They'd Rather Be Right

by Mark Clifton

  “The trouble is,” the writer said aloud to himself in the way writers have, “ninety-five per cent of the people think in terms of single values. But what about multiple values?”

  At first the words made no sense to him, also characteristic of writers, then he rushed over to his typewriter. He was triumphant at the breadth, the incredible vastness, of his inspiration. He tore the half finished page of space opera out of his machine. With nervous haste he threaded in a new page. He poised his fingers.

  He did not write.

  He picked up the pages of the half finished story from his desk. He did not even need to glance through them to know they were already out of date. His pseudo science analysis was no more than some tricky applications of thin single values. He tore the manuscript across and threw the pieces in the wastebasket.

  He poised his fingers over the keyboard again. But no sentences formed into his mind to flow through his fingers. What would happen to his popularity with his audience if he implied that the beloved scientific method was a single value, only one way of interpreting reality? Were the disciples of science sufficiently scientific to question their own articles of faith? And what did he mean, even by these questions? He felt his inspiration slipping away from him in chaos and confusion.

  He got up and walked over to the window where he had first felt his inspiration. Of course it wasn’t superstition. But then, what about superstition? Had superstition ever been investigated in terms of multi valued logic? How could each man be so positive that his path, and only his, was the road to comprehension?

  He gasped his exasperation and concentrated on the scene of reality. The elderly man was driving out of the garage. The mechanic was putting five dollars into the cash drawer. Odd, how he knew the denomination of that bill with such certainty! The three students had reached the corner of the block, and were turning it. Odd, that there seemed to be some connection between them and the inspiration he had just felt. Association of ideas, of course. They had been within his vision range when he had thought of the concept; therefore the concept was associated with them. Elementary psychology, nothing mysterious about it at all.

  But then, wasn’t that explaining things in terms of single values and dismissing the thought as solved?

  The inspiration flooded him again, and the writer was appalled. What if each of those people down there on the street represented the only worthwhile five per cent?

  What if, to them, he, an acknowledged brilliant writer in idea speculation, were merely one of the worthless ninety-five per cent? He walked slowly over to his typewriter and sat down again. But he did not write anything—not yet.

  “Instant acceptance of an idea is as self-defeating as instant rejection,” he mumbled, and wondered where the words came from. “The implications of multi-values cannot be mastered in five seconds.”

  The thought consoled him a little, for the implication was that, in time, it might be mastered; that the destruction of single-value foundations only appeared to produce chaos because one didn’t know how to find order in the new relationships of things. That is, not yet.

  CHAPTER XXV

  The clamor which followed Jeff Carney’s rejuvenation mounted to a national frenzy.

  Everybody wanted Bossy. Business and industry wanted Bossy, for quite aside from her rejuvenation possibilities, Bossy was the universal substitute for undependable manpower, the sure cure for faulty management judgment. Every government agency had to have Bossy immediately. There was no other possible way of solving the intricate and massive complexities of their responsibilities.

  Both the sincere and the power-grabbing investigative committees had to have Bossy for obvious reasons. Law enforcement agencies saw the ultimate lie detector which no one could baffle. There was no end to the claims upon Bossy, no restraint upon the special axes which Bossy could grind. There was no conception that Bossy transcended single-valued frameworks, fostered no narrow vision, no finely meshed prejudice screen of the only possible right.

  The Secretaries of the Interior and Treasury nearly came to blows in the anteroom of the White House, where each was waiting to see the Chief Executive to demand exclusive jurisdiction over Bossy. The incipient fray was halted only by the confusion of arrivals of the Secretaries of State and Defense to press similar demands.

  “Quite obviously,” said State, flicking a speck of dust from his Homburg, “Bossy must be reserved for international diplomacy. There can’t possibly be—”

  “Nonsense,” snorted Defense. “Bossy is obviously the ultimate weapon. It would be suicide for any but the Armed Forces to have control over her.”

  “Bossy is a revenue problem,” stubbornly insisted Treasury. “Already two people have been made immortal, without payment of taxes. Why the cessation of inheritance taxes alone—”

  “Bossy is a national resource,” shouted Interior.

  Foreign governments, present and budding dictators, here and abroad, all wanted Bossy. Moscow pointed out, blandly, that she had as much right to Bossy, for peaceful pursuits of course, as she did to the atomic science which had been given to her so freely. The Mafia planned the greatest kidnap scheme of all time, the kidnapping of Bossy. What race track, what gambling casino could possibly play percentages against Bossy?

  The post office demanded Bossy as the only possible solution to handling the avalanche of mail which was pouring into the Kennedy Enterprises—the offers, the special deals, the demands, the threats, the claims.

  Steve Flynn’s masterpiece had received public opinion.

  As the days passed the chaos of reaction began to coagulate into masses of definite opinion. As yet the opinion was undirected. The machinery of the opinion controllers had not yet taken up the load. The coalitions in Washington had not yet formulized cooperative policy, catch phrases had not yet been manufactured to supply magnetic islands around which convictions could form.

  For the first time in more than a generation people were reacting independently, honestly, with opinions unslanted to directive semantic loads. The preponderance of mail, therefore, showed more trust in Kennedy than in any of the five percent groups who were trying to get Bossy. The letters pleaded with Kennedy not to sell out the people.

  There was a strange undercurrent of pleading with him not to release Bossy even though they later demanded he should—as if, instinctively, they knew that when the machinery of opinion control got to working again they could not resist it. Like alcoholics, knowing that when the ready-made drink of easily adopted opinion was placed before them they could not resist it, they pleaded with Kennedy to keep sober and get them safely home.

  It was the age-old drama being played out again. As soon as they were able to reconcile differences among themselves, the self-appointed few would at first subtly, by slightly slanted news releases, by vocal inflections in reading supposedly unbiased copy, begin to formulate public opinion. Through the use of semantics the few would become the many. As always just one drink would lead into a total drunk.

  The conscience bearers, secure in the mass of supporting opinion, could then say aloud: “We, and only we, are ordained to decide what shall become of Bossy. We intend to be nice about this if you follow along docilely, but if you should resist—”

  The man in the street, forlornly, could predict no other outcome. The pattern and the precedence had been so well established, he could see no escape.

  These demands upon Kennedy to protect Bossy from falling into the control of special interests did not go unnoticed in Washington. There were others there as responsive as Steve Flynn to the temper of the people. The acid of people’s trust in an outsider coagulated the mixtures in Washington as nothing else would. Concessions were made among opposing interests. A formula of control took tentative form.

  In view of the temper of the people, direct opposition to Kennedy was unwise. Just possibly they might kill the goose which laid the golden egg. Bossy was still largely an unknown quantity. Kennedy’s scientists were not the only one
s who had tried to build, independently, a duplicate of Bossy and failed. Other groups had failed even more miserably than Kennedy’s men, for the unwillingness to consider another point of view than their own was greater among men who would not have that bond of loyalty to Kennedy as an assistance to progress.

  They might find themselves in the position of the savage who could possibly figure out how to steer a car which had its motor running, or by trial and error find and turn the ignition key to get the motor started; but be completely baffled if the distributor key had been removed. It would be better to move cautiously, to get hold of Bossy while she was still intact.

  A deal must be made to get Bossy into their hands while she was intact and working. Once they got Bossy, then the deal could be repudiated.

  The danger from Billings and Hoskins was slight. They were only scientists. And scientists are noted for avoiding any responsibility for the implications of their work upon mankind. They asked only to be fed and housed and allowed to tinker around in their workshops, leaving it to the practical men to run the world the way it should be run.

  Joe Carter was just a kid who had been secretary of the project, and his only claim to fame was that Mabel had fallen in love with him. Boy, that must be really something, considering what she had been all her life! He’d have his hands full, and anyway he was a lightweight who could be ignored.

  That left only Kennedy, himself. And Kennedy was open to deals. He’d made them by the hundreds around Washington. There wasn’t any reason to believe he wasn’t open to one more. Like a shrewd bargainer, he was waiting for them to make the first move, that was all.

  Maybe they wouldn’t have to repudiate the deal they made with him. Why not cut him in on it? Wasn’t he a successful industrialist? Hadn’t he built an industrial empire which would overshadow many kingdoms? Could a man attain that position without coming to believe that he was something set apart from common man—like themselves? He probably had the same identical views as they did. It was probably as upsetting to his business plans to have to endure an election every four years as it was to their political plans.

  There was room in the hierarchy of immortals who would eventually rule the world for a man of Kennedy’s ability—if it could be determined that he shared the only right way of thinking.

  Hap Hardy, free-lance investigations counselor, had handled many ticklish deals successfully. He was a shrewd one, behind that affability, for setting up precedents upon which later action could be based. There wasn’t a better semantics twister in all Washington. Hap Hardy was the man to deal with Kennedy.

  And if he failed, why, then, of course, there was military action.

  Hardy wasted no time once he was given the commission, and guaranteed his fee. His phone connection with Kennedy was soon established.

  “Howard,” he boomed cordially, “how are you, old boy? A couple of us are flying out to the Coast tomorrow on a little matter—my counselor, Oliver Mills, and myself. We thought we’d just stop in and say hello while we’re out there—on this other matter.”

  CHAPTER XXVI

  The meeting, held in Kennedy’s San Francisco office, started off well.

  Hap Hardy was at his most genial and affable best. His associate counselor, Oliver Mills, carefully coached in advance, was still unable to bring forth a downright smile, but at least he hooded the ice in his eyes and softened the fanatical planes of his face in a sort of grimace meant to be pleasant.

  The two of them sat in big leather chairs, Hardy lolling back comfortably and wreathed in cigar smoke; Mills sitting upright as if he would not yield his body to such a thing as comfort.

  Kennedy sat at his usual place behind his huge desk, framed by the plate glass window which spread the panorama of San Francisco for the delectation of visitors—and incidentally lighted their faces while his own was shadowed.

  Joe sat at one corner of the desk, a notebook open before him, playing the part of confidential secretary at Kennedy’s request.

  “What a couple of characters,” Jeff Carney exclaimed from his room over in Berkeley. He was participating in the scene through Joe’s eyes and consciousness. “That Mills is a dead ringer for Torquemada, straight out of the Inquisition. And jolly old John Silver Hardy—”

  “They’re just blindies about to enter into a business deal—they think,” Joe answered tolerantly.

  “I’ve got a strong temptation to let Kennedy see what’s in their minds,” Jeff threatened.

  “As if he didn’t already know,” Joe answered disparagingly. “He may not be telepath, but he wasn’t born yesterday. Now you listen, sonny boy, you’re purely an observer, seeing how things are done when good fellows get together in a spirit of friendliness.”

  If either of the visitors objected to Joe Carter’s presence as secretary, they did not show it. Hardy raised his brows that Kennedy should think a secretary was justified at a purely social meeting, but it was only a token move in the gambit.

  Actually, Joe knew that he was pleased and on more than one count. It showed that Kennedy openly recognized they were here for business, and therefore they need lose no time by beating around the bush and coming into the subject accidentally. And it showed that Kennedy might be ready to talk business, too. You don’t need a secretary to take down an obviously flat and positive “No.”

  Equally important, this kid sitting at the corner of the desk putting down those silly little squiggles could be a valuable witness later, when they went through the legal motions of convicting Kennedy of something or other in order to repudiate the deal. One look at the kid’s weak face, and all their previous judgments of him were confirmed. He was a lightweight, who thought he had a good berth in hanging onto this project. When he came up against a man really skilled at questioning and semantics twisting, he’d convict Kennedy with every word he uttered.

  A few years back Kennedy would have had more sense than to have a witness of any kind at such an important conference. The old man must be slipping, getting senile!

  Hardy settled back in his over-stuffed chair with a sigh of contentment. The battle was already half won. Sure, there was probably a wire recording being made of the whole conversation, but it didn’t matter. The law was specific on that. The prosecution in certain cases could use such evidence, but the defense couldn’t. That precedent had been set ages ago; on another matter entirely, of course, but then even a high-school debating society could prove parallels of similarity between cases once a precedent had been established.

  Let them bring on their wire recording. If there were any dangerous slip in it, the case could easily be rigged in such a way that it would be purely an investigative matter, and Kennedy wouldn’t even be allowed a defense much less a jury.

  “Howard,” Hardy said and leaned forward in his chair after the amenities were over. “America owes you a great debt. I want to congratulate you on the foresight you showed, the way you stepped in and took over Bossy, kept her out of the hands of the radicals and scientists. That shows the value of being able to make an instant decision and acting on it, without a lot of folderol from the opposition party.”

  “Well,” Kennedy demurred, “actually it’s still in the hands of the scientists, although I wouldn’t call them exactly radical. Professors Billings and Hoskins still have full charge of Bossy, you know.”

  “As they should! As they should!” Hardy boomed approvingly. “That’s our tradition, you know. The inventors of Bossy should reap some of the benefits of their work. And no doubt you’re paying them well for their mechanical skill in your behalf.” Kennedy laughed.

  “You might not believe this, Hap,” he chuckled, “but I haven’t paid them anything yet—just their keep and a place to work.”

  Hardy roared his laughter, and looked at Kennedy admiringly.

  “It would be better if a token cash payment were made,” Oliver Mills said incisively. He had stopped his efforts to appear pleasant and was functioning as he was paid to function. “A legal token cash
payment, and a quit claim—”

  There! That would be on the record which the young man was scribbling down so industriously. In complete accord with legal procedure they had advised Kennedy to leave no loop-holes for later prosecution and claims.

  “I have considered my tenure of Bossy to be more in the nature of a trust, pending final disposal,” Kennedy answered. “I wanted to make no more moves until adequate disposition could be made.”

  Hardy shifted his foundations rapidly. This was going to be easier than he had anticipated. Kennedy obviously recognized he had bitten off more than he could chew. He had plainly said he was ready to unload.

  “I can see why you’ve acted as you have, Howard,” he said easily. “Until we can change things a little more, we get all tied up back in Washington with debates and opposition; and somebody had to step in and take charge. It just proves what a bunch of us back there keep saying. But I guess you realize you’ve caught a tiger by the tail; that Bossy is bigger than any one man.”

  “It’s bigger than both of us, Hap,” Kennedy chuckled again. The old saying was at the peak of its popularity cycle again, and they all chuckled in agreement.

  Hardy’s face terminated the chuckle by assuming an expression of resolute nobility.

  “Yes,” he agreed soberly, “we are only instruments in the hands of a glorious destiny. But it is our duty to shape that destiny, too, Howard. No man willingly takes the destiny of the world in his own hands, Howard, but there are times when we must. We cannot permit Bossy to fall into the wrong hands. We cannot thwart the destiny of our own people by allowing those traitors to hand it over to the United Nations—which even now has begun its debate on how Bossy is to be controlled.”

  He paused and eyed Kennedy shrewdly. There it was. The old devil would either have to commit himself to believing it should be shared, or evade the issue which would be the same as committing himself in with the right thinking people.