(4/15) The Golden Age of Science Fiction Volume IV: An Anthology of 50 Short Stories

by Various

  "What time is it?" Janis asked weakly.

  Andy glanced to a wall clock, then gave it a double take.

  One of the girls said, "It's three o'clock in the morning." She edged nearer Andy, obviously eager to replace Janis as the center of attention. Andy ignored her.

  "I ... I've been here since ... golly, yesterday morning at nine," Janis said. "I came to work as usual and...."

  Slowly, haltingly, she recited the routine of a routine work day, then told about the quick snack that sufficed for supper and about staying on her phone and typewriter for another five hours. "It was about eleven when the relief crew came in."

  "What did you do then?" Andy asked.

  "I ... I took a break and...." Her ivory skin reddened, the color spreading into the roots of her fluffy curls, and she turned her face away from Andy. "And I had a sandwich and some coffee and got a little nap in the ladies' lounge and ... and that's all."

  "And that's not all," Andy prompted. "What else?"

  "Nothing," Janis said too quickly.

  Andy shook his head. "Tell it all and maybe it'll help."

  "But ... but...."

  "Was it something against regulations?"

  "I ... I don't know. I think...."

  "I'll vouch for your job in this office."

  "Well...." She seemed on the verge of tears and her pleading glance sought out Andy, then Bettijean, then her co-workers. Finally, resigned, she said, "I ... I wrote a letter to my mother."

  Andy swallowed against his groan of disappointment. "And you told her about what we were doing here."

  Janis nodded, and tears welled into her wide eyes.

  "Did you mail it?"

  "Y ... yes."

  "You didn't use a government envelope to save a stamp?"

  "Oh, no. I always carry a few stamps with me." She choked down a sob. "Did I do wrong?"

  "No, I don't think so," Andy said, patting her shoulder. "There's certainly nothing secret about this epidemic. Now you just take it easy and--. Oh, here's a doctor now."

  The doctor, a white-headed Air Force major, bustled into the room. A lab technician in a white smock was close behind. Andy could only shrug and indicate the girl.

  Turning away, lighting a cigarette, he tried to focus on the tangle of thoughts that spun through his head. Doctors, writers, society matrons, office workers--Aspen, Taos and college towns--thousands of people sick--but none in that valley in Tennessee--and few government workers--just one girl in his office--and she was sicker and more frightened about a letter--and....

  "Hey, wait!" Andy yelled.

  Everyone in the room froze as Andy spun around, dashed to Bettijean's desk and yanked out the wide, top drawer. He pawed through it, straightened, then leaped across to the desk Janis had used. He snatched open drawer after drawer. In a bottom one he found her purse. Ripping it open, he dumped the contents on the desk and clawed through the pile until he found what he wanted. Handing it to the lab technician, he said, "Get me a report. Fast."

  The technician darted out.

  Andy wheeled to Bettijean. "Get the brass in here. And call the general first." To the doctor, he said, "Give that girl the best of everything."

  Then he ducked back to his own office and to the pile of reports. He was still poring over them when the general arrived. Half a dozen other brass hats, none of whom had been to bed, were close behind. The lab technician arrived a minute later. He shook his head as he handed his hastily scribbled report to Andy.

  * * * * *

  It was Bettijean who squeezed into the office and broke the brittle silence. "Andy, for heaven's sake, what is it?" Then she moved around the desk to stand behind him as he faced the officers.

  "Have you got something?" the brigadier asked. "Some girl outside was babbling about writers and doctors, and dentists and college students, and little secretaries and big secretaries. Have you established a trend?"

  Andy glanced at the lab report and his smile was as relieved as it was weary. "Our problem," he said, "was in figuring out what a writer does that a doctor doesn't--why girls from small offices were sick--and why senators and postal workers weren't--why college students caught the bug and people in a Tennessee community didn't.

  "The lab report isn't complete. They haven't had time to isolate the poison and prescribe medication. But"--he held up a four-cent stamp--"here's the villain, gentlemen."

  The big brass stood stunned and shocked. Mouths flapped open and eyes bugged at Andy, at the stamp.

  Bettijean said, "Sure. College kids and engaged girls and new parents and especially writers and artists and poets--they'd all lick lots of stamps. Professional men have secretaries. Big offices have postage-meter machines. And government offices have free franking. And"--she threw her arms around the sergeant's neck--"Andy, you're wonderful."

  "The old American ingenuity," the colonel said, reaching for Andy's phone. "I knew we could lick it. Now all we have to do--"

  "At ease, colonel," the brigadier said sharply. He waited until the colonel had retreated, then addressed Andy. "It's your show. What do you suggest?"

  "Get somebody--maybe even the President--on all radio and TV networks. Explain frankly about the four-centers and warn against licking any stamps. Then--"

  He broke off as his phone rang. Answering, he listened for a moment, then hung up and said, "But before the big announcement, get somebody checking on the security clearances at whatever plant it is where they print stamps. This's a big deal. Somebody may've been planted years ago for this operation. It shouldn't be too hard.

  "But there's no evidence it was a plot yet. Could be pure accident--some chemical in the stickum spoiled. Do they keep the stickum in barrels? Find out who had access. And ... oh, the phone call. That was the lab. The antidote's simple and the cure should be quick. They can phone or broadcast the medical information to doctors. The man on the phone said they could start emptying hospitals in six hours. And maybe we should release some propaganda. "United States whips mystery virus," or something like that. And we could send the Kremlin a stamp collection and.... Aw, you take it, sir. I'm pooped."

  * * * * *

  The general wheeled to fire a salvo of commands. Officers poured into the corridor. Only the brigadier remained, a puzzled frown crinkling his granite brow.

  "But you said that postal workers weren't getting sick."

  Andy chucked. "That's right. Did you ever see a post office clerk lick a stamp? They always use a sponge."

  The general looked to Bettijean, to Andy, to the stamp. He grinned and the grin became a rumbling laugh. "How would you two like a thirty-day furlough to rest up--or to get better acquainted?"

  Bettijean squealed. Andy reached for her hand.

  "And while you're gone," the general continued, "I'll see what strings I can pull. If I can't wangle you a couple of battlefield commissions, I'll zip you both through O.C.S. so fast you won't even have time to pin on the bars."

  But neither Andy nor Bettijean had heard a word after the mention of furlough. Like a pair of puppy-lovers, they were sinking into the depths of each other's eyes.

  And the general was still chuckling as he picked up the lone four-cent stamp in his left hand, made a gun of his right hand, and marched the stamp out of the office under guard.

  THE END

  * * *

  Contents

  THE ADVENTURER

  By C. M. Kornbluth

  For every evil under the sun, there's an answer. It may be a simple, direct answer; it may be one that takes years, and seems unrelated to the problem. But there's an answer--of a kind....

  President Folsom XXIV said petulantly to his Secretary of the Treasury: "Blow me to hell, Bannister, if I understood a single word of that. Why can't I buy the Nicolaides Collection? And don't start with the rediscount and the Series W business again. Just tell me why."

  The Secretary of the Treasury said with an air of apprehension and a thread-like feeling across his throat: "It boils down to--no mone
y, Mr. President."

  The President was too engrossed in thoughts of the marvelous collection to fly into a rage. "It's such a bargain," he said mournfully. "An archaic Henry Moore figure--really too big to finger, but I'm no culture-snob, thank God--and fifteen early Morrisons and I can't begin to tell you what else." He looked hopefully at the Secretary of Public Opinion: "Mightn't I seize it for the public good or something?"

  The Secretary of Public Opinion shook his head. His pose was gruffly professional. "Not a chance, Mr. President. We'd never get away with it. The art-lovers would scream to high Heaven."

  "I suppose so.... Why isn't there any money?" He had swiveled dangerously on the Secretary of the Treasury again.

  "Sir, purchases of the new Series W bond issue have lagged badly because potential buyers have been attracted to--"

  "Stop it, stop it, stop it! You know I can't make head or tail of that stuff. Where's the money going?"

  The Director of the Budget said cautiously: "Mr. President, during the biennium just ending, the Department of Defense accounted for 78 per cent of expenditures--"

  The Secretary of Defense growled: "Now wait a minute, Felder! We were voted--"

  The President interrupted, raging weakly: "Oh, you rascals! My father would have known what to do with you! But don't think I can't handle it. Don't think you can hoodwink me." He punched a button ferociously; his silly face was contorted with rage and there was a certain tension on all the faces around the Cabinet table.

  Panels slid down abruptly in the walls, revealing grim-faced Secret Servicemen. Each Cabinet officer was covered by at least two automatic rifles.

  "Take that--that traitor away!" the President yelled. His finger pointed at the Secretary of Defense, who slumped over the table, sobbing. Two Secret Servicemen half-carried him from the room.

  President Folsom XXIV leaned back, thrusting out his lower lip. He told the Secretary of the Treasury: "Get me the money for the Nicolaides Collection. Do you understand? I don't care how you do it. Get it." He glared at the Secretary of Public Opinion. "Have you any comments?"

  "No, Mr. President."

  "All right, then." The President unbent and said plaintively: "I don't see why you can't all be more reasonable. I'm a very reasonable man. I don't see why I can't have a few pleasures along with my responsibilities. Really I don't. And I'm sensitive. I don't like these scenes. Very well. That's all. The Cabinet meeting is adjourned."

  They rose and left silently in the order of their seniority. The President noticed that the panels were still down and pushed the button that raised them again and hid the granite-faced Secret Servicemen. He took out of his pocket a late Morrison fingering-piece and turned it over in his hand, a smile of relaxation and bliss spreading over his face. Such amusing textural contrast! Such unexpected variations on the classic sequences!

  * * * * *

  The Cabinet, less the Secretary of Defense, was holding a rump meeting in an untapped corner of the White House gymnasium.

  "God," the Secretary of State said, white-faced. "Poor old Willy!"

  The professionally gruff Secretary of Public Opinion said: "We should murder the bastard. I don't care what happens--"

  The Director of the Budget said dryly: "We all know what would happen. President Folsom XXV would take office. No; we've got to keep plugging as before. Nothing short of the invincible can topple the Republic...."

  "What about a war?" the Secretary of Commerce demanded fiercely. "We've no proof that our program will work. What about a war?"

  State said wearily: "Not while there's a balance of power, my dear man. The Io-Callisto Question proved that. The Republic and the Soviet fell all over themselves trying to patch things up as soon as it seemed that there would be real shooting. Folsom XXIV and his excellency Premier Yersinsky know at least that much."

  The Secretary of the Treasury said: "What would you all think of Steiner for Defense?"

  The Director of the Budget was astonished. "Would he take it?"

  Treasury cleared his throat. "As a matter of fact, I've asked him to stop by right about now." He hurled a medicine ball into the budgetary gut.

  "Oof!" said the Director. "You bastard. Steiner would be perfect. He runs Standards like a watch." He treacherously fired the medicine ball at the Secretary of Raw Materials, who blandly caught it and slammed it back.

  "Here he comes," said the Secretary of Raw Materials. "Steiner! Come and sweat some oleo off!"

  Steiner ambled over, a squat man in his fifties, and said: "I don't mind if I do. Where's Willy?"

  State said: "The President unmasked him as a traitor. He's probably been executed by now."

  Steiner looked grim, and grimmer yet when the Secretary of the Treasury said, dead-pan: "We want to propose you for Defense."

  "I'm happy in Standards," Steiner said. "Safer, too. The Man's father took an interest in science, but The Man never comes around. Things are very quiet. Why don't you invite Winch, from the National Art Commission? It wouldn't be much of a change for the worse for him."

  "No brains," the Secretary for Raw Materials said briefly. "Heads up!"

  Steiner caught the ball and slugged it back at him. "What good are brains?" he asked quietly.

  "Close the ranks, gentlemen," State said. "These long shots are too hard on my arms."

  The ranks closed and the Cabinet told Steiner what good were brains. He ended by accepting.

  * * * * *

  The Moon is all Republic. Mars is all Soviet. Titan is all Republic. Ganymede is all Soviet. But Io and Callisto, by the Treaty of Greenwich, are half-and-half Republic and Soviet.

  Down the main street of the principal settlement on Io runs an invisible line. On one side of the line, the principal settlement is known as New Pittsburgh. On the other side it is known as Nizhni-Magnitogorsk.

  Into a miner's home in New Pittsburgh one day an eight-year-old boy named Grayson staggered, bleeding from the head. His eyes were swollen almost shut.

  His father lurched to his feet, knocking over a bottle. He looked stupidly at the bottle, set it upright too late to save much of the alcohol, and then stared fixedly at the boy. "See what you made me do, you little bastard?" he growled, and fetched the boy a clout on his bleeding head that sent him spinning against the wall of the hut. The boy got up slowly and silently--there seemed to be something wrong with his left arm--and glowered at his father.

  He said nothing.

  "Fighting again," the father said, in a would-be fierce voice. His eyes fell under the peculiar fire in the boy's stare. "Damn fool--"

  A woman came in from the kitchen. She was tall and thin. In a flat voice she said to the man: "Get out of here." The man hiccupped and said: "Your brat spilled my bottle. Gimme a dollar."

  In the same flat voice: "I have to buy food."

  "I said gimme a dollar!" The man slapped her face--it did not change--and wrenched a small purse from the string that suspended it around her neck. The boy suddenly was a demon, flying at his father with fists and teeth. It lasted only a second or two. The father kicked him into a corner where he lay, still glaring, wordless and dry-eyed. The mother had not moved; her husband's handmark was still red on her face when he hulked out, clutching the money bag.

  Mrs. Grayson at last crouched in the corner with the eight-year-old boy. "Little Tommy," she said softly. "My little Tommy! Did you cross the line again?"

  He was blubbering in her arms, hysterically, as she caressed him. At last he was able to say: "I didn't cross the line, Mom. Not this time. It was in school. They said our name was really Krasinsky. God-damn him!" the boy shrieked. "They said his grandfather was named Krasinsky and he moved over the line and changed his name to Grayson! God-damn him! Doing that to us!"

  "Now, darling," his mother said, caressing him. "Now, darling." His trembling began to ebb. She said: "Let's get out the spools, Tommy. You mustn't fall behind in school. You owe that to me, don't you, darling?"

  "Yes, Mom," he said. He threw his spindl
y arms around her and kissed her. "Get out the spools. We'll show him. I mean them."

  * * * * *

  President Folsom XXIV lay on his death-bed, feeling no pain, mostly because his personal physician had pumped him full of morphine. Dr. Barnes sat by the bed holding the presidential wrist and waiting, occasionally nodding off and recovering with a belligerent stare around the room. The four wire-service men didn't care whether he fell asleep or not; they were worriedly discussing the nature and habits of the President's first-born, who would shortly succeed to the highest office in the Republic.

  "A firebrand, they tell me," the A.P. man said unhappily.

  "Firebrands I don't mind," the U.P. man said. "He can send out all the inflammatory notes he wants just as long as he isn't a fiend for exercise. I'm not as young as I once was. You boys wouldn't remember the old President, Folsom XXII. He used to do point-to-point hiking. He worshipped old F.D.R."

  The I.N.S. man said, lowering his voice: "Then he was worshipping the wrong Roosevelt. Teddy was the athlete."

  Dr. Barnes started, dropped the presidential wrist and held a mirror to the mouth for a moment. "Gentlemen," he said, "the President is dead."

  "O.K.," the A.P. man said. "Let's go, boys. I'll send in the flash. U.P., you go cover the College of Electors. I.N.S., get onto the President Elect. Trib, collect some interviews and background--"

  The door opened abruptly; a colonel of infantry was standing there, breathing hard, with an automatic rifle at port. "Is he dead?" he asked.

  "Yes," the A.P. man said. "If you'll let me past--"

  "Nobody leaves the room," the colonel said grimly. "I represent General Slocum, Acting President of the Republic. The College of Electors is acting now to ratify--"

  A burst of gunfire caught the colonel in the back; he spun and fell, with a single hoarse cry. More gunfire sounded through the White House. A Secret Serviceman ducked his head through the door: "President's dead? You boys stay put. We'll have this thing cleaned up in an hour--" He vanished.