He decided to take Old Tom with him on his trip to the Drian plant. As he left the landing area on the roof of the building in his private flier, the cat sat beside him placidly surveying the dank jungles that surrounded the city of Viamonde. The smoke of fires burning to smelt ore and to power cheap, old-fashioned steam machinery mingled with the natural fog to make the sky an almost impenetrable curtain through which they flew.
The Drian plant was located in one of the most inaccessible jungle areas of the whole planet, but it was in the heart of Venusian habitation. It covered a square mile of cleared jungle land, in which was manufactured the deadliest weapon of the Universe.
The distorter created a field at a predetermined distance which disturbed the natural molecular equilibrium of substances to such an extent that the entire structure shifted its internal relationship, destroying machine functions and instantly killing all forms of life.
The Venusians, of course, had no knowledge of the function of the instrument. They knew only that they were being paid handsomely for something they did almost for pleasure. For it was a pleasure for them to use their agile fingers in the fabrication of delicate artifacts.
The native Venusians were delicate, almost pigmy creatures, seldom over three feet in height, and covered with a silky, water repellent fur.
For ages they had been subject to the disease they called jungle Dread until they did not know it was a disease and thought it a natural condition. The evolutionary processes that built them failed even after long ages to provide an immunity to the disease. Only when a natural immune, a mutation, somehow appeared in their midst did they know that something better was attainable. The immunes became leaders of their people, but their own immunity was not transmitted to their progeny.
So it was that when the first Earthmen came and discovered the nature of jungle Dread, and provided a temporary relief from the enervating illness, that the Venusians experienced a vast renaissance. For many years they had been content with the things Earthmen offered. Now they were beginning to understand the ways of Earthmen upon Earth. They began to see glimpses of the light of civilization in their jungle darkness and they were reaching out for those things that they could see.
Many Earthmen knew it and saw it as inevitable that the Venusians could not much longer be exploited without raising their standards of living and granting them the fruits of civilization, but Jason Cartwright refused to believe it. His empire had been built upon imperialism and exploitation. To admit these were becoming old-fashioned would admit the waning of his star.
* * * *
On the invisible guide beam that led the ship through the fog and dullness, Jason sped towards his goal. Near the end of the journey he glimpsed the broad square that marked the great Drian plant in the jungle depths. The ship nosed down and settled gently upon the landing area at one edge.
Westerman, the plant manager, was waiting as the ship settled.
Jason had called him in mid-flight to advise of his arrival.
Westerman was a good man. He believed in the inevitable righteousness of wealth and in the unquestionable right of Cartwright Enterprises to exploit as they were exploiting the Venusians.
He welcomed Jason with a handshake and a proffered cigar. The heavy diamonds on his ring finger were dulled with condensed moisture of the humid atmosphere.
“Come in, Jason,” he said. “This is a surprise. I had no idea you were coming down today.”
Jason answered only when they were in the triple-shielded office where no radiation could penetrate to reveal spoken words. The cat, Old Tom, followed the men and took up his place in the window where he could watch the fog shapes move soundlessly.
Jason said, “I didn’t plan to come, but Reamond says things are getting out of hand with the Venusians down here. We’ve got to do something to get those distorters out. I promised the Jovians a hundred thousand units in three days.”
Westerman’s cigar dropped as his jaws slackened. “A hundred thousand! Man, you’re crazy! We’ve only got fifty thousand ready for shipment now.”
“I know. I don’t intend to give them more than sixty, but we’ve got to let them have at least that many.”
“We might be able to do that, but a hundred is ridiculous.”
“Reamond thinks we’ve got to give in to the Venusians.”
“No! That’s stupid!” Westerman’s face grew florid as his most fundamental principle of operation was suddenly thrown into question. “It would be commercial suicide to give in to them. They’ll ask for more and more until they own the company. It’s ridiculous.”
“I think maybe Reamond’s right, to some degree. We’re wasting our energies and money and reducing our production by constantly fighting the Venusians. Even if we do give in to them an inch at a time we can keep them at a sufficiently low level of consumption that we’ll still be ahead of the game in increased production. After all,” Jason said expansively, “we’re not a bunch of robbers and cutthroats. We’re out to give a fair deal wherever it will be to our best interests.”
“Save it for the publicity office,” said Westerman sarcastically. “I’m against any retreat from our present position. We’ve established a reasonable rate of pay and living conditions for these … these savages—that’s all they were before we came. We have no obligation to raise them to any cultural level above their own.”
“I’m going to try it as an experiment anyway,” said Jason. “Besides it will be one wary of controlling the immunes. We’ll grant increases only on condition that no immunes be employed.”
“I’m against it,” said Westerman.
That afternoon an attention alarm sounded throughout the vast shops where thousands of intent Venusians bent over their work benches on the long assembly lines where the deadly weapons were being constructed.
Then there came the voice of Jason Cartwright, automatically being translated into the Venusian tongue as he spoke. He promised the Venusians that provision would be made for their own village near the plant, with civilized homes, warmed and lighted and provided with water and sewage, for these were the things that the Venusians had learned that Earthmen had. He promised them good food and clothing, for in dress they desired to imitate the Earthman. And he promised adequate antidote for Jungle Dread. The only provision was that no immunes were to be employed.
He allowed them an hour to come to a decision and at the end of that time offered to meet their delegates. He was much surprised when they came to the office twenty minutes later and accepted the full provisions of his plan with complete agreement on the prohibition against immunes.
Jason smiled confidently at Westerman as he prepared to leave. “You see? It takes only a little diplomacy and you can get anything out of these Venusians. I’ll bet they’d turn out a hundred thousand units if you asked them to.”
“And I’ll guarantee your troubles aren’t over yet,” said Westerman. “Within a week there’ll be new ones. They’ve got something up their sleeves. You’ll see.”
Jason laughed heartily and called to Old Tom who leaped agilely into place within the ship. Within moments the ship disappeared into the fog.
* * * *
At home that night, Jason considered that he’d done a good day’s work. His success with the Venusians overcame somewhat the previous defeats that still rankled in his mind.
The big house was empty in spite of the score of servants in various parts ready to attend his slightest wish. It was Lotta who made that big house into something that approached a home. It was the quiet background of her presence that had provided Jason the small amount of mental peace that was present in his life.
He had sold out on that pretty cheaply, he thought. He still would like to know exactly how Lotta had found him out.
After the solitary dinner he wandered out into the spacious yards and called in the foggy darkness for Old Tom, but the cat failed to respond. He had the freedom of the yards at night and Jason gave up after a while. He went to bed early,
anticipating a good day to follow.
He rose early the next morning and found Old Tom already having a breakfast of thick cream. Jason turned on the newscast coming direct from Earth as he began his own meal.
The newscast was interrupted almost before it started by a sudden call. Jason answered, and Westerman’s frantic voice surged into the room.
“Jason! Something’s leaked somewhere. The Venusians have got hold of the information that these instruments are distorters and weapons of war. They refuse to have anything to do with them because they are to be used in killing. This morning the whole plant is shut down!”
“How did they find that out? They aren’t smart enough to figure it out for themselves. Take them off antidote!”
“I don’t know bow they found out. They simply say it came out of the jungle. Someone in the jungle told someone else, but they believe it. As for the antidote, that’s a joke, Jason, and it’s on you.”
“What are you talking about? Explain yourself!”
“You made them agree that no immunes would work here. They’re all immunes, every one of them. Punish them by sending them away and the whole plant closes. We’re helpless to do anything about it and they knew it when you bargained with them.” Jason stared at him, trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. “That’s impossible. There aren’t that many immunes.”
“Have it your way. But I’m telling you what happened. We diluted the day’s antidote. Nothing happened. They show no response. And they won’t work. If you think you can get those sixty thousand units out of here in three days, you’d better come on down.”
“No … no, we’ll have to think of something. I’ll call you later.”
He sat down at the breakfast table again, his mind unable to concentrate on a single point. It skipped frantically about the growing pyramid of defeats he had experienced the past few days. First Lotta, then Bridgeman had escaped him. But those events were minor compared to this. How had the Venusians learned of the functions of the distorter!
He forced the breakfast food into his stomach and turned up the newscast once more.
Halfway through his dish of Venusian colqua fruit he halted with spoon in midair. The newscast announcer was saying:
“The biggest news this morning is the revelation of the near outbreak of war between two major powers of the System, Mars and the Jovian Satellite Federation. The revelation came as evidence was presented to both sides showing incontrovertible proof that each was preparing attacks that would precipitate suicidal war, for each was about evenly matched with equipment in the form of the newly developed distorters, the frightful weapons whose almost untold range and power of destruction would surely have decimated both groups. The war, however, has been averted at least temporarily, with the decision to submit it to arbitration.
“The Council of Associated System Governments is making rapid moves to outlaw the distorter and destroy all facilities for its production, for it is the one weapon of war which has no legitimate use, therefore, there is no excuse for its continued production.
“It is rumored, incidentally, that there is only one people capable of such work as is required in distorter production. They are the Venusians, and swift control of the Venusian producers is expected.
“Actual copies of secret files are in existence as evidence that the great Cartwright Enterprises are responsible for the production of these deadly weapons. Their reports, as shown here, indicate the amount of production allotted to each side.”
* * * *
Jason Cartwright suddenly thought that he was going to faint. Dizziness and nausea assailed him as the speaker’s face was replaced by a view of the papers indicated—papers from Jason’s own secret files in his office!
Time seemed to have halted while slowly the realization filtered through his brain that his dream was utterly smashed. His dream of a vast commercial empire to be washed up on his shores by the turbulence of war on other worlds was shattered. And even more than that, the position of the entire Cartwright Enterprises would be destroyed in the flood of public opinion that would be turned against it as the result of this revelation.
He sat down in his chair again without having realized he had risen to press his face against the visor screen when it showed his own secret documents.
Defeat—defeat so monumental it was destroying all he had fought and lived for—shook him as if with ague.
Slowly his mind resumed functioning. How had those pictures of his records been obtained? The office was guarded like a mint. There was not a comprehensible chance of any unwanted visitor breaking in. It was scientifically impossible for spy equipment to have been installed. Yet there it was, proof that someone had obtained those records.
His mind fought with the turbulent question. It went back to the other recent instances when it seemed that secret information known only to him had leaked. The revelation of his deception to his wife, the tipping off of Bridgeman, even Dr. Wallace’s knowledge of Jason’s secret drinking, the revelation of the purpose of their product to the Venusians at Drian, the whole exposure of the war plans between Jupiter and Mars.
Every one of those instances involved secrets known to him and they had leaked. Fantastically and impossibly leaked.
Had he somehow been subjected to drugs or hypnotism and made to reveal them? That would mean that there was a traitor in his own organization. Reamond, perhaps?
Yet there was another, more remote possibility that gnawed at the base of his mind. His brother, Robert, was his bitterest sworn enemy. Was it somehow possible that Robert was responsible for this? His men had reported that Robert had set up a jungle laboratory not far from the city, in fact it was less than five miles from Jason’s mansion, but there was nothing suspicious going on there. Robert seemed to be engaged in some kind of research having to do with jungle flora and fauna. He never ventured out of the jungle any more. He seemed perfectly harmless there with his three Venusian servants who apparently worked for nothing, since he had nothing with which to pay them.
But Jason still could not rid his mind of the image of Robert as he stood in the office that last day. Robert had been so sure of himself as he had uttered his crazy threats: “I’ll never allow you to interfere with my work. You said the cat was symbolic and your Old Tom may be in your possession, but I am still his master.”
The words rang in Jason’s ears. Robert seemed to have taken a new symbolism in possession of Old Tom that didn’t make sense to Jason.
The pictures of his secret files as shown on the news screen came back to his mind. Then suddenly Jason’s face went livid and twisted crazily. He reached for the cat as it finished the last of its cream and hurled it madly across the room. It screamed wildly and crashed into thick draperies hanging from the opposite wall, which is all that saved its life.
It clung frantically for a moment, then leaped to the floor with a fighting snarl and arched back.
“So you’re symbolic!” snarled Jason. “What a mortal fool I was to miss your symbolism! If you can hear me now, Robert, know that I’m coming after you. This robot of yours has given itself away. Those pictures of my secret records were on my desk and it was my hand holding them, and the viewpoint was that of the cat as he sat on my desk that day. I’m coming for you, Robert, but I’m going to bring the remains of your robot with me.”
And then Jason knew that he was acting stupidly. Robert couldn’t have been listening. The robot couldn’t contain a radio transmitter. That would be futile in view of the screens and shields that protected Jason’s home and office. The information was divulged in some other manner. Yet how? He calmed. His suspicions were fantastic. Yet there was no other possible means by which he had been betrayed. Somehow the cat had done it.
Jason turned to the cat again as it cowered lifelike in the corner. He had to admire the workmanship that had produced such a thing. Robert was clever, more clever than he had thought. Clever enough to finally wreck the great Cartwright empire. But he would pay for it.
With the thing in a sack, Jason took it to the laboratories in his office building. He handed it to the X-ray machine operator, “I want pictures of this cat. Put it in a pressure vault, however, because it may explode.
Leave it in the sack! It’s wild…
The bewildered operator did as be was told. But Jason’s fears were not realized. The cat didn’t explode. And the pictures told a story. Not all of it, but enough.
He called Reamond. The private patrol leader’s face was incredulous as Jason unfolded the story. He was torn between a rat’s desire to leave the sinking ship, and the knowledge that Jason still had too great a hold on him for that. He said, “What do you want?”
Jason said, “Get a pair of your best men and some weapons. We’re going in after that rat if it’s the last thing we do.”
“Don’t you think he’ll be expecting us?”
“No. He can’t know that I’ve discovered the nature of his cat. We’ll even let the thing lead us to him, because he must have some way of knowing when it’s coming.
They waited until dark, and it was the longest day of Jason’s life. He avoided the newscasts, and stayed away from the offices. The Council would come for him soon enough. He rehearsed the things he would say to Robert, the tortures he would put him to before he killed him.
Then, at last, things were ready. Reamond came to the mansion shortly after dusk with his three picked gunmen, Riley, Wilson and Stacy. Jason didn’t like the appearance of any of them from a subjective point of view, but they looked competent in their trade.
“We’re ready,” said Reamond, Jason took the sack in which the cat had been imprisoned all day and then went out into the thick darkness beyond the boundaries of the mansion. Jason fastened a collar and long wire to the cat, then let him go. The cat leaped away until be was brought up by the restraining wire. He fought it madly and Jason sloshed rapidly through the wet jungle to follow.
Sunday is Three Thousand Years Away and Other SF Classics Page 9