Beyond Control

by Anthology

  Only by Gog and by Magog, by Aesculapius the Physician and Kildare the Doctor, he would not disassemble this time. There must be other methods of disposal possible in a large city on a dark night. He’d think of something.

  “I’d be glad to watch the baby for a few hours.” He started down the hall to anticipate her polite protest. “Don’t have a date tonight myself. No, don’t mention it, Mrs. Lipanti. Glad to do it.”

  In the landlady’s apartment, her nervous sister briefed him doubtfully. “And that’s the only time she cries in a low, steady way so if you move fast there won’t be much damage done. Not much, anyway.”

  He saw them to the door. “I’ll be fast enough,” he assured the mother. “Just so I get a hint.”

  Mrs. Lipanti paused at the door. “Did I tell you about the man who was asking after you this afternoon?”

  Again? “A sort of tall old man in a long black overcoat?”

  “With the most frightening way of staring into your face and talking under his breath. Do you know him?”

  “Not exactly. What did he want?”

  “Well, he asked if there was a Sam Weaver living here who was a lawyer and had been spending most of his time in his room for the past week. I told him we had a Sam Weber—your first name is Sam?—who answered to that description, but that the last Weaver had moved out over a year ago. He just looked at me for a while and said, ‘Weaver, Weber—they might have made an error,’ and walked out without so much as a good-by or excuse-me. Not what I call a polite gentleman.”

  Thoughtfully Sam walked back to the child. Strange how sharp a mental picture he had formed of this man! Possibly because the two women who had met him thus far had been very impressionable, although to hear their stories the impression was there to be received.

  He doubted there was any mistake: the man had been looking for him on both occasions; his knowledge of Sam’s vacation from foolscap this past week proved that. It did seem as if he weren’t interested in meeting him until some moot point of identity should be established beyond the least shadow of a doubt. Something of a legal mind, that.

  The whole affair centered around the “Bild-a-Man” set, he was positive. This sulking investigation hadn’t started until after the gift from 2353 had been delivered—and Sam had started using it.

  But till the character in the long black overcoat paddled up to Sam Weber personally and stated his business, there wasn’t very much he could do about it.

  Sam went upstairs for his Junior Biocalibrator.

  He propped the manual open against the side of the bed and switched the instrument on to full scanning power. The infant gurgled thickly as the calibrator was rolled slowly over its fat body and a section of metal tape unwound from the slot with, according to the manual, a completely detailed physiological description.

  It was detailed. Sam gasped as the tape, running through the enlarging viewer, gave information on the child for which a pediatrician would have taken out at least three mortgages on his immortal soul. Thyroid capacity, chromosome quality, cerebral content. All broken down into neat subheads of data for construction purposes. Rate of skull expansion in minutes for the next ten hours; rate of cartilage transformation; changes in hormone secretions while active and at rest.

  This was a blueprint; it was like taking canons from a baby.

  Sam left the child to a puzzled contemplation of its navel and sped upstairs. With the tape as a guide, he clipped sections of the molds into the required smaller sizes. Then, almost before he knew it consciously, he was constructing a small human.

  He was amazed at the ease with which he worked. Skill was evidently acquired in this game; the mannikin had been much harder to put together. The matter of duplication and working from an informational tape simplified his problems, though.

  The child took form under his eyes.

  He was finished just an hour and a half after he had taken his first measurements. All except the vitalizing.

  A moment’s pause, here. The ugly prospect of disassembling stopped him for a moment, but he shook it off. He had to see how well he had done the job. If this child could breathe, what was not possible to him! Besides he couldn’t keep it suspended in an inanimate condition very long without running the risk of ruining his work and the materials.

  He started the vitalizer.

  The child shivered and began a low, steady cry. Sam tore down to the landlady’s apartment again and scooped up a square of white linen left on the bed for emergencies. Oh well, some more clean sheets.

  After he had made the necessary repairs, he stood back and took a good look at it. He was in a sense a papa. He felt as proud.

  It was a perfect little creature, glowing and round with health.

  “I have twinned,” he said happily.

  Every detail correct. The two sides of the face correctly inexact, the duplication of the original child’s lunch at the very same point of digestion. Same hair, same eyes—or was it? Sam bent over the infant. He could have sworn the other was a blonde. This child had dark hair which seemed to grow darker as he looked.

  He grabbed it with one hand and picked up the Junior Biocalibrator with the other.

  Downstairs, he placed the two babies side by side on the big bed. No doubt about it. One was blonde; the other, his plagiarism, was now a definite brunette.

  The Biocalibrator showed other differences: Slightly faster pulse for his model. Lower blood count. Minutely higher cerebral capacity, although the content was the same. Adrenalin and bile secretions entirely unalike.

  It added up to error. His child might be the superior specimen, or the inferior one, but he had not made a true copy. He had no way of knowing at the moment whether or not the infant he had built could grow into a human maturity. The other could.

  Why? He had followed directions faithfully, had consulted the calibrator tape at every step. And this had resulted. Had he waited too long before starting the vitalizer? Or was it just a matter of insufficient skill?

  Close to midnight, his watch delicately pointed out. It would be necessary to remove evidences of babymaking before the Sisters Lipanti came home. Sam considered possibilities swiftly.

  He came down in a few moments with an old tablecloth and a cardboard carton. He wrapped the child in the tablecloth, vaguely happy that the temperature had risen that night, then placed it in the carton.

  The child gurgled at the adventure. Its original on the bed gooed in return. Sam slipped quietly out into the street.

  Male and female drunks stumbled along tootling on tiny trumpets. People wished each other a hie happy new year as he strode down the necessary three blocks.

  As he turned left, he saw the sign: “Urban Foundling Home.” There was a light burning over a side door. Convenient, but that was a big city for you.

  Sam shrank into the shadow of an alley for a moment as a new idea occurred to him. This had to look genuine. He pulled a pencil out of his breast pocket and scrawled on the side of the carton in as small handwriting as he could manage:

  Please take good care of my darling little girl. I am not married.

  Then he deposited the carton on the doorstep and held his finger on the bell until he heard movement inside. He was across the street and in the alley again by the time a nurse had opened the door.

  It wasn’t until he walked into the boarding house that he remembered about the navel. He stopped and tried to recall. No, he had built his little girl without a navel! Her belly had been perfectly smooth. That’s what came of hurrying! Shoddy workmanship.

  There might be a bit of to-do in the foundling home when they unwrapped the kid. How would they explain it?

  Sam slapped his forehead. “Me and Michelangelo. He adds a navel, I forget one!”

  Except for an occasional groan, the office was fairly quiet the second day of the New Year.

  He was going through the last intriguing pages of the book when he was aware of two people teetering awkwardly near his desk. His eyes left the manual
reluctantly: “New kinds of life for your leisure moments” was really fascinating!

  Tina and Lew Knight.

  Sam digested the fact that neither of them was perched on his desk.

  Tina wore the little ring she’d received for Christmas on the third finger of her left hand; Lew was experimenting with a sheepish look and finding it difficult.

  “Oh, Sam. Last night, Lew . . . Sam, we wanted you to be the first—Such a surprise, like that, I mean! Why I almost—Naturally we thought this would be a little difficult . . . Sam, we’re going, I mean we expect—”

  “—to be married,” Lew Knight finished in what was almost an undertone. For the first time since Sam had

  known him he looked uncertain and suspicious of life, like a man who finds a newly hatched octopus in his breakfast orange juice.

  “You’d adore the way Lew proposed,” Tina was gushing. “So roundabout. And so shy. I told him afterward that I thought for a moment he was talking of something else entirely. I did have trouble understanding you, didn’t I, dear?”

  “Huh? Oh yeah, you had trouble understanding me.” Lew stared at his former rival. “Much of a surprise?”

  “Oh, no. No surprise at all. You two fit together so perfectly that I knew it right from the first.” Sam mumbled his felicitations, conscious of Tina’s searching glances. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s something I have to take care of immediately. A special sort of wedding present.”

  Lew was disconcerted. “A wedding present. This early?”

  “Why, certainly,” Tina told him. “It isn’t very easy to get just the right thing. And a special friend like Sam naturally wants to get a very special gift.”

  Sam decided he had taken enough. He grabbed the manual and his coat and dodged through the door.

  By the time he came to the red stone steps of the boarding house, he had reached the conclusion that the wound, while painful, had definitely missed his heart. He was in fact chuckling at the memory of Lew Knight’s face when his landlady plucked at his sleeve.

  “That man was here again today, Mr. Weber. He said he wanted to see you.”

  “Which man? The tall, old fellow?”

  Mrs. Lipanti nodded, her arms folded complacently across her chest. “Such an unpleasant person! When I told him you weren’t in, he insisted I take him up to your room. I said I couldn’t do that without your permission and he looked at me fit to kill. I’ve never believed in the evil eye myself—although I always say where there is smoke there must be fire—but if there is such a thing as an evil eye, he has it.”

  “Will he be back?”

  “Yes. He asked me when you usually return and I said about eight o’clock, figuring that if you didn’t want to meet him it would give you time to change your clothes and wash up and leave before he gets here. And, Mr. Weber, if you’ll excuse me for saying this, I don’t think you want to meet him.”

  “Thanks. But when he comes in at eight, show him up. If he’s the right person, I’m in illegal possession of his property. I want to know where this property originates.”

  In his room, he put the manual away carefully and told the box to open. The Junior Biocalibrator was not too bulky and newspaper would suffice to cover it. He was on his way uptown in a few minutes with the strangely shaped parcel under his arm.

  Did he still want to duplicate Tina, he pondered? Yes, in spite of everything. She was still the woman he desired more than any he had ever known; and with the original married to Lew, the replica would have no choice but himself. Only—the replica would have Tina’s characteristics up to the moment the measurements were taken; she might insist on marrying Lew as well.

  That would make for a bit of a mad situation. But he was still miles from that bridge. It might even be amusing—

  The possibility of error was more annoying. The Tina he would make might be off-center in a number of ways: reds might overlap pinks; like an imperfectly reproduced color photograph she might, in time, come to digest her own stomach; there could very easily be a streak of strange and incurable insanity implicit in his model which would not assert itself until a deep mutual affection had flowered and borne fruit. As yet, he was no great shakes as a twinner and human mimeographer; the errors he had made on Mrs. Lipanti’s niece demonstrated his amateur standing.

  Sam knew he would never be able to dismantle Tina if she proved-defective. Outside of the chivalrous concepts and almost superstitious reverence for womankind pressed into him by a small-town boyhood, there was the unmitigated horror he felt at the idea of such a beloved object going through the same disintegrating process as—well, the mannikin. But if he overlooked an essential in his construction, what other recourse would there be?

  Solution: nothing must be overlooked. Sam grinned bitterly as the ancient elevator swayed up to his office. If he only had time for a little more practice with a person whose reactions he knew so exactly that any deviation from the norm would be instantly obvious! But the strange old man would be calling tonight, and, if his business concerned “Bild-a-Man” sets, Sam’s experiments might be abruptly curtailed. And where would he find such a person—he had few real friends and no intimate ones. And, to be at all valuable, it would have to be someone he knew as well as himself.

  Himself!

  “Floor, sir.” The elevator operator was looking at him reproachfully. Sam’s exultant shout had caused him to bring the carrier to a spasmodic stop six inches under the floor level, something he had not done since that bygone day when he had first nervously reached for the controls. He felt his craftmanship was under a shadow as he morosely closed the door behind the lawyer.

  And why not himself? He knew his own physical attributes better than he knew Tina’s; any mental instability on the part of his reproduced self would be readily discernible long before it reached the point of psychosis or worse. And the beauty of it was that he would have no compunction in dissembling a superfluous Sam Weber. Quite the contrary: the horror in that situation would be the continued existence of a duplicate personality; its removal would be a relief.

  Twinning himself would provide the necessary practice in a familiar medium. Ideal. He’d have to take careful notes so that if anything went wrong he’d know just where to avoid going off the track in making his own personal Tina.

  And maybe the old geezer wasn’t interested in the set at all. Even if he was, Sam could take his landlady’s advice and not be at home when he called. Silver linings wherever he looked.

  Lew Knight stared at the instrument in Sam’s hands. “What in the sacred name of Blackstone and all his commentaries is that? Looks like a lawn mower for a window box!”

  “It’s uh, sort of a measuring gadget. Gives the right size for one thing and another and this and that. Won’t be able to get you the wedding present I have in mind unless I know the right size. Or sizes. Tina, would you mind stepping out into the hall?”

  “Nooo.” She looked dubiously at the gadget. “It won’t hurt?”

  It wouldn’t hurt a bit, Sam assured her. “I just want to keep this a secret from Lew till after the ceremony.”

  She brightened at that and preceded Sam through the door. “Hey, counselor,” one of the other young lawyers called at Lew as they left. “Hey, counselor, don’t let him do that. Possession is nine points, Sam always says. He’ll never bring her back.”

  Lew chuckled weakly and bent over his work.

  “Now I want you to go into the ladies’ room,” Sam explained to a bewildered Tina. “I’ll stand guard outside and tell the other customers that the place is out of order. If another woman is inside wait until she leaves. Then strip.”

  “Strip?” Tina squealed.

  He nodded. Then very carefully, emphasizing every significant detail of operation, he told her how to use the Junior Biocalibrator. How she must be careful to kick the switch and set the tape running. How she must cover every external square inch of her body. “This little arm will enable you to lower it down your back. No questions no
w. Git.”

  She was back in fifteen minutes, fluffing her dress into place and studying the tape with a rapt frown. “This is the strangest thing—According to the spool, my iodine content—”

  Sam snaffled the Biocalibrator hurriedly. “Don’t give it another thought. It’s a code, kind of. Tells me just what size and how many of what kind. You’ll be crazy about the gift when you see it.”

  “I know I will.” She bent over him as he kneeled and examined the tape to make certain she had applied the instrument correctly. “You know, Sam, I always felt your taste was perfect. I want you to come and visit us often after we’re married. You can have such beautiful ideas! Lew is a bit too . . . too businesslike, isn’t he? I mean it’s necessary for success and all that, but success isn’t everything. I mean you have to have culture, too. You’ll help me keep cultured, won’t you, Sam?”

  “Sure,” Sam said vaguely. The tape was complete. Now to get started! “Anything I can do—glad to help.”

  He rang for the elevator and noticed the forlorn uncertainty with which she watched him. “Don’t worry, Tina. You and Lew will be very happy together. And you’ll love this wedding present.” But not as much as I will, he told himself as he stepped into the elevator.

  Back in his room, he emptied the machine and undressed. In a few moments he had another tape on himself. He would have liked to consider it for a while, but being this close to the goal made him impatient. He locked the door, cleaned his room hurriedly of accumulated junk—remembering to grunt in annoyance at Aunt Maggie’s ties: the blue and red one almost lighted up the room—ordered the box to open—and he was ready to begin.

  First the water. With the huge amount of water necessary to the human body, especially in the case of an adult, he might as well start collecting it now. He had bought several pans and it would take his lone faucet some time to fill them all.

  As he placed the first pot under the tap, Sam wondered suddenly if its chemical impurities might affect the end product. Of course it might! These children of 2353 would probably take absolutely pure H20 as a matter of daily use; the manual hadn’t mentioned the subject, but how did he know what kind of water they had available? Well, he’d boil this batch over his chemical stove; when he got to making Tina he could see about getting aqua completely pura.