Modern Masterpieces of Science Fiction

by Sam Moskowitz

  “Hello, Grace,” he greeted her, and shoved a piece of paper at her. “Tell me what you think of that. Sance says it’s lousy.” Saunders Francis turned his mild pop eyes from his chief to Grace Cormet, but neither confirmed nor denied the statement.

  Miss Cormet read:

  CAN YOU AFFORD IT?

  Can You Afford GENERAL SERVICES?

  Can You Afford NOT to have General Services ? ? ? ??

  In this jet-speed age can you afford to go on wasting time doing your own shopping, paying bills yourself, taking care of your living compartment?

  We’ll spank the baby and feed the cat.

  We’ll rent you a house and buy your shoes.

  We’ll write to your mother-in-law and add up your check stubs.

  No job too large; No job too small—and all amazingly Cheap!

  GENERAL SERVICES

  Dial H-U-R-R-Y - U-P

  P.S. WE ALSO WALK DOGS

  “Well?” said Clare.

  “Sance is right. It smells.”

  “Why?”

  “Too logical. Too verbose. No drive.”

  “What’s your idea of an ad to catch the marginal market?”

  She thought a moment, then borrowed his stylus and wrote:

  DO YOU WANT SOMEBODY MURDERED?

  (Then don’t call GENERAL SERVICES)

  But for any other job dial HURRY-UP - It pays!

  P.S. We also walk dogs.

  “Mmmm . . . well, maybe,” Mr Clare said cautiously. “We’ll try it. Sance, give this a type B coverage, two weeks, North America, and let me know how it takes.” Francis put it away in his kit, still with no change in his mild expression. “Now as I was saying—“

  “Chief,” broke in Grace Cormet. “I made an appointment for you in—“

  She glanced at her watchfinger. “—exactly two minutes and forty seconds. Government man.”

  “Make him happy and send him away. I’m busy.”

  “Green Badge.”

  He looked up sharply. Even Francis looked interested. “So?” Clare remarked. “Got the interview transcript with you?”

  “I wiped it.”

  “You did? Well, perhaps you know best. I like your hunches. Bring him in.”

  She nodded thoughtfully and left.

  She found her man just entering the public reception room and escorted him past half a dozen gates whose guardians would otherwise have demanded his identity and the nature of his business. When he was seated in Clare’s office, he looked around. “May I speak with you in private, Mr Clare?”

  “Mr Francis is my right leg. You’ve already spoken to Miss Cormet.”

  “Very well.” He produced the green sigil again and held it out. “No names are necessary just yet. I am sure of your discretion.”

  The President of General Services sat up impatiently. “Let’s get down to business. You are Pierre Beaumont, Chief of Protocol. Does the administration want a job done?”

  Beaumont was unperturbed by the change in pace. “You know me. Very well. We’ll get down to business. The government may want a job done. In any case our discussion must not be permitted to leak out—”

  “All of General Services relations are confidential.”

  “This is not confidential; this is secret.” He paused.

  “I understand you,” agreed Clare. “Go on.”

  “You have an interesting organization here, Mr Clare. I believe it is your boast that you will undertake any commission whatsoever—for a price.”

  “If it is legal.”

  “Ah, yes, of course. But legal is a word capable of interpretation. I admired the way your company handled the outfitting of the Second Plutonian Expedition. Some of your methods were, ah, ingenious.”

  “If you have any criticism of our actions in that case they are best made to our legal department through the usual channels.”

  Beaumont pushed a palm in his direction. “Oh, no, Mr Clare—please!

  You misunderstand me. I was not criticising; I was admiring. Such resource! What a diplomat you would have made!”

  “Let’s quit fencing. What do you want?” Mr Beaumont pursed his lips.

  “Let us suppose that you had to entertain a dozen representatives of each intelligent race in this planetary system and you wanted to make each one of them completely comfortable and happy. Could you do it?”

  Clare thought aloud. “Air pressure, humidity, radiation densities, atmosphere, chemistry, temperatures, cultural conditions—those things are all simple. But how about acceleration? We could use a centrifuge for the Jovians, but Martians and Titans—that’s another matter. There is no way to reduce earth-normal gravity. No, you would have to entertain them out in space, or on Luna. That makes it not our pigeon; we never give service beyond the stratosphere.”

  Beaumont shook his head. “It won’t be beyond the stratosphere. You may take it as an absolute condition that you are to accomplish your results on the surface of the Earth.”

  “Why?”

  “Is it the custom of General Services to inquire why a client wants a particular type of service?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “Quite all right. But you do need more information in order to understand what must be accomplished and why it must be secret. There will be a conference, held on this planet, in the near future—ninety days at the outside. Until the conference is called no suspicion that it is to be held must be allowed to leak out. If the plans for it were to be anticipated in certain quarters, it would be useless to hold the conference at all. I suggest that you think of this conference as a roundtable of leading, ah, scientists of the system, about of the same size and makeup as the session of the Academy held on Mars last spring. You are to make all preparations for the entertainments of the delegates, but you are to conceal these preparations in the ramifications of your organization until needed. As for the details—“

  But Clare interrupted “him. “You appear to have assumed that we will take on this commission. As you have explained it, it would involve us in a ridiculous failure. General Services does not like failures. You know and I know that low-gravity people cannot spend more than a few hours in high gravity without seriously endangering their health. Interplanetary get togethers are always held on a low-gravity planet and always will be.”

  “Yes,” answered Beaumont patiently, “they always have been. Do you realize the tremendous diplomatic handicap which Earth and Venus labor under in consequence?”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “It isn’t necessary that you should. Political psychology is not your concern. Take it for granted that it does and that the Administration is determined that this conference shall take place on Earth.”

  “Why not Luna?”

  Beaumont shook his head. “Not the same thing at all. Even though we administer it, Luna City is a treaty port. Not the same thing, psychologically.”

  Clare shook his head. “Mr Beaumont, I don’t believe that you understand the nature of General Services, even as I fail to appreciate the subtle requirements of diplomacy. We don’t work miracles and we don’t promise to. We are just the handyman of the last century, gone speed-lined and corporate. We are the latter day equivalent of the old servant class, but we are not Aladdin’s genie. We don’t even maintain research laboratories in the scientific sense. We simply make the best possible use of modern advances in communications and organization to do what already can be done.” He waved a hand at the far wall, on which there was cut in intaglio the time-honored trademark of the business—a Scottie dog, pulling against a leash and sniffing at a post. “There is the spirit of the sort of work we do. We walk dogs for people who are too busy to walk ‘em themselves. My grandfather worked his way through college walking dogs. I’m still walking them. I don’t promise miracles, nor monkey with politics.”

  Beaumont fitted his fingertips carefully together. “You walk dogs for a fee. But of course you do—you walk my pair. Five minim-credits seems rather cheap.”

&
nbsp; “It is. But a hundred thousand dogs, twice a day, soons runs up the gross take.”

  “The ‘take’ for walking this ‘dog’ would be considerable.”

  “How much?” asked Francis. It was his first sign of interest. Beaumont turned his eyes on him. “My dear sir, the outcome of this, ah, roundtable should make a difference of literally hundreds of billions of credits to this planet. We will not bind the mouth of the kine that treads the corn, if you pardon the figure of speech.”

  “How much?”

  “Would thirty percent over cost be reasonable?”

  Francis shook his head. “Might not come to much.”

  “Well, I certainly won’t haggle. Suppose we leave it up to you gentlemen—your pardon, Miss Cormet!—to decide what the service is worth. I think I can rely on your planetary and racial patriotism to make it reasonable and proper.”

  Francis sat back, said nothing, but looked pleased.

  “Wait a minute,’ protested Clare. “We haven’t taken this job.”

  “We have discussed the fee,” observed Beaumont.

  Clare looked from Francis to Grace Cormet, then examined his fingernails. “Give me twenty-four hours to find out whether or not it is possible,” he said finally, “and I’ll tell you whether or not we will walk your dog.”

  “I feel sure,” answered Beaumont, “that you will.” He gathered his cape about him.

  “Okay, masterminds,” said Clare bitterly, “you’ve bought it.”

  “I’ve been wanting to get back to field work,” said Grace.

  “Put a crew on everything but the gravity problem,” suggested Francis.

  “It’s the only catch. The rest is routine.”

  “Certainly,” agreed Clare, “but you had better deliver on that. If you can’t, we are out some mighty expensive preparations that we will never be paid for. Who do you want? Grace?”

  “I suppose so,” answered Francis. “She can count up to ten.”

  Grace Cormet looked at him coldly. “There are times, Sance Francis, when I regret having married you.”

  “Keep your domestic affairs out of the office,” warned Clare. “Where do you start?”

  “Let’s find out who knows most about gravitation,” decided Francis.

  “Grace, better get Doctor Krathwohl on the screen.”

  “Right,” she acknowledged, as she stepped to the stereo controls.

  “That’s the beauty about this business. You don’t have to know anything; you just have to know where to find out.”

  Dr Krathwohl was a part of the permanent staff of General Services. He had no assigned duties. The company found it worthwhile to support him in comfort while providing him with an unlimited drawing account for scientific journals and for attendance at the meetings which the learned hold from time to time. Dr Krathwohl lacked the single-minded drive of the research scientist; he was a dilettante by nature.

  Occasionally they asked him a question. It paid.

  “Oh, hello, my dear!” Doctor Krathwohl’s gentle face smiled out at her from the screen. “Look—I’ve just come across the most amusing fact in the latest issue of Nature. It throws a most interesting sidelight on Brownlee’s theory of—“

  “Just a second, Doc,” she interrupted. “I’m kinda in a hurry.”

  “Yes, my dear?”

  “Who knows the most about gravitation?”

  “In what way do you mean that? Do you want an astrophysicist, or do you want to deal with the subject from a standpoint of theoretical mechanics? Farquarson would be the man in the first instance, I suppose.”

  “I want to know what makes it tick.”

  “Field theory, eh? In that case you don’t want Farquarson. He is a descriptive ballistician, primarily. Dr Julian’s work in that subject is authoritative, possibly definitive.”

  “Where can we get hold of him?”

  “Oh, but you can’t. He died last year, poor fellow. A great loss.”

  Grace refrained from telling him how great a loss and asked, “Who stepped into his shoes?”

  “Who what? Oh, you were jesting! I see. You want the name of the present top man in field theory. I would say O’Neil.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I’ll have to find out. I know him slightly—a difficult man.”

  “Do, please. In the meantime who could coach us a bit on what it’s all about?”

  “Why don’t you try young Carson, in our engineering department? He was interested in such things before he took a job with us. Intelligent chap—

  I’ve had many an interesting talk with him.”

  “I’ll do that. Thanks, Doc. Call the Chief’s office as soon as you have located O’Neil. Speed.” She cut off.

  Carson agreed with Krathwohl’s opinion, but looked dubious. “O’Neil is arrogant and non-cooperative. I’ve worked under him. But he undoubtedly knows more about field theory and space structure than any other living man.”

  Carson had been taken into the inner circle, the problem explained to him. He had admitted that he saw no solution. “Maybe we are making something hard out of this,” Clare suggested. “I’ve got some ideas. Check me if I’m wrong, Carson.”

  “Go ahead, Chief.”

  “Well, the acceleration of gravity is produced by the proximity of a mass—right? Earth-normal gravity being produced by the proximity of the Earth. Well, what would be the effect of placing a large mass just over a particular point on the Earth’s surface. Would not that serve to counteract the pull of the Earth?”

  “Theoretically, yes. But it would have to be a damn big mass.”

  “No matter.”

  “You don’t understand, Chief. To offset fully the pull of the Earth at a given point would require another planet the size of the Earth in contact with the Earth at that point. Of course since you don’t want to cancel the pull completely, but simply to reduce it, you gain a certain advantage through using a smaller mass which would have its center of gravity closer to the point in question than would be the center of gravity of the Earth. Not enough, though. While the attraction builds up inversely as the square of the distance—in this case the half-diameter—the mass and the consequent attraction drops off directly as the cube of the diameter.”

  “What does that give us?”

  Carson produced a slide rule and figured for a few moments. He looked up. “I’m almost afraid to answer. You would need a good-sized asteroid, of lead, to get anywhere at all.”

  “Asteroids have been moved before this.”

  “Yes, but what is to hold it up? No, Chief, there is no conceivable source of power, or means of applying it, that would enable you to hang a big planetoid over a particular spot on the Earth’s surface and keep it there.”

  “Well, it was a good idea while it lasted,” Clare said pensively. Grace’s smooth brow had been wrinkled as she followed the discussion. Now she put in, “I gathered that you could use an extremely heavy small mass more effectively. I seem to have read somewhere about some stuff that weighs tons per cubic inch.”

  “The core of dwarf stars,” agreed Carson. “All we would need for that would be a ship capable of going light-years in a few days, some way to mine the interior of a star, and a new space-time theory.”

  “Oh, well, skip it.”

  “Wait a minute,’ Francis observed. “Magnetism is a lot like gravity, isn’t it?”

  “Well - yes.”

  “Could there be some way to maqnetize these gazebos from the little planets? Maybe something odd about their body chemistry?”

  “Nice idea,” agreed Carson, “but while their internal economy is odd, it’s not that odd. They are still organic.”

  “I suppose not. If pigs had wings they’d be pigeons.”

  The stereo annunciator blinked. Doctor Krathwohl announced that O’Neil could be found at his summer home in Portage, Wisconsin. He had not screened him and would prefer not to do so, unless the Chief insisted. Clare thanked him and turned back to the others. “We are w
asting time,” he announced. “After years in this business we should know better than to try to decide technical questions. I’m not a physicist and I don’t give a damn how gravitation works. That’s O’Neil’s business. And Carson’s. Carson, shoot up to Wisconsin and get O’Neil on the job.”

  “Me?”

  “You. You’re an operator for this job—with pay to match. Bounce over to the port—there will be a rocket and a credit facsimile waiting for you. You ought to be able to raise ground in seven or eight minutes.”

  Carson blinked. “How about my job here?”

  “The engineering department will be told, likewise the accounting. Get going.”

  Without replying Carson headed for the door. By the time he reached it he was hurrying.

  Carson’s departure left them with nothing to do until he reported back—nothing to do, that is, but to start action on the manifold details of reproducing the physical and cultural details of three other planets and four major satellites, exclusive of their characteristic surface-normal gravitational accelerations. The assignment, although new, presented no real difficulties—

  to General Services. Somewhere there were persons who knew all the answers to these matters. The vast loose organization called General Services was geared to find them, hire them, put them to work. Any of the unlimited operators and a considerable percent of the catalogue operators could take such an assignment and handle it without excitement nor hurry. Francis called in one unlimited operator. He did not even bother to select him, but took the first available on the ready panel—they were all “Can do!”

  people. He explained in detail the assignment, then promptly forgot about it. It would be done, and on time. The punched-card machines would chatter a bit louder, stereo screens would flash, and bright young people in all parts of the Earth would drop what they were doing and dig out the specialists who would do the actual work.

  He turned back to Clare, who said, “I wish I knew what Beaumont is up to. Conference of scientists—phooey!”

  “I thought you weren’t interested in politics, Jay.”

  “I’m not. I don’t give a hoot in hell about politics, interplanetary or otherwise, except as it affects this business. But if I knew what was being planned, we might be able to squeeze a bigger cut out of it.”