American Science Fiction Five Classic Novels 1956-58

by Gary K. Wolfe

  Meanwhile, he went on gathering facts.

  Starke was a veteran of the high school teaching circuit. He’d seen his share of morning glories and of impassive averagemechanics working for the Valedictorian’s chair on graduation night. He’d gotten past the point of resenting them, and long before that he’d gotten past the point of wasting his conversation on them. He’d found out early in the game that their interests were not in common with his own.

  So Lucas Martino attracted him and he felt obligated to establish some kind of link with the boy. He took several weeks to find the opportunity, and even then he had to force it. He was clumsy, because sociability wasn’t his forte. He was an economical man, saw no reason to establish social relations with anyone he didn’t respect, and respected few people.

  Lucas was finishing up a report at the end of a class when Starke levered himself out of his chair, waited for the rest of the class to start filing out, and walked over to the boy.

  “Martino—”

  Lucas looked up, surprised but not startled. “Yes, Mr. Starke?”

  “Uh—you’re not a member of the Physics Club, are you?”

  “No, sir.” The Physics Club existed as yet another excuse for a group picture in the yearbook.

  “Well—I’ve been thinking of having the club perform some special experiments. Outside of class. Might even work up some demonstrations and stage them at an assembly. I thought the rest of the student body might be interested.” All of this was sheer fabrication, arrived at on the spur of the moment, and Starke was astonished at himself. “Wondered if you’d care to join in.”

  Lucas shook his head. “Sorry, Mr. Starke. I don’t have much extra time, with football practice and work at night.”

  Ordinarily, Starke wouldn’t have pressed further. Now he said, “Come on, Martino. Frank Del Bello’s on the team, too, and he’s a member of the club.”

  For some reason, Lucas felt as though Starke were probing an exposed nerve. After all, as far as Lucas Martino knew up to this moment, he had no rational basis for considering the physics class any more important than his other courses. But he reacted sharply and quickly. “I’m afraid I’m not interested in popular science, Mr. Starke.” He immediately passed over the fact that belonging to the club as it was and following Starke’s new program were two different things. He wasn’t interested in fine argumentative points. He clearly understood that Starke was after something else entirely, and that Starke, with his momentum gathered, would keep pushing. “I don’t think that demonstrating nuclear fission by dropping a cork into a bunch of mousetraps has anything to do with physics. I’m sorry.”

  It was suddenly a ticklish moment for both of them. Starke was unused to being stopped once he’d started something. Lucas Martino lived by facts, and the facts of the circumstances left him only one position to take, as he saw it. In a very real sense, each felt the other’s mass resisting him, and each knew that something violent could result unless they found some neutral way to disengage.

  “What is your idea of physics, Martino?”

  Lucas took the opening and turned into it gratefully. He found it led farther than he’d thought. “I think it’s the most important thing in the world, sir,” he said, and felt like a man stumbling out over a threshold.

  “You do, eh? Why?” Starke slammed the door behind him.

  Lucas fumbled for words. “The universe is a perfect structure. Everything in it is in balance. It’s complete. Nothing can be added to it or taken away.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  Bit by bit, facts were falling together in Lucas Martino’s mind. Ideas, half-thoughts, bits of formulation that he failed to recognize as fragments of a philosophy—all these things suddenly arranged themselves in a systematic and natural order as he listened to what he’d just said on impulse. For the first time since the day he’d come to this class with a fresh, blank laboratory notebook, he understood exactly what he was doing here. He understood more than that; he understood himself. His picture of himself was complete, finished for all time.

  That left him free to turn to something else.

  “Well, Martino?”

  Lucas took one deep breath, and stopped fumbling. “The universe is constructed of perfectly fitted parts. Every time you rearrange the position of one, you affect all the others. If you add something in one place, you had to take it away from somewhere else. Everything we do—everything that has ever been done—was accomplished by rearranging pieces of the universe. If we knew exactly where everything fitted, and what moving it would do to all the other pieces, we’d be able to do things more effectively. That’s what physics is doing—investigating the structure of the universe and giving us a system to handle it with. That’s the most basic thing there is. Everything else depends on it.”

  “That’s an article of faith with you, is it?”

  “That’s the way it is.” Faith has nothing to do with it.” The answer came quickly. He didn’t quite understand what Starke meant. He was too full of the realization that he had just learned what he was for.

  Starke had run across carefully rehearsed speeches before. He got at least one a year from some bright boy who’d seen a movie about Young Tom Edison. He knew Martino wasn’t likely to be giving him that, but he’d been fooled before. So he took his long look at the boy before he said anything.

  He saw Lucas Martino looking back at him as though sixteenyear-old boys took their irrevocable vows every day.

  It upset Starke. It made him uncomfortable, and it made him draw back for the first time in his life.

  “Well. So that’s your idea of physics. Planning to go on to Massachusetts Tech, are you?”

  “If I can get the money together. And my grades aren’t too high, are they?”

  “The grades can be taken care of, if you’ll work at it. The semester’s not that far gone. And money’s no problem. There’re all kinds of science scholarships. If you miss on that, you can probably get one of the big outfits like G. E. to underwrite you.”

  Martino shook his head. “It’s a three-factor problem. My graduating average won’t be that high, no matter what I do the next two years here. And I don’t want to be tied to anybody’s company, and third, scholarships don’t cover everything. You’ve got to have decent clothes at college, and you’ve got to have some money in your pocket to relax on once in a while. I’ve heard about M.I.T. Nobody human can take their curriculum and earn money part-time. If you’re there, you’re there twenty-four hours a day. And I’m going for my doctorate. That’s seven years, minimum. No, I’m going to New York after I graduate here and work in my Uncle Luke’s place until I get some money put away. I’ll be a New York resident and put in a cheap year at C.C.N.Y. I’ll pile up an average there, and get my tuition scholarship to Massachusetts that way.”

  The plan unfolded easily and spontaneously. Starke couldn’t have guessed it was being created on the spot. Martino had put all the facts together, seen how they fit, and what action they indicated. It was as easy as that.

  “Talked it over with your parents, have you?”

  “Not yet.” For the first time, he showed hesitation. “It’ll be rough on them. It’ll be a long time before I can send them any money.” Also, but never to be put in words for a stranger, the life of the family would be changed forever, never to be put back in the same way again.

  2.

  “I don’t understand,” his mother said. “Why should you suddenly want to go to this school in Boston? Boston is far away from here. Farther than New York.”

  He had no easy answer. He sat awkwardly at the dinner table, looking down at his plate.

  “I don’t understand it either,” his father said to his mother. “But if he wants to go, that’s his choice. He’s not leaving right away, in any case. By the time he goes, he’ll be a man. A man has a right to decide these things.”

  He looked from his mother to his father, and he could see it wasn’t something he could explain. For a mome
nt, he almost said he’d changed his mind.

  Instead he said, “Thank you for your permission.” Move one piece of the universe, and all the others are affected. Add something to one piece, and another must lose. What real choice did he have, when everything meshed together, one block of fact against another, and there was only one best way to act?

  Chapter Five

  1.

  On the eighth day after the man had come over the line, the annunciator buzzed on Rogers’ desk.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Deptford is here to see you, sir.”

  Rogers grunted. He said, “Send him in, please,” and sat waiting.

  Deptford came into the office. He was a thin, gray-faced man in a dark suit, and he was carrying a briefcase. “How are you, Shawn?” he said quietly.

  Rogers stood up. “Fine, thanks,” he answered slowly. “How are you?”

  Deptford shrugged. He sat down in the chair beside the end of Rogers’ desk and laid the briefcase in his lap. “I thought I’d bring the decision on the Martino matter down with me.” He opened the briefcase and handed Rogers a manila envelope. “In there’s the usual file copy of the official policy directive, and a letter to you from Karl Schwenn’s office.”

  Rogers picked up the envelope. “Did Schwenn give you a very bad time, sir?”

  Deptford smiled thinly. “They didn’t quite know what to do. It didn’t seem to be anybody’s fault. But they’d needed an answer very badly. Now, at the sacrifice of the K-Eighty-eight program, they don’t need it so badly any more. But they still need it, of course.”

  Rogers nodded slowly.

  “I’m replacing you here as sector chief. They’ve put a new man in my old job. And the letter from Schwenn reassigns you to follow up on Martino. Actually, I think Schwenn arrived at the best answer to a complicated situation.”

  Rogers felt his lips stretch in an uncomfortable grimace of surprise and embarrassment. “Well.” There was nothing else to say.

  2.

  “Direct investigation won’t do it,” Rogers said to the man. “We tried, but it can’t be done. We can’t prove who you are.”

  The glinting eyes looked at him impassively. There was no telling what the man might be thinking. They were alone in the small room, and Rogers suddenly understood that this had turned into a personal thing between them. It had happened gradually, he could see now, built up in small increments over the past days, but this was the first time it had struck him, and so it had also happened suddenly. Rogers found himself feeling personally responsible for the man’s being here, and for everything that had happened to him. It was an unprofessional way to feel, but the fact was that he and this man were here face to face, alone, and when it came down to the actual turn of the screw it was Rogers whose hand was on the wrench.

  “I see what you mean,” the man said. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about it.” He was sitting stiffly in his chair, his metal hand across his lap and there was no telling whether he had been thinking of it coldly and dispassionately, or whether hopes and desperate ideas had gone echoing through his brain like men in prison hammering on the bars. “I thought I might be able to come up with something. What about skin pore patterns? Those couldn’t have been changed.”

  Rogers shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Martino. Believe me, we had experts in physical identification thrashing this thing back and forth for days. Pore patterns were mentioned, as a matter of fact. But unfortunately, that won’t do us any good. We don’t have verified records from before the explosion. Nobody ever thought we’d have to go into details as minute as that.” He raised his hand, rubbed it wearily across the side of his head, and dropped it in resignation. “That’s true of everything in that line, I’m afraid. We have your fingerprints and retinal photographs on file. Both are useless now.”

  And here we are, he thought, fencing around the entire question of whether you’re really Martino but went over to them. There’re limits to what civilized people can bring out into the open, no matter how savagely they can speculate. So it doesn’t matter. There’s no easy escape for either of us, no matter what we say or do now. We’ve had our try at the easy answers, and there aren’t any. It’s the long haul for both of us now.

  “Isn’t there anything to work on at all?”

  “I’m afraid not. No distinguishing marks or scars that couldn’t be faked, no tattoos, no anything. We’ve tried, Mr. Martino. We’ve thought of every possibility. We accumulated quite a team of specialists. The consensus is there’s no fast answer.”

  “That’s hard to believe,” the man said.

  “Mr. Martino, you’re more deeply involved in the problem than any of us. You’ve been unable to offer anything useful. And you’re a pretty smart man.”

  “If I’m Lucas Martino,” the man said drily.

  “Even if you’re not.” Rogers brought his palms down on his knees. “Let’s look at it logically. Anything we can think of, they could have thought of first. In trying to establish anything about you, normal approaches are useless. We’re the specialists in charge of taking you apart, and a great many of us have been in this kind of work a long time. I was head of A.N.G. Security in this sector for seven years. I’m the fellow responsible for the agents we drop into their organizations. But when I try to crack you, I’ve got to face the possibility that just as many experts on the other side worked at putting you together—and you yourself can most likely match my own experience in spades. What’s opposed here are the total efforts of two efficient organizations, each with the resources of half the world. That’s the situation, and we’re all stuck with it.”

  “What’re you going to do?”

  “That’s what I’m here to tell you. We couldn’t keep you here indefinitely. We don’t do things that way. So you’re free to go.”

  The man raised his head sharply. “There’s a catch to it.”

  Rogers nodded. “Yes, there is. We can’t let you go back to sensitive work. That’s the catch, and you already knew it. Now it’s official. You’re free to go and do anything you like, as long as it isn’t physics.”

  “Yes.” The man’s voice was quiet. “You want to see me run. How long does that injunction apply? How long’re you going to keep watching me?”

  “Until we find out who you are.”

  The man began to laugh, quietly and bitterly.

  3.

  “So he’s leaving here today?” Finchley asked.

  “Tomorrow morning. He wants to go to New York. We’re paying his flight transportation, we’ve assigned him a onehundred-per cent disability pension, and given him four months’ back pay at Martino’s scale.”

  “Are you going to put a surveillance team on him in New York?”

  “Yes. And I’ll be on the plane with him.”

  “You will? You’re dropping your job here?”

  “Yes. Orders. He’s my personal baby. I’ll head up the New York A.N.G. surveillance unit.”

  Finchley looked at him curiously. Rogers kept his eyes level. After a moment, the F.B.I. man made an odd sucking noise between his two upper front teeth and let it go at that. But Rogers saw his mouth stretch into the peculiar grimace a man shows when a fellow professional falls from grace.

  “What’s your procedure going to be?” Finchley asked carefully. “Just keep him under constant watch until he makes a wrong move?”

  Rogers shook his head. “No. We’ve got to screw it down tighter than that. There’s only one possible means of identification left. We’ve got to build up a psychological profile on Lucas Martino. Then we’ll match it against this fellow’s pattern of actions and responses, in situations where we’d be able to tell exactly how the real Martino’d react. We’re going to dig—deeper than any security clearance, deeper than the Recording Angel, if we have to. We’re going to reduce Lucas Martino to so many points on a graph, and then we’re going to chart this fellow against him. Once he does something Lucas Martino would never have done, we’ll know. Once he expres
ses an attitude the old, loyal Lucas Martino didn’t have, we’ll come down on him like a ton of bricks.”

  “Yes—but . . .” Finchley looked umcomfortable. His specific assignment to Rogers’ team was over. From now on he’d be only a liaison man between Rogers’ A.N.G. surveillance unit and the F.B.I. As a member of a different organization, he’d be expected to give help when needed, but no unaskedfor suggestions. And particularly now, with Rogers bound to be sensitive about rank, he was wary of overstepping. “Well?” Rogers asked.

  “Well, what you’re going to do is wait for this man to make his mistake. He’s a clever man, so he won’t make it soon, and it won’t be a big one. It’ll be some little thing, and it may be years before he makes it. It may be fifteen years. He may die without making it. And all that time he’ll be on the spot. All that time he may be Lucas Martino—and if he is, this system’s never going to prove it.”

  Rogers’ voice was soft. “Can you think of anything better? Anything at all?” It wasn’t Finchley’s fault they were in this mess. It wasn’t the A.N.G.’s fault he’d had to be demoted. It wasn’t Martino’s fault this whole thing had started. It wasn’t Roger’s fault—still, wasn’t it?, he thought—that Mr. Deptford had been demoted. They were caught up in a structure of circumstances that were each fitted to one another in an inevitable pattern, each so shaped and so placed that they fell naturally into a trackless maze, and there was nothing for anyone to do but follow along.