"By purchasing one of these Worldcraft machines, or bubbles, the person finds himself in possession of a virtual universe, to do with as he sees fit. Instruction manuals supplied by the Company show him how to control these minute worlds so that life forms appear and rapidly evolve, giving rise to higher and higher forms until at last -- assuming the owner is sufficiently skillful -- he has in his personal possession a civilization of beings on a cultural par with our own.
"During the last few years we have seen the sale of these machines grow until now almost everyone possesses one or more sub-atomic worlds, complete with civilizations, and these years have also seen many of us take our private universes and grind the inhabitants and planets into dust.
"There is no law which prevents us from building up elaborate civilizations, evolved at an incredible rate of speed, and then crushing them out of existence. That is why my proposal has been presented. These minute civilizations are not dreams. They are real. They actually exist. The microscopic inhabitants are --"
A restless stir moved through the vast hall. There were murmurs and coughs. Some members had switched off their speakers. Hull hesitated. A chill touched him. The faces below were blank, cold, uninterested. He continued rapidly.
"The inhabitants are, at present, subject to the slightest whim their owner may feel. If we wish to reach down and crush their world, turn on tidal waves, earthquakes, tornados, fire, volcanic action -- if we wish to destroy them utterly, there is nothing they can do.
"Our position in relation to these minute civilizations is godlike. We can, with a wave of the hand, obliterate countless millions. We can send the lightning down, level their cities, squash their tiny buildings like ant hills. We can toss them about like toys, playthings, victims of our every whim."
Hull stopped, rigid with apprehension. Some of the members had risen and strolled out. Von Stern's face twisted with ironic amusement.
Hull continued lamely. "I want to see Worldcraft bubbles outlawed. We owe it to these civilizations on humanitarian grounds, on moral grounds --"
He went on, finishing as best he could. When he got to his feet there was a faint ripple of applause from the gray-striped professional group. But the white-clad property owners were utterly silent. And the blue industrialists. The red shirts and the green-clad consumer representatives were silent, impassive, even a little amused.
Hull returned to the wings, cold with the stark realization of defeat. "We've lost," he muttered, dazed. "I don't understand."
Julia took his arm. "Maybe an appeal on some other grounds... Maybe the machines can still --"
Bart Longstreet came out of the shadows. "No good, Nat. Won't work."
Hull nodded. "I know."
"You can't moralize Worldcraft away. That's not the solution."
Von Stern had given the signal. The members began to cast their votes, the tabulation machines whirring to life. Hull stood staring silently out at the murmuring room, crushed and bewildered.
Suddenly a shape appeared in front of him, cutting off his view. Impatiently he moved to one side
-- but a rasping voice stopped him.
-- but a rasping voice stopped him.
Hull stiffened. "Packman!" he muttered. "What do you want?"
Forrest Packman came out of the shadows, moving toward him slowly, feeling his way blindly along.
Bart Longstreet stared at the old man with unconcealed hostility. "I'll see you later, Nat." He turned abruptly and started off.
Julia stopped him. "Bart, do you have to --"
"Important business. I'll be back later." He moved off down the aisle, toward the industrial section of the hall.
Hull faced Packman. He had never seen the old man so close before. He studied him as he advanced slowly, feeling his way along on the arm of his robant.
Forrest Packman was old -- a hundred and seven years. Preserved by hormones and blood transfusions, elaborate washing and rejuvenating processes that maintained life in his ancient, withered body. His eyes, deep-sunk, peered up at Hull as he came near, shrunken hands clutching the arm of his robant, breath coming hoarse and dry.
"Hull? You don't mind if I chat with you as the voting goes on? I won't be long." He peered blindly past Hull. "Who left? I couldn't see --"
"Bart Longstreet. Spaceways."
"Oh, yes. I know him. Your speech was quite interesting, Hull. It reminded me of the old days. These people don't remember how it was. Times have changed." He stopped, letting the robant wipe his mouth and chin. "I used to be interested in rhetoric. Some of the old masters..."
The old man rambled on. Hull studied him curiously. Was this frail withered old man really the power behind Worldcraft? It didn't seem possible.
"Bryan," Packman whispered, voice dry as ashes. "William Jennings Bryan. I never heard him, of course. But they say he was the greatest. Your speech wasn't bad. But you don't understand. I listened carefully. You have some good ideas. But what you're trying to do is absurd. You don't know enough about people. Nobody's really interested in --"
He broke off, coughing feebly, his robant gripping him with metal supports.
Hull pushed impatiently past. "The voting is almost finished. I want to hear. If you have anything to say to me you can file a regular memo plate."
Packman's robant stepped out, barring his way. Packman went on slowly, shakily. "Nobody is really interested in such appeals, Hull. You made a good speech but you don't have the idea. Not yet, at least. But you talk well, better than I've heard for a long time. These young fellows, faces all washed, running around like office boys --"
Hull strained, listening to the vote. The impassive robant body cut off his view, but over Packman's dry rasp he could hear the results. Von Stern had risen and was reading the totals, group by group.
Tour hundred against, thirty-five in favor," von Stern stated. The proposal has been defeated." He tossed the tabulation cards down and picked up his agenda. "We'll continue with the next business."
Behind Hull, Packman broke off suddenly, his skull-like head cocked on one side. His deep-sunk eyes glittered and the trace of a smile twitched across his lips. "Defeated? Not even all the grays voted for you, Hull. Now maybe you'll listen to what I have to say."
Hull turned away from the hall. The robant lowered its arm. "It's over," Hull said.
"Come on." Julia moved uneasily away from Packman. "Let's get out of here."
"You see," Packman continued relentlessly, "you have potentials that could be developed into something. When I was your age I had the same idea you have. I thought if people could see the moral issues involved, they would respond. But people aren't like that. You have to be realistic, if you want to get somewhere. People..."
Hull scarcely heard the dry, raspy voice whispering away. Defeat. Worldcraft, the world bubbles, would continue. The Contest Parties: bored, restless men and women with too much time, drinking and dancing, comparing worlds, building up to the climax -- then the orgy of breaking and smashing. Over and over. Endlessly.
drinking and dancing, comparing worlds, building up to the climax -- then the orgy of breaking and smashing. Over and over. Endlessly.
Bart Longstreet came rapidly out of the shadows. "You still here?" he said to Packman.
"I lost," Hull said. The vote --"
"I know. I heard it. But it doesn't matter." Longstreet pushed past Packman and his robant. "Stay here. I'll join you in a second. I have to see von Stern."
Something in Longstreet's voice made Hull look up sharply. "What is it? What's happened?"
"Why doesn't it matter?" Julia demanded. Longstreet stepped up on the platform and made his way to von Stern. He handed him a message plate and then retired to the shadows.
Von Stern glanced at the plate -
And stopped talking. He got to his feet slowly, the plate gripped tightly. "I have an announcement to make." Von Stern's voice was shaking, almost inaudible. "A dispatch from Spaceways' check station on Proxima Centauri." An excited murmur rush
ed through the hall. "Exploring ships in the Proxima system have contacted trading scouts from an extra-galactic civilization. An exchange of messages has already occurred. Spaceways ships are moving toward the Arcturan system with the expectation of finding --" Shouts, a bedlam of sound. Men and women on their feet, screaming in wild joy. Von Stern stopped reading and stood, his arms folded, his gray face calm, waiting for them to quiet.
Forrest Packman stood unmoving, his withered hands pressed together, his eyes shut. His robant sent support braces around him, catching him in a shield of protecting metal.
"Well?" Longstreet shouted, pushing back to them. He glanced at the frail, withered figure held up by the robant's supports, then at Hull and Julia. "What do you say, Hull? Let's get out of here -- so we can celebrate."
"I'll fly you home," Hull said to Julia. He looked around for an inter-continental cruiser. "Too bad you live so far away. Hong Kong is so damn out of the way."
Julia caught his arm. "You can drive me yourself. Remember? The Pacific Tube is open. We're connected with Asia now."
"That's right." Hull opened the door of his surface car and Julia slid in. Hull got behind the wheel and slammed the door. "I forgot, with all these other things on my mind. Maybe we can see each other more often. I wouldn't mind spending a few days' vacation in Hong Kong. Maybe you'll invite me."
He sent the car out into traffic, moving with the remote-controlled beam. "Tell me more," Julia asked. "I want to know all Bart said."
"Not much more. They've known for some time that something was up. That's why he wasn't too worried about Worldcraft. He knew the bottom would fall out as soon as the announcement was made."
"Why didn't he tell you?"
Hull grinned wryly. "How could he? Suppose the first reports were wrong? He wanted to wait until they were sure. He knew what the results would be." Hull gestured. "Look."
On both sides of the strip a tide of men and women poured out of buildings, up from the underground factories, a seething mass milling everywhere in disordered confusion, shouting and cheering, throwing things in the air, tossing paper out of windows, carrying each other on their shoulders.
"They're working it off," Hull said. "The way it should be. Bart says Arcturus is supposed to have seven or eight fertile planets, some of them inhabited, some just forests and oceans. The extra-galactic traders say that most systems have at least one usable planet. They visited our system a long time ago. Our early ancestors may have traded with them."
"Then there's plenty of life in the galaxy?"
Hull laughed. "If what they say is true. And the fact that they exist is proof enough."
"No more Worldcraft."
"No." Hull shook his head. No more Worldcraft. Stock was already being dumped. Worthless. Probably the State would absorb the bubbles already in existence and seal them off, leaving the inhabitants free to determine their own futures.
inhabitants free to determine their own futures.
Julia laughed, leaning against Hull. "Now we can take it easy. Sure, you're invited to stay. We can take out permanent cohabitation papers if you want to --"
Hull leaned forward suddenly, his body rigid. "Where's the Tube?" he demanded. The strip should be hitting it any minute."
Julia peered ahead, frowning. "Something's wrong. Slow down."
Hull slowed the car. An obstruction signal was flashing ahead. Cars were stopping on all sides, shifting into emergency retard lanes.
He ground the car to a halt. Rocket cruisers were sweeping overhead, exhaust tubes shattering the evening silence. A dozen uniformed men ran across a field, directing a rumbling robot derrick.
"What the hell --" Hull muttered. A soldier stepped up to the car, swinging a communication flare.
"Turn around. We need the whole strip."
"But -"
"What happened?" Julia asked.
"The Tube. Earthquake, someplace halfway out. Broke the Tube in ten sections." The soldier hurried off. Construction robots rushed past in a hand cart, assembling equipment as they went.
Julia and Hull stared at each other wide-eyed. "Good Lord," Hull muttered. "Ten places. And the Tube must have been full of cars."
A Red Cross ship landed, its ports grating open. Dollies shuttled across to it, loading injured men.
Two relief workers appeared. They opened the door to Hull's car, getting in the back. "Drive us to town." They sank down, exhausted. "We got to get more help. Hurry it."
"Sure." Hull started the car again, gained speed.
"How did it happen?" Julia asked one of the grim-faced exhausted men, who dabbed automatically at the cuts on his face and neck.
"Earthquake."
"But why? Didn't they build it so --"
"Big quake." The man shook his head wearily. "Nobody expected. Total loss. Thousands of cars. Tens of thousands of people."
The other worker grunted. "An act of God."
Hull stiffened suddenly. His eyes flickered.
"What is it?" Julia asked him.
"Nothing."
"Are you sure? Is something wrong?"
Hull said nothing. He was deep in thought, his face a mask of startled, growing horror.
Breakfast at Twilight
"Dad?" Earl asked, hurrying out of the bathroom, "you going to drive us to school today?"
Tim McLean poured himself a second cup of coffee. "You kids can walk for a change. The car's in the garage."
Judy pouted. "It's raining."
"No it isn't," Virginia corrected her sister. She drew the shade back. "It's all foggy, but it isn't raining."
"Let me look." Mary McLean dried her hands and came over from the sink. "What an odd day.
Is that fog? It looks more like smoke. I can't make out a thing. What did the weatherman say?"
Is that fog? It looks more like smoke. I can't make out a thing. What did the weatherman say?"
Tim stirred angrily. "That darn thing on the blink again? Seems like I just had it fixed." He got up and moved sleepily over to the radio. He fiddled idly with the dials. The three children hurried back and forth, getting ready for school. "Strange," Tim said.
"I'm going." Earl opened the front door.
"Wait for your sisters," Mary ordered absently.
"I'm ready," Virginia said. "Do I look all right?"
"You look fine," Mary said, kissing her.
"I'll call the radio repair place from the office," Tim said.
He broke off. Earl stood at the kitchen door, pale and silent, his eyes wide with terror.
"What is it?"
"I -- I came back."
"What is it? Are you sick?"
"I can't go to school."
They stared at him. "What is wrong?" Tim grabbed his son's arm. "Why can't you go to school?"
"They -- they won't let me."
"Who?"
"The soldiers." It came tumbling out with a rush. "They're all over. Soldiers and guns. And they're coming here."
"Coming? Coming here?" Tim echoed, dazed.
"They're coming here and they're going to --" Earl broke off, terrified. From the front porch came the sound of heavy boots. A crash. Splintering wood. Voices.
"Good Lord," Mary gasped. "What is it, Tim?"
Tim entered the living-room, his heart laboring painfully. Three men stood inside the door. Men in gray-green uniforms, weighted with guns and complex tangles of equipment. Tubes and hoses. Meters on thick cords. Boxes and leather straps and antennae. Elaborate masks locked over their heads. Behind the masks Tim saw tired, whisker-stubbled faces, red-rimmed eyes that gazed at him in brutal displeasure.
One of the soldiers jerked up his gun, aiming at McLean's middle. Tim peered at it dumbly. The gun. Long and thin. Like a needle. Attached to a coil of tubes.
"What in the name of --" he began, but the soldier cut him off savagely.
"Who are you?" His voice was harsh, guttural. "What are you doing here?" He pushed his mask aside. His skin was dirty. Cuts and pocks lined his sallow
flesh. His teeth were broken and missing.
"Answer!" a second soldier demanded. "What are you doing here?"
"Show your blue card," the third said. "Let's see your Sector number." His eyes strayed to the children and Mary standing mutely at the dining-room door. His mouth fell open.
"A woman?"
The three soldiers gazed in disbelief.
"What the hell is this?" the first demanded. "How long has this woman been here?"
Tim found his voice. "She's my wife. What is this? What --"
"Your wife?" They were incredulous.
"My wife and children. For God's sake --"
"Your wife? And you'd bring her here? You must be out of your head!"
"He's got ash sickness," one said. He lowered his gun and strode across the living-room to Mary. "Come on, sister. You're coming with us."
Tim lunged.
A wall of force hit him. He sprawled, clouds of darkness rolling around him. His ears sang. His head throbbed. Everything receded. Dimly, he was aware of shapes moving. Voices. The room. He concentrated.
The soldiers were herding the children back. One of them grabbed Mary by the arm. He tore her dress away, ripping it from her shoulders. "Gee," he snarled. "He'd bring her here, and she's not even strung!"
strung!"
"Okay, Captain." The soldier dragged Mary toward the front door. "We'll do what we can with her."
"The kids." The captain waved the other soldier over with the children. "Take them along. I don't get it. No masks. No cards. How'd this house miss getting hit? Last night was the worst in months!"
Tim struggled painfully to his feet. His mouth was bleeding. His vision blurred. He hung on tight to the wall. "Look," he muttered. "For God's sake --"
The captain was staring into the kitchen. "Is that -- is that food?" He advanced slowly through the dining-room. "Look!"
The other soldiers came after him, Mary and the children forgotten. They stood around the table, amazed.
"Look at it!"
Complete Stories 3 - Second Variety and Other Stories Page 26