The Randall Garrett Megapack

by Randall Garrett

  Jayjay Kelvin turned the last card, saw that he had lost, and began shuffling the deck.

  * * * *

  “I think I’ve got it,” Smith said excitedly, several hours later.

  Captain Al-Amin glanced around. Hull was dozing fitfully a few inches above the couch. Jayjay Kelvin was still methodically playing solitaire.

  “Keep your voice down,” the captain ordered. “No use giving our passengers false hopes. What do you mean, you’ve got it?”

  “Simple. Real simple. All we have to do is file off the last thread of the male plug. Then it will fit into the female.” Smith’s voice was a hoarse whisper.

  “Won’t work,” said Jayjay Kelvin from across the room.

  Smith blew up. “How do you know?” he roared. “You sit over there making wiseacre remarks and do nothing! Play cards, that’s all! What do you know about things like this, Mister Joseph Kelvin? What does a businessman know about mechanical equipment?”

  “Enough,” Jayjay said quietly. “Enough to know that, if you try to file off the final thread of the male plug, you’ll do an uneven job. And that will mean leakage.”

  “What do you mean, an uneven job?” Smith was still furious.

  “Trimming off the end of the male plug would have to be done on a lathe,” Jayjay said, without looking up from his cards. “Otherwise, the fit would be wrong, and the gases would mix. And we would all go phfft! when the mixture blew.”

  Smith started to say something, but Jayjay went right on talking. “Even if we had a lathe, the male plug doesn’t turn, so you’d be out of luck all the way. You can’t take the screamers apart without wrecking them—not without a machine shop. You’re going to have to work on that female connection. She’s got a sleeve on her that will turn. Now, if—” Jayjay’s voice faded off into silence, and his manipulations of the cards became purely mechanical.

  “Huh!” Smith said softly. “Just because he’s related to Kelvin Associates, he thinks he’s hot—” He said the French word again.

  “Is he right?” Captain Al-Amin asked sharply.

  “Well—” Smith rubbed his nose with a forefinger. “Well, yes. I was wrong. We can’t do it with a file. It would have to be turned on a lathe, and we don’t have a lathe. And we don’t have any measuring instruments, either. This is a precision job, as I said. And we don’t have a common ruler aboard, much less a micrometer. Any makeshift job will be a failure.”

  Captain Al-Amin brooded over that for a moment. Then he looked at Jayjay again. “Mr. Kelvin.”

  “Yes, captain?” Jayjay didn’t look up from the cards in his hands.

  “Are you related to Kelvin Associates?”

  “In a way.”

  Al-Amin bit at his lower lip. “Mr. Kelvin, you registered aboard this ship as Joseph Kelvin. May I ask if your middle name is James?”

  After a short pause, Jayjay said: “Yes. It is.”

  “Are you the J. J. Kelvin?”

  “Yup. But I’d rather you didn’t mention it when we get to Pluto.”

  Smith’s jaw had slowly sagged during that conversation. Then he closed his mouth with a snap. “You’re Jayjay Kelvin?” he asked, opening his mouth again.

  “That’s right.”

  “Then I apologize.”

  “Accepted,” said Jayjay. He wished that Smith hadn’t apologized.

  “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Captain Al-Amin asked.

  “Because I didn’t want it known that I was going to Pluto,” Kelvin said. “And—after the accident happened—I kept quiet because I know human nature.”

  Jeffry Hull, who had awakened during the argument, looked at Jayjay and said: “What’s human nature got to do with it, Mr. Kelvin?”

  “Nothing, except that if I’d told everyone I was J. J. Kelvin, all of you would have been sitting around waiting for me to solve the problem instead of thinking about it yourselves.”

  Hull nodded thoughtfully. “It makes sense, Mr. Kelvin. If they’d known that you were…well…Mister Spaceship Himself, they’d have let you do all the thinking. And that would have left you high and dry, wouldn’t it?”

  Jayjay put the deck of cards in his pocket. “You’re a pretty good sociologist, after all, Mr. Hull. You’re right. Face any group with Authority—with a capital A—and they quit thinking for themselves. And if they do, then the poor slob of an Authority doesn’t have anything to tickle his own brains, so everybody loses.”

  “Well, do you have an answer?” Captain Al-Amin asked.

  Jayjay shook his head. “Not yet. I think I’ve got one coming up, but I wish you two would go on talking while I think.”

  “I’ll try,” Smith said wryly.

  * * * *

  The problem was both simple and complex. The female socket lacked one single turn of thread to make a perfect connection. A few hundredths of an inch separated success from disaster.

  Five men, including the unconscious Vandenbosch, were only a fraction of an inch away from death.

  Jayjay Kelvin listened to Smith talk for another half hour, throwing in objections when necessary, but offering no opinions.

  “All we have to do,” Smith said at last, “is get rid of that little bit of metal beyond the thread in the female socket. But there’s no way to get it out. We can’t use a chisel because the force would warp the threads. Besides, we couldn’t get a chisel in there.”

  “And we don’t have a chisel,” Captain Al-Amin added. “We don’t have any tools at all.”

  “Except,” said Jayjay, “an electric hand drill and a quarter-inch bit.”

  “Well, sure,” said Smith. “But what good will that do us?”

  “If we rigged a belt between the drill’s motor and the sleeve of the female socket, the sleeve would rotate as if it were on a lathe, wouldn’t it?”

  Smith blinked. “Sure. Yeah! Hey!” His face brightened. Then it looked sad again. “But what good would that do us?”

  “You said that all we have between us and success is a fraction of an inch of metal. If we can remove that fraction of an inch, we’re successful.”

  “But how can you put a thread into that socket?” Smith asked.

  Jayjay beamed as though it were his birthday. “We don’t have to put a thread in there. All we have to do is give the thread on the male plug room to move in. All we have to do is clear away that metal. So we’ll use the drill motor to turn the sleeve as if it were on a lathe.”

  Smith still didn’t look enthusiastic. “All right. We have a lathe. But what are we going to use for tools? What are we going to cut the metal with?”

  Jayjay’s smile became broader. “Carbon steel. What else?”

  “Oh?” said Smith. “And where do we get these tools, Mr. Kelvin? From the circumambient ether?”

  “Not at all,” said Jayjay. “Did you ever chip flint?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. All we have to do is use that quarter-inch bit.”

  Smith still looked confused. “I don’t get it. A bit that big won’t fit in.”

  “We simply crack a piece off that hard carbon steel,” Jayjay said. “We can make a lathe tool that will fit into the small space between the inner and outer tubes. The fractured edge will be sharp enough to take out the excess metal. The male plug can move in, and we’ll have contact.”

  “Well, I’ll be—” Smith used another French word.

  Captain Atef Al-Amin cast his eyes upwards. “Creatio ex nihilo,” he said softly.

  * * * *

  When the Interplanetary Police ship took the five men and the cargo from the wreck of the Persephone, the major in command of the ship, who knew that he had rescued the great J. J. Kelvin, asked him: “Mr. Kelvin, what do you plan to do when you return to Ceres City?”

  And Jayjay, who knew that both he and the major were speaking for the newsfacs and for posterity, said:

  “I’m going to make sure that Kelvin Associates learns to make emergency equipment properly. We will never again put
faulty equipment aboard a ship.”

  The major looked perplexed. “What?”

  “I’m going to have some designer’s head!” said Jayjay Kelvin.

  FIFTY PER CENT PROPHET (1961)

  Dr. Joachim sat in the small room behind his reception hall and held his fingers poised above the keys of the rather creaky electrotyper on his desk. The hands seemed to hang there, long, slender, and pale, like two gulls frozen suddenly in their long swoop towards some precious tidbit floating on the writhing sea beneath, ready to begin their drop instantly, as soon as time began again.

  All of Dr. Joachim’s body seemed to be held in that same stasis. Only his lips moved as he silently framed the next sentence in his mind.

  Physically, the good doctor could be called a big man: he was broad-shouldered and well-muscled, but, hidden as his body was beneath the folds of his blue, monkish robe, only his shortness of stature was noticeable. He was only fifty-four, but the pale face, the full, flowing beard, and the long white hair topped by a small blue skullcap gave him an ageless look, as though centuries of time had flowed over him to leave behind only the marks of experience and wisdom.

  The timelessness of an idealized Methuselah as he approached his ninth centennial, the God-given wisdom engraved on the face of Moses as he came down from Sinai, the mystic power of mighty Merlin as he softly intoned a spell of albamancy, all these seemed to have been blended carefully together and infused into the man who sat behind the typer, composing sentences in his head.

  Those gull-hands swooped suddenly to the keyboard, and the aged machine clattered rapidly for nearly a minute before Dr. Joachim paused again to consider his next words.

  A bell tinkled softly.

  Dr. Joachim’s brown eyes glanced quickly at the image on the black-and-white TV screen set in the wall. It was connected to the hidden camera in his front room, and showed a woman entering his front door. He sighed and rose from his seat, adjusting his blue robes carefully before he went to the door that led into the outer room.

  He’d rather hoped it was a client, but—

  “Hello, Susan, my dear,” he said in a soft baritone, as he stepped through the door. “What seems to be the trouble?”

  It wasn’t the same line that he’d have used with a client. You don’t ask a mark questions; you tell him. To a mark, he’d have said: “Ah, you are troubled.” It sounds much more authoritative and all-knowing.

  But Cherrie Tart—née Sue Kowalski—was one of the best strippers on the Boardwalk. Her winters were spent in Florida or Nevada or Puerto Rico, but in summer she always returned to King Frankie’s Golden Surf, for the summer trade at Coney Island. She might be a big name in show business now, but she had never forgotten her carny background, and King Frankie, in spite of the ultra-ultra tone of the Golden Surf, still stuck to the old Minsky traditions.

  The worried look on her too-perfect face had been easily visible in the TV screen, but it had been replaced by a bright smile as soon as she had heard Dr. Joachim opening the door. The smile flickered for a moment, then she said: “Gee, Doc; you give a girl the creepy feeling that you really can read her mind.”

  Dr. Joachim merely smiled. Susan might be with it, but a good mitt man doesn’t give away all his little secrets. He had often wished that he could really read minds—he had heard rumors of men who could—but a little well-applied psychology is sometimes just as good.

  “So how’s everything been, Doc?” She smiled her best stage smile—every tooth perfect in that perfect face, her hair framing the whole like a perfect golden helmet. She looked like a girl in her early twenties, but Dr. Joachim knew for a fact that she’d been born in 1955, which made her thirty-two next January.

  “Reasonably well, all things considered,” Dr. Joachim admitted. “I’m not starving to death, at least.”

  She looked around at the room—the heavy drapes, the signs of the zodiac in gold and silver, the big, over-stuffed chairs, all designed to make the “clients” feel comfortable and yet slightly awed by the ancient atmosphere of mysticism. In the dim light, they looked fairly impressive, but she knew that if the lights were brighter the shabbiness would show.

  * * * *

  “Maybe you could use a redecorating job, then, Doc,” she said. With a gesture born of sudden impulse, she reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope and pressed it into the man’s hands. He started to protest, but she cut him off. “No, Doc; I want you to have it. You earned it.

  “That San Juan-New York flight, remember?” she went on hurriedly. “You said not to take it, remember? Well, I…I sort of forgot about what you’d said. You know. Anyway, I got a ticket and was ready to go when the flight was suddenly delayed. Routine, they said. Checking the engines. But I’d never heard of any such routine as that. I remembered what you told me, Doc, and I got scared.

  “After an hour, they put another plane into service; they were still working on the other one. I was still worried, so I decided to wait till the next day.

  “I guess you read what happened.”

  He closed his eyes and nodded slowly. “I read.”

  “Doc, I’d’ve been on that flight if you hadn’t warned me. All the money in the world isn’t enough to pay for that.” The oddly worried look had come back into her eyes. “Doc, I don’t know how you knew that ship was going to go, and I won’t ask. I don’t want to know. But,…one thing: Was it me they were after?”

  She thinks someone blew up the ship, he thought. She thinks I heard about the plot some way. For an instant he hesitated, then:

  “No, Susan; they weren’t after you. No one was trying to kill you. Don’t worry about it.”

  Relief washed over her face. “O.K., Doc; if you say so. Look, I’ve got to run now, but we’ve got to sit down and have a few drinks together, now that I’m back. And…Doc—”

  “Yes?”

  “Anytime you need anything—if I can ever help you—you let me know, huh?”

  “Certainly, my dear. And don’t you worry about anything. The stars are all on your side right now.”

  She smiled, patted his hand, and then was gone in a flash of gold and honey. Dr. Joachim looked at the door that had closed behind her, then he looked down at the envelope in his hands. He opened it gently and took out the sheaf of bills. Fifteen hundred dollars!

  He smiled and shoved the money into his pocket. After all, he was a professional fortuneteller, even if he didn’t like that particular label, and he had saved her life, hadn’t he?

  He returned to the small back room, sat down again at the typer, and, after a minute, began typing again.

  When he was finished, he addressed an envelope and put the letter inside.

  It was signed with his legal name: Peter J. Forsythe.

  * * * *

  It required less than two hours for that letter to end up at its destination in a six-floor brick building, a rather old-fashioned affair that stood among similar structures in a lower-middle-class section of Arlington, Virginia, hardly a hop-skip-and-jump from the Pentagon, and not much farther from the Capitol.

  The letter was addressed to Mr. J. Harlan Balfour, President, The Society for Mystical and Metaphysical Research, Inc., but Mr. Balfour was not at the Society’s headquarters at the time, having been called to Los Angeles to address a group who were awaiting the Incarnation of God.

  Even if he had been there, the letter wouldn’t have reached him first. All mail was sent first to the office of the Executive Secretary, Mr. Brian Taggert. Most of it—somewhat better than ninety-nine per cent—went directly on to Mr. Balfour’s desk, if it was so addressed; Brian Taggert would never have been so cruel as to deprive Mr. Balfour of the joy of sorting through the thousands of crackpot letters in search of those who had the true spark of mysticism which so fascinated Mr. Balfour.

  Mr. Balfour was a crackpot, and it was his job to take care of other crackpots—a job he enjoyed immensely and wholeheartedly, feeling, as he did, that that sort of thing was the only reason for the
Society’s existence. Of course, Mr. Balfour never considered himself or the others in the least bit crackpottish, in which he was just as much in error as he was in his assumption of the Society’s raison d’être.

  Ninety per cent of the members of the Society for Mystical and Metaphysical Research were just what you would expect them to be. Anyone who was “truly interested in the investigation of the supranormal”, as the ads in certain magazines put it, could pay five dollars a year for membership, which, among other things, entitled him to the Society’s monthly magazine, The Metaphysicist, a well-printed, conservative-looking publication which contained articles on everything from the latest flying saucer report to careful mathematical evaluations of the statistical methods of the Rhine Foundation. Within its broad field, the magazine was quite catholic in its editorial policy.

  These members constituted a very effective screen for the real work of the society, work carried on by the “core” members, most of whom weren’t even listed on the membership rolls. And yet, it was this group of men and women who made the Society’s title true.

  Mr. Brian Taggert was a long way from being a crackpot. The big, dark-haired, dark-eyed, hawknosed man sat at his desk in his office on the fifth floor of the Society’s building and checked over the mail. Normally, his big wrestler’s body was to be found quietly relaxed on the couch that stood against a nearby wall. Not that he was in any way averse to action; he simply saw no virtue in purposeless action. Nor did he believe in the dictum of Miles Standish; if he wanted a thing done, he sent the man most qualified to do it, whether that was himself or someone else.

  When he came to the letter from Coney Island, New York, he read it quickly and then jabbed at a button on the intercom switchboard in his desktop. He said three syllables which would have been meaningless to anyone except the few who understood that sort of verbal shorthand, released the button, and closed his eyes, putting himself in telepathic contact with certain of the Society’s agents in New York.

  * * * *

  Across the river, in the Senate Office Building, a telephone rang in the office of Senator Mikhail Kerotski, head of the Senate Committee on Space Exploration. It was an unlisted, visionless phone, and the number was known only to a very few important officials in the United States Government, so the senator didn’t bother to identify himself; he simply said: “Hello.” He listened for a moment, said, “O.K., fine,” in a quiet voice, and cut the connection.