“Peculiar is hardly the—”
“But Scarlyn has one other quality, in spite of his methods.”
“What’s that?”
“He’s usually right. Give him your complete cooperation.”
“But, sir—”
“As Captain Wilkins was recently told,” continued Mr. Merryweather in an even voice, “if Scarlyn says spit to windward, spit.”
I blushed. “I understand.”
“Good. I have to go now. Chairman Chee is waiting.”
The screen went blank.
Cooperate. OK, the private had his orders. He might think the general was, nuts, but he had his Orders. He went to bed; grumbling. Privates always grumble.
For three weeks, I saw nothing of Smith, or much else. I became so immersed in the Gate’s problems, I hardly saw Dolores, even when she was sitting on my lap.
“Bobby?”
“Hm-m-m?”
“What are you thinking about?”
“Work.”
A constant refrain. Work. I never felt dazed. I just looked it, walking around with engineering on the brain.
“Bobby?”
“Hm-m-m?”
“Can’t you stop thinking about that stuff?”
“No.”
“Your gray matter’s going to transmit.”
“Hm-m-m?”
One day during the week after our visit to Spieler’s night club, my office phone hummed. Pamela informed me H. Winton Tuttle was on the line.
“Tell him to go to hell.”
“I’m afraid he won’t go.”
“All right. Put him on.”
Harold, unable to find Smith, had found Collins, again.
“I told you, Collins!” shouted Harold as soon as he saw me.
“More than once, no doubt.”
“He’s escaped!”
“King Kong?”
“No! Scarlyn! I told those men he was dangerous. But no—they didn’t believe me.”
“You told who?”
“This has gone far enough! Do you understand me?”
“What men?”
“From the Golden Years Geriatric Center.”
Golden Years? Dr. Perkov? Spieler?
“What kind of car did they have?”
“I really don’t know! I warned you, Collins—”
“A white van?”
“Yes. I think it was white. Why?”
“Mr. Tuttle, please calm down. What connection do you have with Golden Years?”
The day after Smith and I visited Dr. Perkov, two men appeared at Tuttle’s house in Seal Beach. Smith, they said, had begun procedures to voluntarily commit himself to the Center. At the last moment. Smith became violent, attacking another patient. According to them Smith fled. They followed, but he escaped. No mention was made of me.
Tuttle remembered the cut over Smith’s eye and his limp, attributing them to the attack on the other patient.
“Didn’t you wonder about the bullethole in the rear window?” asked. “If they were trying to stop him for his own good, they wouldn’t shoot him.”
“They said they knew nothing about the hole. For all I know, Scarlyn could have been out robbing gas stations.”
They showed Tuttle commitment papers, assuring him their treatments would soon alleviate Smith’s violent propensities. After all, they argued, Smith himself had sought commitment and treatment in a lucid moment. Smith was a danger to himself and others. All, Tuttle had to do was get his wife’s signature on the commitment order. A daughter could commit a father.
“And you did it.”
“Of course. Scarlyn is sick.”
“But he escaped.”
“Yes. He injured one of their people, I understand.”
“Seriously, I hope.”
“It just proves, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Scarlyn is dangerous!”
“If they call back, tell them your wife has changed her mind.”
“I’ll do no such thing! I warned you! I warned him! Scarlyn is slipping fast. I want him safe before he injures himself seriously! I can see from your expression, Collins, that you intend to do nothing! You have been warned!”
He hung up. I tried to call Smith. No one answered. I tried again that night and the next day. For the next two and a half weeks, he was missing in action. I concentrated on my work. Smith, after all, could do any damn thing he pleased, or so he said.
The integration computer arrived from Master Toole in San Francisco. Even with minichip construction, it filled four of Burgess’ assembly rooms. Half the computer was backup circuits. Since computers worked at sub-light speeds—electrons being what they are—and tachyons work at super-lightspeeds, most of Norton’s program had to do with anticipation flip-flops. A batter at home plate, who hits the ball into center field, finds it difficult to run out and catch the ball. The fielder, even looking into the sun, can anticipate where the ball will be and catch it. The computer played batter and fielder. It still had to think fast, even if it could anticipate. Its flip-flops had been glitch-tested to five nanoseconds without a crash.
Burgess had the computer ready by mid-April along with the modulation equipment. The pressure on me doubled. Everything was ready but the reactor. I began spending nights and weekends on the station. I put on a double shift. My disposition deteriorated. I snapped at everyone, even Dolores.
“Bobby,” she said one night, waking to find me sitting up in bed with a notebook and pencil.
“What?”
“What are you doing at this hour?”
“Reworking these specs for Bernie. I couldn’t sleep.”
She looked at the pencil and paper. “Don’t you need your books or something?”
I tapped my temple with the eraser end of my pencil. “It’s in here.”
Saying it, I remembered Norton., For the first time, I felt something for Norton. Understanding. I understood Norton’s passion to prove his theory. I understood how it consumed his every thought. He sacrificed friendships, marriage, an offer of unimaginable wealth—eventually his life—proving it and himself.
“Dolores.”
“Hm-m-m?”
“Have you noticed any changes in me during the last month?”
“You’re very concerned about your work.”
“Anything else?”
“No, dear. What were you thinking about?”
“Norton.”
“You’re not anything like Norton.”
“I’m not?”
“No.”
“You’re sure.”
“Sure, I’m sure. He was sort of a fanatic, wasn’t he?”
The next day, I chewed out Bernie Mitchel. Where the hell were my lasers? And the liquid lithium, he could at least have that sent up.
“Bob.”
“What?” I snapped.
“What’s bothering you?”
“Nothing. Let’s just get this damn show on the road!”
“You need a vacation.”
“I need some cooperation. Where’s the lithium?”
“Duff’s holding up the order until we absolutely need it.”
“Duff!”
I broke the connection and called Duff. He never got a word in edgewise. I got the lithium. When I told Dolores about it, she said Duff should have told me to go to hell.
“I suppose that’s what you would have done,” I said, annoyed.
“Yes,” she answered, calm in the face of my somewhat loud statement. “When you reward obnoxious conduct, people are just more obnoxious the next time.”
“You have a degree in psychology, too?”
“No. But it’s true.”
“Let’s not bring up my manners.”
“This isn’t manners. It’s just common decency.”
I grunted.
All right. So I was a son-of-a-bitch for a while. I got my reactor.
Smith called the day we ran through the last systems checks.
“How’s it going, buddy boy?” He looked rela
xed and tanned.
“Busy. Where have you been?”
“Fishing.”
I remembered Smith’s last fishing expedition, using himself for bait at Spieler Space Operations. It almost got him hooked. “Catch anything?”
“A few trout. You look haggard, Robert. Have you lost weight?”
“Some. Tell me about your trout.”
Smith began describing trout—rainbow, steelhead, three, five, seven pounds. I scrutinized his tan face. It was hard to say if he was joking.
“Smith.”
“What?”
“You really did go fishing.”
“Would I lie to you?”
“I thought—” I shook my head. “You weren’t speaking metaphorically?”
“Nope.”
The idea overwhelmed me. Smith spent a week rattling Spieler’s cage—invading facilities, confronting Spieler himself, spilling everything we knew—then dropped everything. To go fishing! I tried to control myself.
“What about Spieler?”
“What about him?”
“You just let him hang fire.”
“What else was I supposed to do?”
“Something! Anything! Damn it, Smith—”
“Robert—”
“That man’s out there . . .” I pointed off camera. Actually, I was pointing into space. Spieler could hardly have been out there. “He’s trying to get us! And you, you’re off fishing!”
“Robert—”
“Gone fishing! I’ll put it on our tombstone! Gone fishing! And right next to it, Out to Lunch!”
I hung up.
Smith called back immediately. “Robert.”
“What is it?”
“I thought I’d come up and visit your junkbox. Have those ships near the focusing ring moved?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. See you.” He hung up.
Burgess, Captain Wilkins, even Webber, the mathematician, along with assorted technicians, engineers and the company astronomer, Dr. Steichen, crowded the control room. Smith, his dark brown face contrasting with the pallid complexions of the station crew, stood at the rear of the crowd, searching for a match. Unable to find one, he gave up, chewing the cigar instead.
I pushed to the front of the crowd. Dr. Steichen came over to me with a document viewer, squinting first at it, then at me. Steichen squints constantly. A star in a telescope is probably too bright for him. He was in charge of coordinates.
“Dr. Collins, I’ve laid in the coordinates for Wolf 359c: The star itself is eight light-years distance. Several of Spieler Interstellar’s first ships have appeared from there recently. They prove it a potentially profitable location. If I understand correctly, the Gate should take considerably less than sixteen years.”
“Considerably. Thank you, Doctor.”
The more I thought about it, the more I thought Smith was probably right. Spieler resorted to stripping Norton’s memory in desperation. With Norton heading the project, Merryweather Enterprises could be sure of success. With me in charge, Spieler could afford to wait. If I bungled the job, Spieler could watch Merryweather Enterprises sink, the albatross of a focusing ring around its neck. The idea did nothing to lessen my sense of responsibility.
“What are we waiting for, Dr. Collins,” asked Burgess at my elbow.
“Rodriguez,” I answered. “He’s repositioning the cameras. We want to have a clear view of what we get.”
“If we get anything,” said Burgess.
“You’re a big help.”
“I just meant—”
“Never mind. Where’s Smith?”
“Back there, I think.”
“Would you get him for me?”
Burgess left. Several monitor screens around the room lit, showing the Gate field. Through the shimmering field, the stars, normally motionless points of light in space, twinkled.
“Station Gatekeeper reports Rodriguez back,” said Captain Wilkins.
“Fine.”
Smith pushed through the crowd to me.
“Hi, buddy boy.” He inspected my face, chewing his cigar. “Nervous?”
“Don’t ask. If I knew, I might get that way. Sorry I blew up.”
“Forget it.”
“See that?” I asked, pointing through the transparent wall at the focusing ring.
Smith nodded.
“Now you’re going to see some real fishing.”
I stepped to the Big Gate control panel. The controls, three touch-plates below direct readouts that summarized the activity initiated by each switch, were protected by safety covers. The first cover was up, its touchplate lit, “Power.” The load readout above it showed no appreciable burden. I flipped up the second safety cover, “Focus,” and touched the plate. Amber glowed beneath my finger. The power drain increased slightly. The Gate reached out. Momentarily, I imagined the reactor blowing, a blast of billowing light sweeping away station and Gate. It would ruin my reputation.
“Where’s Mr. Merryweather?” I asked Captain Wilkins.
“He’s watching from his office.”
To Mr. Merryweather, in spite of his understanding attitude, the Gate was a business venture, a risk. To me? I didn’t know. I flipped up the last safety cover, “Activate.”
“Got a rabbit’s foot, Smith?”
“I’m not superstitious.”
I touched the plate. The dull red plastic lit under my finger.
Part 3
XIII
We waited. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty minutes. Smith, standing next to me, found a match and lit his cigar. The pungent smell drifted over the heads in the crowd. No one complained. No one noticed. They watched monitor screens, tense, anxious, their attention rapt. Smith glanced around, impatient.
“Is this thing gonna work?” he asked.
I pointed to the power readout. The load had increased. “We’ve got one on the line right now.”
“A big one?”
“It’s set on maximum. Fifteen kilometers across and two deep.”
I glanced at the “Duration” indicator. Three seconds, two, one. The rock—ripped from the surface of a planet eight light-years from Earth—burst from the center of the ring, rushing at the nearest cameras, filling screens.
Pandemonium exploded in the control-room, cheers, shouts, whistles. I looked from screen to screen, fascinated. Successively, each of the nearest cameras winked out. The rock had passed them. Only the distant cameras tracked it.
I checked the summary readouts in front of me. The chemical analysis, made as the rock materialized, was better than anticipated. Forty percent niobium ore, rich in tantalum. Fifty-eight percent miscellaneous. Two percent vegetation.
“Congratulations, buddy boy,” said Smith.
“Congratulate Norton. I—we just put his toy together.”
“I wasn’t talking about the Gate. I meant Spieler.”
“What’s he got to do with—”
“You just put him out of business. From now on, his drone ships will arrive and find nothing but stripped worlds.”
Somehow, the way Smith said it—stripped worlds—bothered me. He pointed at the chemical analysis readouts.
“What’s this two percent vegetation?”
“Jungle, probably;” I answered. “Africa’s still the best source of niobium on Earth.”
“Apes, lions—that kind of jungle?”
“There was no animal life indicated.”
“This time.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Just a thought.”
The thought, clear enough without being articulated, bothered me. I imagined an intelligent race somewhere in the galaxy developing a Big Gate, reaching across the stars and ripping out fifteen kilometers of Los Angeles. No great loss, you say? Only if you’re not ripped out with it.
Smith moved through the crowd to the transparent wall. I followed, stopping next to him and looking out. The Gate, a quarter-inch circle to our unaided eyes, hung below u
s, its solar orbit synchronized with ours. The rock, a speck, drifted rapidly away from the center of the ring. I ordered Rodriguez out with constructors to slow its drift and match its orbit to the station, then had Burgess shut off the Gate.
People congratulated me, shaking hands and returning to their duties. I stayed in the emptying control-room, watching the Gate and the new asteroid. During the weeks of preparation, I had pushed aside the implications of the Gate. Too many technical problems impinged. Technical problems, though complex, were more susceptible to solution than moral problems.
“Smith.”
“Hm-m-m?”
“I have a question. It may sound dumb, but it bothers me.”
“Shoot.”
“See that Gate out there?”
“Yes.”
“Was it right to build it?” Smith looked at me, smiling around his cigar. He seemed about to say something sarcastic, then recognized I was serious. “What’s `right’ mean?”
“Morally right.”
“I don’t suppose the Pope will mind.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“Murky waters, morality.”
“In itself, is it right or wrong?”
“Das Ding an sich.”
“What’s that mean?”
“The thing in itself. It’s an old argument. Is a gun, in itself, wrong?”
“A gun’s just used in a small area,” I answered, begging his question. “A shoots B. Murder with it is wrong. Self-defense isn’t.”
“You’re sure.”
“Yes. Why?”
“Some people aren’t. They even think killing in self-defense is morally wrong. What about a billion guns? Is that a billion small areas or a global war?”
“The Gate is one thing, Smith, one thing with a potential so devastating it’s beyond either of our comprehensions.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“Think about the revolution the Wright brothers caused.”
“Yep. Fighter planes and passenger planes. Take your pick. But you’ve got the moral shoe on the wrong foot.”
“I do?”
“Morality applies to human actions, not things.” He relit his cigar. “An sich or otherwise.”
“OK. Were we right to build it?”
Smith shrugged. “Who knows? It’s done. If you hadn’t finished it, someone else would have. Spieler, maybe. It was ready to happen. I’d rather have Horace playing with it than Spieler.”
Stargate Page 14