Astounding Science Fiction Stories Vol 1

by Anthology

  Doak sipped his coffee. His voice was casual. "Why did he hate the printed word?"

  "He couldn't read anything but the simplest words. The tutors his father hired and fired to get some learning into that man! He was just hopeless, that's all."

  Doak smiled. "Well, he seems to have done all right without it. I'd like to have his money."

  "And his brain?" Martha asked.

  "Just his money," Doak said. "And maybe I'll get some of it before I give up on him."

  He happened to glance at Martha after he finished saying that. Her face was coldly skeptical and he had an uncomfortable feeling that his lie hadn't registered with her at all.

  In his room, as he undressed, as he hung his clothes in the small closet, he felt the folded thickness of the dupligraphed magazine in his jacket pocket.

  What more did he need? Tomorrow he'd take the first train back to Milwaukee and the first plane from Milwaukee. Here was evidence and he realized now it wasn't something he would be wise to tackle alone. A few weeks' work by a half dozen operatives and the entire publisher-reader organization would be spotted and ready for one unified move.

  Local authorities were subject to local loyalties and one leak could scare off the whole organization. He could be back in Washington before noon, which would give him a full day and a half of free time, of June time. To say nothing of the nights.

  Why should he hang around this whistle stop for a wasted week-end, holding kitchen conversations with the unmighty living?

  But that Martha, that lovely, that proud and knowing gal.... The crickets helped him to Dreamland.

  The morning sun was bright on the quilted bedspread when he opened his eyes. There was no sound of meal preparation in the house, no dialogue. Was it early?

  It was ten o'clock. Not since he was a child had he enjoyed as long and satisfying a sleep as this.

  When he came out of the bathroom Mrs. Klein was in the hall. "About five minutes?" she asked.

  "Make it two," he told her and winked. "I'm starving."

  Martha had already gone to work. Doak sat down alone to popovers and oatmeal, eggs and Canadian bacon. And real coffee. He had an almost animal sense of well being. His decision to go back to Washington, which had seemed so final last night, was fading under the Dubbinville spell.

  After breakfast he walked down to the station and inquired about Milwaukee-bound trains.

  "There's one due at noon," the agent told him. "Stops on signal. You want me to stop it?"

  "That's kind of early," Doak said. "When's the next?"

  "At six tonight. A local. Doesn't need a signal."

  That would be soon enough. Doak left and walked slowly up the main street of Dubbinville. He was walking past the bank when the beard caught his gaze.

  * * * * *

  It was the Burns quoter of last night. He was sitting behind the biggest desk in the open portion of the bank, and there was a sign on his desk.

  The sign read, Malcolm S. Sutherland--President.

  Lordy, Lordy, Lordy--the president of the bank! That showed the strata this subversion was reaching. Didn't the man realize what a risk he was taking?

  In the drugstore he saw another of the faces he had seen last night. It was the man who had administered the hypodermic. He was talking to the druggist. Doak turned and went in.

  "All right, Doctor," the druggist said. "I'll have it about one o'clock. Will that be all right?"

  "Fine," the doctor said. He went out.

  Doak bought a package of cigarettes. "Was that Doctor Ryan by any chance?"

  "No. Doctor Helgeson. I don't recall a Doctor Ryan. Doctor Helgeson's the only medical doctor in town."

  "This Ryan's a Ph.D." Doak said. "Senator Arnold told me about him. Beautiful day, isn't it?"

  "Beautiful," the druggist agreed.

  Walking back to the house Doak wondered if this couldn't be handled without punitive measures being taken. The only doctor in town and the president of the bank--and they were probably only a small part of the picture. It could disrupt this town if Senator Arnold had his way.

  And what was their crime? Reading. A law as stupid as the ancient prohibition law had been, pushed through a bewildered Congress under much the same conditions. Supported by a strange blend of the divine and ridiculous, the naïve and the clever, the gullible and the knowing.

  Well, was it his business? He didn't make the laws--he only helped to enforce them. It was a logical answer and why didn't it satisfy him?

  He had a job, a good job at the public trough in a woman-heavy city, a security that was as solid as his country. Why should he fret over a gang of law-breakers? Unless it was that cow-town cutie, that Martha. Unless he was so dame-happy he'd sell out the Department. That corrupt he certainly wasn't--at least, not yet.

  And they weren't readers anyway--they were publishers. He had almost forgotten that. Inciters to violence, instigators of strife, polluters of the mind ... Good Lord, he was beginning to sound like crack-brained ex-Senator Arnold!

  V

  Mrs. Klein was shaking out a rug on the front porch. She smiled at him. "Not much to do here, for a city man, is there?"

  "I'm not bored," he said, "for some reason. You have a beautiful daughter, Mrs. Klein."

  "I'd feel happier about her looks if she'd marry somebody," Mrs. Klein said dryly. "Seems to me they're wasted this way."

  Doak sat on the glider. What was it someone had said about marriage? Oh, yes--that it combined the ultimate in temptation with the ultimate in opportunity.

  He said, "I'm surprised she isn't married. The men around here must be blind or mute."

  "Oh, she's had enough offers," Mrs. Klein answered. She laid the rug over the porch railing. "But she's a fussy stubborn girl." She sat in her chair. "You a married man, Mr. Parker?"

  He shook his head. "Never had the time nor the money--and besides they all said no to me."

  "I'll bet. With that hair of yours and that fine head, with those eyes, I'll bet they said no."

  "Why, thank you!" Doak said. "You have a number of good points, yourself, Mrs. Klein."

  "My popovers and my coffee, maybe," she agreed. "And my figure wasn't bad, a decade or two back. But I never had Martha's looks. That's from her dad's side of the family."

  "Handsome, were they?"

  "Oh, yes. High falutin' people, scholars and beauties who owned half the land in the county, at one time. Old Wisconsin Germans. I'm Irish myself."

  Bright scintillating dialogue, stirring the quick response. But he felt as relaxed as though he had hay in his hair. He looked out at the deserted road, at the fields beyond, at the clouds on the clear horizon. Rural summer--a quiet Saturday morning in the agricultural Midwest only nineteen minutes from Chicago.

  People spoke of other worlds and here was one, nineteen minutes from Chicago. And last night, under the lucidate, the town banker had gone to another world, three hundred years away, had gone back to the magic of Burns.

  A great lad for the ladies, Bobbie Burns, and a great love for the people. A poet with revolutionary leanings, all heart, a bleeder and a believer. Studious, Doak sat, on the front porch in another world.

  Were the people so stupid they couldn't be trusted with words? They could be misled with words and confused and stirred to unrighteous anger. And informed with words and guided and ennobled and solaced and stirred to high destiny.

  How had wrestling ever taken the place of words?

  Someone said, "Dreaming, city-man?"

  He looked up quickly to see Martha standing there. Mrs. Klein had evidently gone into the house without his being aware of it.

  "Dreaming," Doak admitted. "Holding high converse with the mighty dead." He smiled at her. "Through for the week?"

  "Through." She took the chair her mother usually occupied. "Five and a half days of whereas and wherefore earns me a day and a half for myself. At the risk of seeming forward would you like to go swimming with me this afternoon?"

  "I can't think of
a better way to spend it," Doak answered. "How about transportation?"

  "It's only a little over a mile. We can walk." She paused. "Or did you plan to see Senator Arnold?"

  "I'd rather go swimming," Doak said.

  Which they did. In the waters of Lake Memahbin, in the small cove that harbored the entire recreational facilities of Dubbinville. Doak rented some trunks there and they swam out to the raft.

  There weren't too many adults in the water this afternoon but the kids were everywhere. Noisy splashing running kids--but very few of them ventured out to the big raft.

  There was a park running the length of the beach and a variety of games--table tennis, horse-shoes, shuffleboard. There was a small group around the table in the grove who seemed to be just sitting.

  Doak saw the beard and the lady who had quoted the unknown poet, last night. He and Martha lay on their stomachs on the raft, looking back toward the shore.

  Doak said easily, "That gang in the glade doesn't seem to be having much fun."

  "Solid citizens," Martha said. "That lady is the principal of the high school and the man with the beard is president of the bank. You couldn't expect them to run and shout, could you?"

  Doak said nothing.

  She turned over on her side to look at him. "Any luck with the Senator?"

  "Not much so far. I'll get him, before Monday, though."

  She stood up and he felt a stirring in him at the sight of her taut fully-feminine figure. She poised on the edge of the raft and then her tanned body went slanting toward the water.

  She came up directly beneath him and splashed a handful of water into his face. "Sun worshipper," she mocked. "The trip out do you in?"

  He made a face at her and she went under.

  He looked over at the group in the glade. High school principal, custodian of young minds--and a reader. Worse than that, a partner in a publishing venture.

  Corruption? What kind of mind would it take to believe there was corruption in that group? A Senator Arnold kind of mind. Rebellion, yes. Oh, very definitely rebellion--under the Arnold Law.

  But how could--

  Somebody had his feet and he was being pulled head over toes into the waiting water. He came up spluttering to see Martha laughing at him from the edge of the raft.

  He started to climb up and she dove off the further side. He went after her. Much laughter and great sport. An excuse to grab her, here and there, to feel the firm, warm smoothness of her, to quicken to the challenge of her body.

  In the glade the watchers sat, missing nothing.

  Doak said, "I'm not sure the solid citizens approve of your maidenly frolicking. They seem to be frowning our way."

  "Studious types," Martha said, "but not necessarily disapproving."

  Doak was silent, staring at the water.

  "Bored?" Her voice was light.

  He looked up. "I've never been less bored. Martha, I...." He shook his head in vexation.

  "It's a little early for a pitch," she said, "though you do give it a warming amateur earnestness. Or wasn't it going to be a pitch?"

  He looked at her steadily. "What else?"

  "A warning maybe?" a break in the light tone.

  "What kind of warning?"

  It was her turn to look at the water--and to color? It seemed so, faintly, under the tan. She said, "To warn me that you're married or poor or uninterested." She looked up, smiling. "I'm such a simple country girl."

  "Yes," he said. "Sure." He looked over at the watchers. "Are they friends of yours?"

  "Yes." Her eyes wide and searching, her face and body taut. "Why?"

  "Wondered. Am I being played for a patsy?"

  Silence while she studied him. Silence while the raft gently rocked, and the world. "Patsy?" she asked.

  "Forget it. You have a great charm and an unholy animal attraction for me, Martha Klein, and maybe we'd better get back to shore and have a quiet cigarette."

  They had a cigarette and a hot dog with a skin on it, the first Doak had ever seen. They had grape pop and a few laughs. Fun in the sun at Dubbinville, U.S.A. Wouldn't the gang at home get a belt out of this? And where was June's bright metallic laughter being heard this golden afternoon?

  They walked back to town quietly, exertion-spent, sun-calmed. They came up onto the porch, and Mrs. Klein looked from Martha's face to Doak's and frowned--and sighed.

  "Fun?" she asked.

  "Wonderful," Doak said. "And Martha surprised me by being able to swim. None of my other girls can swim a lick."

  "Martha's no girl," Mrs. Klein said. "She's twenty-seven."

  Martha laughed. "Why, mother, you'll never get rid of me that way."

  Mrs. Klein said, "I almost forgot. Mr. Arnold called. Wants to see you, Mr. Parker, tonight."

  "Well, maybe he is sold. Wonder how he knew I was here."

  "There isn't much he doesn't know about what's going on in town," Mrs. Klein said. "I'd wager there isn't anything." She looked at Martha as she said that last.

  Martha's face was blank.

  "Maybe I can put it off until tomorrow," Doak said. "It's been a pretty good day up to now."

  He called the Senator from the drug store in town. He told him, "Nothing definite, yet, Senator."

  "Don't give me that," Arnold said raspingly. "Get up here right away, Parker."

  Doak stopped at the house on the way back. He told Mrs. Klein, "I might be a little late for supper. I think I'll run up and see the Senator now and get it over with."

  "We'll hold it," she said. She looked around to see if Martha was within hearing. Then, "You're not trifling with my girl, Mr. Parker?"

  "Not for a second," Doak assured her. "Though I have an uncomfortable feeling she's trifling with me, but good."

  Mrs. Klein shook her dark head. "Not with that sick-calf look on her face. The girl's smitten. You watch your step, Mr. Parker."

  "I promise," he said. "I'll be back as soon as possible."

  The hot room, the face like ashes, the cracked voice. No chair again for Doak. Arnold said, "You went up there last night, I know. Well?"

  "I'll make a full report to my superior," Doak said. "I'm not permitted to discuss Department business with anybody, Senator."

  Arnold's thin lips were open, his bony jaw slack. "Well, I'll be damned. Do you know who you're talking to, young man?"

  "An ex-Senator," Doak answered.

  "That's right--and the man who put your superior where he is. He'd still be peddling papers if I hadn't got him into the Department."

  Doak said nothing.

  "I could get your job in a minute," Arnold went on. "I'm a hell of a long ways from dead, Parker. You'd better wake up."

  Doak had no words.

  "Well, damn it, man, are you dumb? What have you got to say?"

  "I've said it, sir," Doak said quietly.

  For long and silent seconds, Arnold glared at him. And then he said, "All right. I'll get my report from Ryder--and your job. Now get out."

  Fine, great! Hero Doak Parker, of Security. Lion bearder, hair-splitter, cutter-of-his-own-throat, lover of a country lass. And man without a future, it looked like now.

  * * * * *

  The dogs slobbered and watched, the gravel grated under his feet. The great gates swung open and Doak took a deep breath of the warm clean air. Why did he feel so free?

  Martha was sitting on the front porch. She looked up and smiled as he came near and he stooped to kiss her.

  "Hey!" she said. "Watch it, city man." But she hadn't taken her lips away for a few seconds.

  From his jacket pocket he took the Heritage Herald and tossed it in her lap. She looked down at it for seconds, then up to read his face. He said nothing.

  "Last night," she said, "you got it. I missed it when I went upstairs, last night, but I thought someone else might have taken it."

  "I took it--last night."

  Her eyes searched his wonderingly but there was no evident tension in her. Doak sat on the glider.

>   She said, "I was too forward to be believed this afternoon, perhaps? Did you listen last night?"

  "I listened. I'm from Security, Martha--or was. I'm resigning."

  "Oh? To fight the good fight?"

  He nodded. "But legally--or what is known as legally. Through the pressure-group pattern. I know my way around Washington, Martha. I think, in time and with the right people behind me, I think I could--oh, hell!"

  "Yes," she said. "Oh, hell! When you were swimming this afternoon we could have got this, Doak. I told them to wait. I told them I thought you had the makings of an honest man."

  "Why?" He stared at her.

  "I don't know why. Maybe your curly hair. I'm admitting nothing along that line, not yet, Doak. I want to see what kind of fighter you are, how much man you are."

  "I wish I knew," he said quietly. "One thing I'm sure of, I'm going to enjoy the battle."

  "You're going to enjoy both battles," Martha said. "And probably win both. But oh, the bastards we're going to have to fight."

  He smiled and looked out at the shadowed lawn. This would be a place for the historians, the writing historians, Dubbinville, U.S.A. And why should a man be happy, looking forward to so damned much trouble?

  Mr. Gault has just presented us with a wholly plausible if highly terrifying view of a reasonably near future. Such things could, conceivably, come to pass. And prophecy, from the time of Jules Verne to the present, has long been one of the several spinal columns of science fiction. Yet is it possible for anyone to predict an unvisited future? We are inclined to think not. Gadgetry to come, as repeatedly demonstrated by Verne, is easy. But no one yet has been able to tell what human beings are going to do from day to day, much less years and years ahead of time.

  * * *

  Contents

  THE SPHERE OF SLEEP

  By Chester S. Geier

  Brad Nelson had a perfect way to kill Big Tim without any danger of being accused. Then his foot slipped and he was hurled into an unknown world.

  "I've got to kill you, Big Tim. I've just got to kill you! I want Laura--and you're standing in my way...."