The Malcom Porter case quickly became a cause célèbre. Somebody goofed. Handled properly, the whole affair might have been hushed up; the Government would have gotten what it wanted, Porter would have gotten what he wanted, and everyone would have saved face. But some bureaucrat couldn’t see beyond the outer surface of his spectacle lenses, and some other bureaucrat failed to stop the thing in time.
“Gall, gall, and bitter, bitter wormwood,” said Oler Winstein, perching himself on the edge of Terry Elshawe’s desk.
“You don’t Gallic, bitter, wormy, or wooden. What’s up?”
“Got a call from Senator Tallifero. He wants to know if you’ll consent to appear before the Joint Congressional Committee for Investigating Military Affairs. I get the feeling that if you say ‘no,’ they’ll send a formal invitation—something on the order of a subpoena.”
Elshawe sighed. “Oh, well. It’s news, anyway. When do they want me to be in Washington?”
“Tomorrow. Meanwhile, Porter, of course, is under arrest and in close confinement. Confusion six ways from Sunday.” He shook his head. “I don’t understand why they just didn’t pat him on the back, say they’d been working on this thing all along, and cover it up fast.”
“Too many people involved,” Elshawe said, putting his cold pipe in the huge ashtray on his desk. “The Civil Aeronautics crowd must have had a spotter up in those mountains; they had a warrant out for his arrest within an hour after we took off. They also notified the parole board, who put out an all-points bulletin immediately. The Army and the Air Force were furious because he’d evaded their radar net. Porter stepped on so many toes so hard that it was inevitable that one or more would yell before they realized it would be better to keep their mouths shut.”
“Well, you get up there and tell your story, and I dare say he’ll come out of it.”
“Sure he will. They know he’s got something, and they know they have to have it. But he’s going to go through hell before they give it to him.”
Winstein slid off the desk and stood up. “I hope so. He deserves it. By the way, it’s too bad you couldn’t get a story out of that Sam Skinner character.”
“Yeah. But there’s nothing to it. After all, even the FBI tried to find out if there was anyone at all besides Porter who might know anything about it. No luck. Not even the technicians who worked with him knew anything useful. Skinner didn’t know anything at all.” He told the lie with a perfectly straight face. He didn’t like lying to Winstein, but there was no other way. He hoped he wouldn’t have to lie to the Congressional Committee; perjury was not something he liked doing. The trouble was, if he told the truth, he’d be worse off than if he lied.
He took the plane that night for Washington, and spent the next three days answering questions while he tried to keep his nerves under control. Not once did they even approach the area he wanted them to avoid.
On the plane back, he relaxed, closed his eyes, and, for the first time in days, allowed himself to think about Mr. Samuel Skinner.
The reports from the two detective agencies on the East and West Coasts hadn’t made much sense separately, but together they added up to enough to have made it worth Elshawe’s time to go to Los Angeles and tackle Samuel Skinner personally. He had called Skinner and made an appointment; Skinner had invited him out to his home.
It was a fairly big house, not too new, and it sat in the middle of a lot that was bigger than normal for land-hungry Los Angeles.
Elshawe ran through the scene mentally. He could see Skinner’s mild face and hear his voice saying: “Come in, Mr. Elshawe.”
They went into the living room, and Skinner waved him toward a chair. “Sit down. Want some coffee?”
“Thanks; I’d appreciate it.” While Skinner made coffee, the reporter looked around the room. It wasn’t overly showy, but it showed a sort of subdued wealth. It was obvious that Mr. Skinner wasn’t lacking in comforts.
Skinner brought in the coffee and then sat down, facing Elshawe, in another chair. “Now,” he said bluntly, “what was that remark you made on the phone about showing up Malcom Porter as a phony? I understood that you actually went to Mars on his ship. Don’t you believe the evidence of your own senses?”
“I don’t mean that kind of phony,” Elshawe said. “And you know it. I’ll come to the point. I know that Malcom Porter didn’t invent the Gravito-Inertial Differential Polarizer. You did.”
Skinner’s eyes widened. “Where did you get that information?”
“I can’t tell you my sources, Mr. Skinner. Not yet, anyhow. But I have enough information to tell me that you’re the man. It wouldn’t hold up in court, but, with the additional information you can give me, I think it will.”
Skinner looked baffled, as if not knowing what to say next.
“Mr. Skinner,” Elshawe went on, “a research reporter has to have a little of the crusader in him, and maybe I’ve got more than most. You’ve discovered one of the greatest things in history—or invented it, whatever you want to call it. You deserve to go down in history along with Newton, Watt, Roentgen, Edison, Einstein, Fermi, and all the rest.
“But somehow Malcom Porter stole your invention and he intends to take full credit for it. Oh, I know he’s paid you plenty of money not to make any fuss, and he probably thinks you couldn’t prove anything, anyway. But you don’t have to be satisfied with his conscience money any more. With the backing of Magnum Telenews, you can blow Mister Glory-hound Porter’s phony setup wide open and take the credit you deserve.”
Skinner didn’t look at all the way Elshawe had expected. Instead, he frowned a little and said: “I’m glad you came, Mr. Elshawe. I didn’t realize that there was enough evidence to connect me with his project.” But he didn’t look exactly overjoyed.
“Well,” Elshawe said tentatively, “if you’ll just answer a few questions—”
“Just a minute, Mr. Elshawe. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions first?”
“Go ahead.”
Skinner leaned forward earnestly. “Mr. Elshawe, who deserves credit for an invention? Who deserves the money?”
“Why…why, the inventor, of course.”
“The inventor? Or the man who gives it to humanity?”
“I…don’t quite follow you.”
He leaned back in his chair again. “Mr. Elshawe, when I invented the Polarizer, I hadn’t the remotest idea of what I’d invented. I taught general science in the high school Malcom Porter went to, and I had a lab in my basement. Porter was a pretty bright boy, and he liked to come around to my lab and watch me putter around. I had made this gadget—it was a toy for children as far as I was concerned. I didn’t have any idea of its worth. It was just a little gadget that hopped up into the air and floated down again. Cute, but worthless, except as a novelty. And it was too expensive to build it as a novelty. So I forgot about it.
“Years later, Porter came around to me and offered to buy it. I dug it out of the junk that was in my little workshop and sold it to him.
“A couple of years after that, he came back. He said that he’d invented something. After beating all around the bush, he finally admitted that his invention was a development of my little toy. He offered me a million dollars if I’d keep my mouth shut and forget all about the thing.”
“And you accepted?” Elshawe asked incredulously.
“Certainly! I made him buy me a tax-paid annuity that pays me more than enough to get by on. I don’t want wealth, Mr. Elshawe—just comfort. And that’s why I gave it to him.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Let me tell you about Malcom Porter. He is one of that vast horde of people who want to be someone. They want to be respected and looked up to. But they either can’t, or won’t, take the time to learn the basics of the field they want to excel in. The beautiful girl who wants to be an actress without bothering to learn to act; the young man who wants to be a judge without going through law school, or be a general without studying military tactics; and Mal
com Porter, the boy who wanted to be a great scientist—but didn’t want to take the trouble to learn science.”
Elshawe nodded. He was thinking of the “artists” who splatter up clean canvas and call it “artistic self-expression.” And the clodheads who write disconnected, meaningless prose and claim that it’s free verse. The muddleminds who forget that Picasso learned to paint within the strict limits of classical art before he tried new methods, and that James Joyce learned to handle the English language well before he wrote “Finnegan’s Wake.”
“On the other hand,” Skinner continued, “I am…well, rather a shy man. As soon as Malcom told me what the device would do when it was properly powered, I knew that there would be trouble. I am not a fighter, Mr. Elshawe. I have no desire to spend time in prison or be vilified in the news or called a crackpot by orthodox scientists.
“I don’t want to fight Malcom’s claim, Mr. Elshawe. Don’t you see, he deserves the credit! In the first place, he recognized it for what it was. If he hadn’t, Heaven only knows how long it would have been before someone rediscovered it. In the second place, he has fought and fought hard to give it to humanity. He has suffered in prison and spent millions of dollars to get the Polarizer into the hands of the United States Government. He has, in fact, worked harder and suffered more than if he’d taken the time and trouble to get a proper education. And it got him what he wanted; I doubt that he would have made a very good scientist, anyway.
“Porter deserves every bit of credit for the Polarizer. I am perfectly happy with the way things are working out.”
Elshawe said: “But what if the FBI gets hold of the evidence I have?”
“That’s why I have told you the truth, Mr. Elshawe,” Skinner said earnestly. “I want you to destroy that evidence. I would deny flatly that I had anything to do with the Polarizer, in any case. And that would put an end to any inquiry because no one would believe that I would deny inventing something like that. But I would just as soon that the question never came up. I would rather that there be no whisper whatever of anything like that.”
He paused for a moment, then, very carefully, he said: “Mr. Elshawe, you have intimated that the inventor of the Polarizer deserves some kind of reward. I assure you that the greatest reward you could give me would be to help me destroy all traces of any connection with the device. Will you do that, Mr. Elshawe?”
Elshawe just sat silently in the chair for long minutes, thinking. Skinner didn’t interrupt; he simply waited patiently.
After about ten minutes, Elshawe put his pipe carefully on a nearby table and reached down to pick up his briefcase. He handed it to Skinner.
“Here. It contains all the evidence I have. Including, I might say, the recording of our conversation here. Just take the tape out of the minirecorder. A man like you deserves whatever reward he wants. Take it, Mr. Skinner.”
“Thanks,” said Skinner softly, taking the briefcase.
And, on the plane winging back to New York from the Congressional investigation, Mr. Terrence Elshawe sighed softly. He was glad none of the senators had asked anything about Skinner, because he knew he would certainly have had to tell the truth.
And he knew, just as certainly, that he would have been in a great deal more hot water than Porter had been. Because Malcom Porter was going to become American Hero Number One, and Terry Elshawe would have ended up as the lying little sneak who had tried to destroy the reputation of the great Malcom Porter.
Which, all things considered, would have been a hell of a note.
THE HIGHEST TREASON (1961)
THE PRISONER
The two rooms were not luxurious, but MacMaine hadn’t expected that they would be. The walls were a flat metallic gray, unadorned and windowless. The ceilings and floors were simply continuations of the walls, except for the glow-plates overhead. One room held a small cabinet for his personal possessions, a wide, reasonably soft bed, a small but adequate desk, and, in one corner, a cubicle that contained the necessary sanitary plumbing facilities.
The other room held a couch, two big easy-chairs, a low table, some bookshelves, a squat refrigerator containing food and drink for his occasional snacks—his regular meals were brought in hot from the main kitchen—and a closet that contained his clothing—the insignialess uniforms of a Kerothi officer.
No, thought Sebastian MacMaine, it was not luxurious, but neither did it look like the prison cell it was.
There was comfort here, and even the illusion of privacy, although there were TV pickups in the walls, placed so that no movement in either room would go unnoticed. The switch which cut off the soft white light from the glow plates did not cut off the infrared radiation which enabled his hosts to watch him while he slept. Every sound was heard and recorded.
But none of that bothered MacMaine. On the contrary, he was glad of it. He wanted the Kerothi to know that he had no intention of escaping or hatching any plot against them.
He had long since decided that, if things continued as they had, Earth would lose the war with Keroth, and Sebastian MacMaine had no desire whatever to be on the losing side of the greatest war ever fought. The problem now was to convince the Kerothi that he fully intended to fight with them, to give them the full benefit of his ability as a military strategist, to do his best to win every battle for Keroth.
And that was going to be the most difficult task of all.
A telltale glow of red blinked rapidly over the door, and a soft chime pinged in time with it.
MacMaine smiled inwardly, although not a trace of it showed on his broad-jawed, blocky face. To give him the illusion that he was a guest rather than a prisoner, the Kerothi had installed an announcer at the door and invariably used it. Not once had any one of them ever simply walked in on him.
“Come in,” MacMaine said.
He was seated in one of the easy-chairs in his “living room,” smoking a cigarette and reading a book on the history of Keroth, but he put the book down on the low table as a tall Kerothi came in through the doorway.
MacMaine allowed himself a smile of honest pleasure. To most Earthmen, “all the Carrot-skins look alike,” and, MacMaine admitted honestly to himself, he hadn’t yet trained himself completely to look beyond the strangenesses that made the Kerothi different from Earthmen and see the details that made them different from each other. But this was one Kerothi that MacMaine would never mistake for any other.
“Tallis!” He stood up and extended both hands in the Kerothi fashion. The other did the same, and they clasped hands for a moment. “How are your guts?” he added in Kerothic.
“They function smoothly, my sibling-by-choice,” answered Space General Polan Tallis. “And your own?”
“Smoothly, indeed. It’s been far too long a time since we have touched.”
The Kerothi stepped back a pace and looked the Earthman up and down. “You look healthy enough—for a prisoner. You’re treated well, then?”
“Well enough. Sit down, my sibling-by-choice.” MacMaine waved toward the couch nearby. The general sat down and looked around the apartment.
“Well, well. You’re getting preferential treatment, all right. This is as good as you could expect as a battleship commander. Maybe you’re being trained for the job.”
MacMaine laughed, allowing the touch of sardonicism that he felt to be heard in the laughter. “I might have hoped so once, Tallis. But I’m afraid I have simply come out even. I have traded nothing for nothing.”
General Tallis reached into the pocket of his uniform jacket and took out the thin aluminum case that held the Kerothi equivalent of cigarettes. He took one out, put it between his lips, and lit it with the hotpoint that was built into the case.
MacMaine took an Earth cigarette out of the package on the table and allowed Tallis to light it for him. The pause and the silence, MacMaine knew, were for a purpose. He waited. Tallis had something to say, but he was allowing the Earthman to “adjust to surprise.” It was one of the fine points of Kerothi etiquette.
>
* * * *
A sudden silence on the part of one participant in a conversation, under these particular circumstances, meant that something unusual was coming up, and the other person was supposed to take the opportunity to brace himself for shock.
It could mean anything. In the Kerothi Space Forces, a superior informed a junior officer of the junior’s forthcoming promotion by just such tactics. But the same tactics were used when informing a person of the death of a loved one.
In fact, MacMaine was well aware that such a period of silence was de rigueur in a Kerothi court, just before sentence was pronounced, as well as a preliminary to a proposal of marriage by a Kerothi male to the light of his love.
MacMaine could do nothing but wait. It would be indelicate to speak until Tallis felt that he was ready for the surprise.
It was not, however, indelicate to watch Tallis’ face closely; it was expected. Theoretically, one was supposed to be able to discern, at least, whether the news was good or bad.
With Tallis, it was impossible to tell, and MacMaine knew it would be useless to read the man’s expression. But he watched, nonetheless.
In one way, Tallis’ face was typically Kerothi. The orange-pigmented skin and the bright, grass-green eyes were common to all Kerothi. The planet Keroth, like Earth, had evolved several different “races” of humanoid, but, unlike Earth, the distinction was not one of color.
MacMaine took a drag off his cigarette and forced himself to keep his mind off whatever it was that Tallis might be about to say. He was already prepared for a death sentence—even a death sentence by torture. Now, he felt, he could not be shocked. And, rather than build up the tension within himself to an unbearable degree, he thought about Tallis rather than about himself.
Tallis, like the rest of the Kerothi, was unbelievably humanoid. There were internal differences in the placement of organs, and differences in the functions of those organs. For instance, it took two separate organs to perform the same function that the liver performed in Earthmen, and the kidneys were completely absent, that function being performed by special tissues in the lower colon, which meant that the Kerothi were more efficient with water-saving than Earthmen, since the waste products were excreted as relatively dry solids through an all-purpose cloaca.
The Randall Garrett Megapack Page 45