supper.
Five days later he was sitting on a patio on top of a forested Asian hill, gazing out over the Sol-brightened Pacific while sipping a drink and chatting with Glan Combrit.
“I imagine that the decisive point for the Board,” he told the younger man, “was that score the secretary came up with. If my stand had been correct so often in the past, they’re betting it is this time.”
Combrit said slowly, “I accept the position, of course—and the condition attached.”
“Good!” approved Morimet, seizing Combrit’s hand for a firm shake. “I assured the Board you would. But there’s one thing, Glan, I want you to face with your eyes open.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re not going to be a happy man. I’m speaking as one who knows. A fixation is no fun to live with in the best of circumstances. And yours will, of necessity, cause you many frustrations, since it will demand winning. Even if you’re effective beyond my wildest dreams, the most we can hope for is to bring the war back to even terms.”
Combrit nodded. “O.K. I’ll know to expect that. It is something I won’t like, but I can live with it. After all, back in the days when this planet we’re on was all man had, the entire race was loaded with neuroses beyond count, and they managed to survive it.”
“Yeah, but they didn’t know anything better,” grumped Morimet. “Well, if your life-support is all in order, let’s get off our duffs and warp for the capital. The sooner you’re on the job, the sooner we’ll stop losing this war!”
Combrit stood up. “Right. But don’t expect too much. That creature Monte is more than a communications network. If we succeed in putting real pressure on the Lontastans, they might well respond by assigning duties to Monte similar to those you’re giving me. And let’s face it . . . my brain must compare to Monte’s the same way an implant computer compares to that desk job in the Board chamber.”
“Well, we’ll see,” replied Morimet, pleased that Combrit had recognized that key point in the situation without prompting.
Within weeks after assuming the duties of Executive, Combrit began stemming the tide of Lontastan victory. This was most immediately evident in Trade Credit Flow statistics, which had been running in high negative figures for the Primgran Commonality for two decades. Before the end of a standard year, Combrit’s fast and effective trade moves had brought the TCF down to within a trillion dollars of parity.
And in one memorable trading day on the Open World of Exchange, the Primgranese General Stock average soared twenty-nine percent—and on low-volume turnover. Obviously, this unprecedented gain was not due to a flood of raid-buying by Lontastan adherents, but to a sudden decline in selling decisions by Primgranese holders. On that same day the more vulnerable Primgranese Frontals ran up a forty percent gain, also on low volume.
The formerly depressed Primgranese stocks were now safely priced and no longer inviting to potential raid-buying.
Then, having brought the econo-war back to even terms, Combrit began swinging it in the Commonality’s favor.
He was jubilant, as were all members of the High Board of Trade, except Morimet. The old man took praise for the success of his proposal more grumpily than gracefully. It was evident to him, as well as to some of his associates, that his fixation was getting him down.
“Get rid of it, Radge,” Grayme urged him after one of the in-person Board sessions. “Perhaps it served a useful function for a while, but we have Combrit now. Living in unsanity is too far beyond the call of duty. Let go of it!”
Morimet grimaced unhappily. “Not yet,” he replied. “Perhaps soon . . . but . . . well, not yet.” He turned and hurried away.
Combrit had heard the exchange, and walked up to the woman. “I think he means to hang on until he sees what the Lontastans will try to do to counter our successes,” he told her.
“That’s needless!” she complained. “You’ve demonstrated that you can handle any response of the enemy with more effectiveness than Radge possibly could.”
“He obviously doesn’t see it that way,” Combrit replied.
Grayme shrugged. “Who knows how that man sees anything? That constant slam-slam-slam shuts him off from everybody.”
Combrit nodded. “I’m glad my own fixation involves nothing like that. Fact is, I’m quite comfortable with it. But for him, that trauma must be like a painful wound on an otherwise healthy and alert body . . . not bad enough to dull the alertness and thus deaden the pain for him. It has to be a torture to live with, simply because it stands alone and can’t be ignored.”
“I’m glad your
fixation has worked out so well,” Grayme said. “I opposed it, and I’m glad I’ve been proven wrong.”
Then within days the situation changed again.
In a stunningly brilliant series of market maneuvers, Lontastan raiders seized majority control of Midgard Starstream, a pivotal holding corporation on the Primgranese Frontal list that had territorial as well as industrial significance. It had been firmly in Primgranese hands for more than a century and a half.
Combrit’s report to the High Board concluded grimly:
“The Lontastan Council of Commerce, presumably with reluctance similar to this Board’s in establishing the position of Executive, appears to have responded in kind. I assume from the efficiency of the Midgard Starstream raid that the creature Monte was selected the Lontastan ‘Executive’. For sheer mass of brainpower, Monte obviously outclasses any human, or any presently conceivable artificial mental construct.
“Two positive factors should apply, however. First, the Lontastan Federation may employ Monte with restraint, disliking—as would we—relinquishment of a human conflict to nonhuman control. Second, Monte lacks man’s heritage of combativeness. This, plus the special preparation I was given for my present duties, should leave us with a definite motivational edge.”
Domler messaged Morimet: “Damn it, Radge, a lot of good motivation is going to do us when that Monte monster can outscheme a dozen Combrits. They can murder us!”
Morimet snorted. “Don’t bet on it! One positive factor both you and Combrit seem to be missing is that we hold the creative initiative.”
“What creative initiative?”
“They’re copying us, we’re not copying them. We establish an Executive, then they imitate our action. Before that, we came up with emo-monitor implants, and they followed suit as soon as they could develop the gadget for themselves. One edge that gives us—among several—is that it makes the Lontastans tend to hold back, to guard themselves against whatever unexpected initiative we may hit them with next.”
“All right, I’m not saying the econo-war’s lost,” Domler said, “but I am saying that adoption of your Executive scheme hasn’t gained us a thing, at best, and for the moment at any rate it’s proving costly.”
“So it is,” Morimet replied agreeably, “but let’s wait and see how it goes for a while.”
“Morimet, are you withholding information from the Board?” the Chairman asked suspiciously.
“Nothing is being withheld,” growled Morimet. “As for certain opinions and expectations I might entertain, based on data known to all of you, those are my business until I care to express them.”
Domler broke off communication brusquely.
The war continued to go discouragingly for the Primgran Commonality. There were no further coups of the scope of the Midgard Starstream seizure, but almost every action wound up favorably for Lontasta. When the enemy did not achieve a small victory, at least victory was denied the industrialists of Primgran.
At last Morimet paid a visit to Combrit’s office, Executive Control. He stood in the middle of the room, staring about critically at the sumcom consoles, the Executive’s three immediate assistants, and at Combrit himself. Judging from the man’s strained appearance, and by the presence of a cot in a corner of the room, Combrit had been living in his office day and night.
“You’re pushing yourself too hard, Glan,” he said.
Combrit laughed wryly. “Monte’s doing the pushing, Radge, not me! What a brain that creature’s got! And evidently he never sleeps. I have to stay on my toes constantly, and . . . and”—he slumped his shoulders—“well . . . we’re still losing.”
Morimet had observed Combrit’s emotions closely while he spoke. Frustration was heavy. Events were running counter to the demand of Combrit’s fixation. And there was a definite flicker of admiration when he mentioned Monte.
“O.K.,” Morimet replied. “The solution is to not let him keep pushing you. You’re not glued to this office, Glan! Your assistants know standard economic strategics and tactics and can hold the fort. Get away from these clattering consoles a while, where you can think.”
Combrit frowned. “I’d better stick around . . . never know when something urgent will come up.”
“But what are communications for!” snapped Morimet. “You can stay in touch wherever you go. Look, Glan, I’ve lived with a fixation a hell of a lot longer than you have, and I’ve learned some tricks about dealing with one. And I say get out of here! Warp to Earth for a few days, or even a week. Appease that urge to be on the winning side by hauling a few game fish out of the ocean. Or conquer a couple of mountains by climbing them on foot with all your life-support systems off.”
Combrit showed annoyance. “You don’t really think such stunts would distract me for a single minute from the hard and plain fact that I’m not on the winning side, do you?”
“Well, maybe not. But I have a suggestion to deal with that. Get your fixation deintensified while you’re taking your break. A psych-releaser can do that for you. Then it can be reestablished when you return—”
Thoroughly goaded, Combrit flushed and shouted, “I don’t want it deintensified! I want to win!” He whirled away, and quickly calmed down. When he faced Morimet again he was registering surprised concern. “That was quite an outburst, wasn’t it?” he chuckled sorely. “Which proves you’re right, and I have let this job get me on a thin edge. I’ll take a few days off and go to Earth.”
“Fine!” Morimet approved. “I think you’ll find you’ll feel better, and some quiet thinking might produce some useful answers for you as well.”
The next day at his home Morimet was informed that the Executive had warped for Earth for a few days of relaxation. “About time,” he grunted.
He settled down to wait. The trip from the capital planet to Earth took fifty-three hours—long enough for him to do a lot of floor-pacing if he allowed himself to become impatient, but also long enough for Combrit to think through his position and discover the answer to his problem.
But would Combrit do it? Morimet messaged his wife. “I might go to a psych-releaser in a day or two,” he told her.
“You might? I hope you do, Radge,” she replied. “Let me know.”
“I will.”
He managed to hold off fifty-five hours before attempting to message Combrit. There was no response. He messaged Earth Arrivals Control.
“I’m trying to contact Executive Glan Combrit,” he said to the officer in charge. “He must have passed through Arrivals two hours ago. Do you know where he is?”
“Executive Combrit hasn’t arrived here, Director Morimet,” the officer replied with a touch of alarm. “I’ll see what I can learn and call you back.”
Morimet grinned. “Thank you.”
Then he messaged a psych-releaser and made an appointment.
Four days passed before it was known for a fact that Glan Combrit had defected to the enemy, and was even then in Lontastan territory.
The Board met in emergency session, and Morimet arrived late again. The others noticed, but were too preoccupied to comment upon, the absence of his fixation.
Without preamble, Domler said, “Morimet, this Board isn’t trying to shift responsibility for what’s happened, but the fact is that you were the key figure in this disaster from the beginning. You proposed establishment of an Executive, you named the man for the job, you suggested and later structured the fixation installed in him.”
“And he’s feeling pleased with himself!” observed Grayme, staring at Morimet. “You didn’t plan for this, too, did you?”
Morimet nodded. “This was the final act of my scheme,” he admitted comfortably. “I’ll resign from the Board but I’d like to be sure a new Executive is properly prepared and on the job.”
“A new one?” muttered Domler. “After what happened to the old one?”
“The next time,” said Morimet, “the fixation must be worded differently. The Executive must be locked to the purpose of produ
cing victory for Primgran, specifically, not simply to be on ‘the winning side’ as Combrit’s fixation was phrased.”
“Then it was the wording of Combrit’s fixation,” said Farsit, “wording you selected, that drove him into the enemy camp.”
“Yes. He saw no hope for being on the winning side with us,” said Morimet, “but with the Lontastans, and most of all with Monte, he expected his fixation could be satisfied.”
The other members gazed at him, emoting stunned incomprehension.
Grayme demanded at last in a cold voice, “Morimet, was your vengeance desire directed at us rather than the Lontastan Federation?”
He chuckled. “Of course not! I wanted to injure the enemy, and that’s what I’ve done.”
“By giving them our key man?” exploded Domler.
“Right,” Morimet nodded, “our key man, and one they will be slow to learn is worse than useless to them, provided what’s said in this chamber today isn’t allowed to go further.”
He leaned back in his chair and smiled at the others. “How well would a football team play with two quarterbacks calling signals at once?” he asked.
“Oh, I see,” said Farsit, puckering his brow. “Or I see what you tried to do. I don’t think it’ll work that way.”
“You don’t? Consider these points: First, the Lontastans have grown accustomed to copying our initiatives, to taking our ideas and using them against us. They know that Combrit is good, almost as good as their creature Monte, as he demonstrated by holding them to limited victories. Second, they have the same misgivings we would have about looking to a nonhuman for leadership in a purely human fight. They would prefer to limit Monte’s role to that of a super-communication system.
“However, they would be as reluctant as you were about rendering a man unsane by installing a fixation in him. Since they had Monte, they could avoid that while not only following our lead but going us one better. They had misgivings about elevating Monte, and they still have them even though Monte has proven himself a winner.
“But now they also have Combrit, already handily fixated for them, with a motivation that will make him loyal to what he considers the winning side. Don’t think they won’t use him, friends! They will!