by John Sladek
Bright idea. The buck was officially passed by the FPC to the Pentagon, who handed it off to the Air Force, where it found its way to General Jupiter Grawk, 47, a bachelor (see cover). In charge of operations against Project 32’s urbivorous monster, Grawk had the bright idea …
THE PRESIDENCY
Are We Defenseless?
Too late for bombs. The current cycle of resignations from the Cabinet shows no sign of letting up. This week, the Secretaries of State and Defense both ‘resigned’, the latter under protest. …
THE UN
The Hot Rocket Racket
Hijackers and Hijinks. While the rest of the world worried about imminent accidental war resulting from the NORAD incident (sec Modern Living), France has been looking for
a lost, stolen or strayed moon rocket named Le Bateau Ivre (The Sozzled Ship).
Someone, and France swears it was either an American or a Russian, denied the chapeau of the astronaut, Marcel Brioche (pronounced: BREE-OHsh), and drove off with the goods in best hijacker style. Last seen headed for—the moon, of course. If the trip is successful, says French UN ambassador, France will officially claim the moon, whatever the nationality of the pilot aboard.
After the rain, champagne. In Paris, Marcel Brioche spoke to packed throngs in the driving rain, then paraded down the Champs Elysées as a victim of American (or Russian) aggression. His head swathed in bandages, the wounded hero then addressed a German armaments cartel at an evening champagne fete …
Barthemo Beele, still wearing his editor’s eyeshade and his sodden trenchcoat, sat down at the tiny desk in his Paris hotel room to decode a pneumatique from the embassy. Though he shivered, he had no time to change into dry clothes. This might be in answer to his telephoned request for money. The secretary had just laughed, a bit hysterically. ‘Money? Our books won’t be straight for a month around here. Someone sent us a bomb or some damned thing that ate a safe and set fire to the mailroom. You fellows are supposed to be resourceful, Beele. I’m sure you’ll get along somehow.’
Get along? Nearly everything he saw, heard, felt, smelt or thought was a reminder of how poorly he was getting along. There was the clink of money in his pocket—his last seven francs. There had been fifteen this morning, but five had gone for a can of spaghetti and three for a Newstime magazine that he’d left on the Metro without reading. There was the sight of his poor, chewed nails and his own haggard expression in the mirror on the dark brown wardrobe in his dark brown room. Feeling? The corn on his foot, the boil on his neck. Smell? There was no smell. Having stood three hours in the rain listening to a speech in a language he did not understand, Beele was coming down with a cold. Finally there was the burning rumble of diarrhoea in his abdomen and the suspicion that even his mind was somehow going wrong. Had he not seen in the crowd today a woman who looked exactly like Mary? Exactly, even to the cough drop?
The pneumatique said:‘BRIOCHE CAUSING PRESTIGE PROBLEMS. TAKE CARE OF HIM. ANYTHING WITHIN REASON TO ONE MILLION NF. ALTERNATIVE, USE SPECIAL TREATMENT. CHIEF. P.S. YOUR REQUEST FOR FIFTY NF EXPENSES DENIED.’
He forgot even his disappointment over the P.S., when he realized delightedly the full meaning of those two magic words; special treatment. A euphemism first applied to the chastisement of slave workers in Himmler’s directive of 1942:
In cases of severe violations against discipline, including work refusal or loafing at work, special treatment is requested. Special treatment is hanging. It should take place at a distance from the camp, but a number of prisoners should attend the special treatment.
It had grown in meaning, of course, to include any violent killing. And how many kinds there were! He could almost see Suggs naming them off, relishing them the way an old woman relishes the list of her physical ailments.
‘When I kill a guy,’ Suggs had used to say, ‘I like to make it hurt as much as possible. Not that I’m any kind of sadist or anything, see? It’s just that—I know it sounds kind of corny, but I hate to let a guy go out of this world remembering me as being soft. Get it?’
It made Barthemo a little sad to think of Suggs now, off in space somewhere. How he would have enjoyed this special treatment! Good old Suggs! As Beele bent over the paper, his thin, sad nose let fall a drop of water on the message, as if it were pouring a libation to Suggs, before it gorged the throat of Beele with hot, salt liquid.
‘Your move,’ said Vetch, yawning. ‘Queen’s in danger.’
‘I see it, I see it!’ snapped Suggs, slapping away the pointing finger. It was all he could do to keep himself from yanking out his gun and—
But there were too many reasons now, not to kill his companion in the space ship. There had been one awful moment at first, when they had taken off their helmets and discovered one another, like a scorpion and a centipede in the same nest. They had both gone for their guns, but both, with the split-second timing that comes from spying, had been able—barely—to stop themselves from firing.
Neither one wanted to know what a bullet might do to the shell about them that contained their atmosphere, or to the instruments whose names and functions they could only guess. Finally, what was the point of a shoot-out at less than two paces, which would leave no survivors?
They had made an uneasy truce, then, really a bargain to wait one another out. For two days, while they radioed for orders continually, they went without sleep.
Then came an even worse phase of the trip. Suggs had received his encoded orders: IMPERATIVE YOU NOT BE ONLY PASSENGER ALIVE ON BOARD WHEN SHIP RETURNS. AT ALL COSTS, PRESERVE OTHER PASSENGER, EVEN AT RISK OF YOUR OWN LIFE. INTERNATLSITN DELICATE, THIS COULD TRIGGER WAR IF YOU RETURN ALONE.
He had no doubt but that Vetch had similar orders. What had happened was clear: France had declared war on whoever had done it—but there was as yet no way of proving who was aboard. If both Russia and the US were guilty of the theft, France’s war declaration would be meaningless. But if either side were implicated alone, the other would be bound to help France … and if a country with supermissiles like this jumped the US, it would be all over quickly.
Already the Russian had tried suicide once, when he thought Suggs was asleep. It was necessary for both men to resume the vigil, but now their reasons were different. Each lay awake afraid that, if he dozed off, he might, wake to find himself the only one aboard. Two men, on whom the governments of two huge nations had spent money training to kill; two men who liked to kill better than anything else, now found themselves in the hell of having to keep one another alive.
An alarm buzzed, signalling the end of another eight-hour watch. Any other pair of astronauts could have taken alternate watches, could have lived in some kind of balance that was not fear and tension. These two, however, folded away the chessboard and unfolded a Monopoly board. They had been five days without sleep, and they moved with sluggish effort.
Within a few minutes, they lost track of whose move it was, and in low, whining, apathetic tones, they began to argue.
CHAPTER XVIII
GREED
‘This is the day wherein, to all my friends,
I will pronounce the happy word, “Be rich!” ’
BEN JONSON
Smoke rose in greasy streaks on the horizon, from what once had been an automobile graveyard. The Reproductive System was trying to construct a Bessemer furnace, guided only by its memory of the diagram in an encyclopaedia. Our five travellers, waking in the dewy shadow of the crooked, collapsed screen at the drive-in, did not know this, nor did they know that another portion of the System was sending out units to prospect—for steel.
The System in the area of Las Vegas was riddled with shortages, steel being the worst. In all the tin cans, girders, cars, appliances and paper clips of the city there was not enough steel to satisfy its geometrically-increasing appetite. The streets were littered with abortive trials, cells covered with starched linen, picture glass, even brick. In a semblance of panic, the System sent cells farther and farther from the city, scavenging barbe
d wire fence, farm machinery—anything. The nearer cells were beginning to bring back diminishing returns on their investments of power and material, and the farther cells took so long to show anything that it must have seemed to the System that it was dying in Las Vegas.
Oblivious of this, Jack shared out what was left of his loaf of bread, and the five breakfasted. Cal recognized on the faces of his companions the expression of his own state of feelings; each sat quietly, chewing, with a dazed and indignant look on his sleepy face.
‘I have a suggestion,’ he said. ‘Without the car, there’s no use our trying to go back through the city again. We know what it’s like, more hospitable to machines than people. I suggest we strike out in the other direction. We already have a start.’
‘But it’s a desert!’ Brian exclaimed. ‘We have no food, no car, no water, no—’
‘No liquor,’ Daisy added.
‘No Bergamot. In short, you’re asking us to enter the wilder-
ness unprepared, without the least hope of encountering any of the necessities of life.’
Harry nodded, as his sarcastic smile awoke for the day. ‘Oh, he’s got a great sense of humour, that Cal,’ he said. ‘Full of rich jokes, Cal is.’
‘Now wait a minute.’ Cal stood up and pointed towards the highway. ‘I’ve noticed just while we’ve been sitting here three vehicles have gone by in that direction: two cars and a mowing machine. We should be able to get some sort of ride. I wasn’t suggesting that we walk.’
The Professor’s wizened features considered the idea, chewing it, then broke into a grin. ‘Excellent notion, my boy. Excellent. Once more we see the ingenuity of the human brain, so like a cunning engine contrived—’
‘Not so fast,’ said Harry, staring at a truck rolling past them. ‘How are we supposed to get them to stop for us? And who wants to ride in a truck where the driver is a shoeshine kit or a transistor radio, anyway?’
The Professor’s brow clouded.
‘Yes, wouldn’t it be dangerous to ride in them?’ asked Daisy.
Fixing Cal with a frown, Brian said, ‘You, sir, are an impudent scoundrel!’ His wrath fully aroused, the dry old man approached Cal and snapped his fingers in his face.
‘I don’t see why it should be so dangerous to ride in them,’ Cal said evenly. ‘As long as we didn’t try to take them apart or interfere with their normal functions. We’d have to be careful, of course.
‘As for stopping them, I have a plan. Maybe you’ve noticed that the vehicles coming from the city have mine detectors tied to their front bumpers. That means they’re looking for metal. I believe if we collected all the metal we could find in a pile, and placed it in the centre of the road, something would very likely stop to investigate.’
‘Aha!’ Brian exclaimed, in good spirits once again. ‘I perceive we must propitiate the gods with precious baubles. Since I’m not likely to have any more Bergamot, you may add this to the sacrifice.’ He threw down his empty snuffbox.
‘Hey, that’s pure silver!’ Harry said, grabbing it up and polishing it on his sleeve.
‘But it is of no use to me without its contents,’ the Professor murmured, peering over his square-rimmed glasses. ‘I would give that and more for a pinch of the most inferior snuff. Ah
well, at least we are possessed of a plan. The human brain is truly a wonderful engine.’
‘The human soul, you mean,’ Daisy said. ‘Inspiration originates in the soul.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Dividing the tails of his coat, Brian turned his back to the sun.
Cal, Harry and Jack policed the area of metal objects, gradually accumulating about a peck of scraps, including beer cans, hub caps, beer can openers, coins, the wire struts which once had held the great screen upright, buckles, hairpins, the handle of a car door, oil cans, a broken knife, foil, etc., which they deposited in the middle of the road. Brian and Daisy left off their discussion of Descartes’ theory that the body and soul are conjoined at the pineal gland, and came to wait in the ditch with the others.
Cal was too preoccupied to join in the half-hour’s lively debate that ensued. His thoughts were taken up with their immediate future, about which he formulated unanswerable questions:
To go to Millford or not to go to Millford? True, they were bound in that direction in any case. True, there was a chance, perhaps, that the flow of machinery could be staunched at its original source. It was even possible that the laboratory needed his help. But on the other hand, if Grawk was still in charge back there, they might arrest Cal; it was hard to forget the general’s parting threat. On the other hand, if the System itself were in command there, as in Las Vegas, Cal might be placing himself and his companions in considerable danger to no good purpose.
What to do at Millford if he should go there? The warring ‘dogs’ had given him a vague notion of getting the System to stop itself. He recalled the Classic Comic of Jason, in which the adventurer set the dragon’s-teeth army one against the other till they destroyed themselves. But there seemed as yet no way to translate this romantic idea into practical terms.
To continue leading this expedition or not? The whole thing was a patchwork, Cal felt, and himself the most inept of leaders: utterly ignorant of survival techniques, unable to inspire confidence (he was aware that Harry had been glowering at him all day; it seemed that his old classmate disliked him for some reason), physically unimposing, none too strong, indecisive. It seemed incredible that he should be giving orders or planning
the next move, among this gang of strong-willed people. True, if it were not for him, Brian and Daisy might be content to sit here discussing Descartes until their souls were disconnected from their pineal glands by starvation. Cal supposed he was better than no leader at all, but knew he was worse than almost any other leader imaginable. This was a tough job, a job for a man of action. Harry, he felt, would be ideal for it.
Harry watched Cal through narrowed eyes, not bothering to hide the contempt he felt for the twerp. He couldn’t get over how Cal had survived a fall from a five-story building. Anyone so low as that—to survive his own murder—didn’t deserve to live! Did Cal know about the murder attempt? he wondered, or did the yokel think they were still school pals? Harry did not like the way this character, in his torn, once-while lab coat, was throwing his weight around. Sneaky scientist type. Harry was glad as hell he outweighed him fifty pounds and had his gun, his knife and his sap. For two cents he’d—but not now.
Not in front of witnesses. Enjoy yourself, he thought, glaring at the haggard, unshaven visage of Cal. My day will come. Yet at the back of Harry’s mind grew a horrible suspicion that his day had already come and gone.
From the direction of the city a speck came into view, grew to mirage size, wavered in the heat, finally decided to connect itself to the ground with wheels, added more of an illusion of substance to itself, chose to become real, and drew nearer. It was a light truck that slowed to sniff at their offering and finally stopped to graze. At Cal’s beckoning, the group scrambled out of the roadside ditch and piled into the back—amid a welcome cargo.
The truck was a milk van, and, though many of its products were turning sour, there was more than enough fresh yoghurt, buttermilk and cottage cheese to go round. After making their lunch on it, the five resumed their long-interrupted discussion of coincidence.
It began when the mercurial Professor, happily sated on curds and whey, roundly declared that he had never in his life made a finer meal, in terms of both delectation and wholesomeness. What better meal could there be, he argued, than milk? Babies, who dine upon it exclusively, do not have gout, gallstones, liver ailments or apoplexy. Diet and diet alone explains the difference between a laughing, healthy child and an aguey old man. How providential (he exclaimed) that this truck should be full
of such a perfect food!
Daisy then said she was not afraid to ascribe such good fortune to a Higher Power. For, though out at pocket and without the slightest resources, they were n
ow fed, sheltered, and travelling in the best company.
‘Out at pocket!’ Brian shouted. ‘I should think so. D—Las Vegas!’ he cried with passion. ‘I hope that I may never see nor hear of Las Vegas again!’
He sulked on in silence past oil pumps, or pastures where myriads of parabolic dishes, like flowers, turned their heads to the sun. They had entered a lightly-wooded gorge when suddenly the milk truck began to limp on three tyres.
‘I knew it,’ Brian said with savage glee. ‘There’s your Higher Power for you.’ The words were no sooner out of his mouth when the engine began to stutter; it died before they had gone another hundred yards.
‘Here’s a pretty kettle of finny prey,’ Brian said. ‘See what your Author has done to us now! I just knew—’
Daisy shushed him, saying she’d enough of his clairvoyance. The five of them climbed out to stretch their legs and survey their surroundings.
The prospect was far from displeasing. On the slope above stood a rude cabin, from whose chimney puffs of smoke rose at regular intervals. Below the road the trees were thick, and there came the sound of a running brook. Cal elected to fill some empty milk bottles with spring water, and Daisy and the Professor went with him, while Harry and Jack climbed to pay a call at the cabin. Under his breath, the Professor kept up a constant flow of invective.
In a short while there was a cry from the cabin, and two figures rushed out. Jack and Harry still managed to look dignified in their summer suits, though they had removed their straw hats and now waved them aloft boyishly as they bounded down the hill. When they neared him, Cal could see their flushed faces and wild eyes.
‘The jackpot!’ Harry bellowed. ‘We hit the jackpot! Gold! There’s a big hunk of machinery up there, a steam engine or something, all made out of gold.’
‘A steam engine! That explains the regular puffing of the chimney,’ said Cal. ‘But gold? Gold is too soft to be made into machinery. Must be brass.’