Froomb!

by John Lymington

  “Oh goodness! More areas roped off,” she said. “But that isn’t what he came for, I’m sure. Oh, for goodness sake be careful! Bring the boy back now!”

  Packard drank. He felt the heat curling down to his stomach and his courage wavered. She saw the momentary indecision.

  “Bring him back!’’ she urged in a tense whisper. “David, darling—”

  “Oh go away!” he shouted suddenly. “I won’t do it. You’ve got to wait. You and the rest of them. Wait!”

  He marched to the door of his laboratory, carrying his glass like an incense burner.

  “Won’t you do it for me—?” The plea was stopped short by her own realization of its cruel uselessness.

  “I’ll do nothing for you,” he said, striding through into the surgical light. “You ought to know that by now. I’m a Taker. I don’t give anything. I Take. That’s my religion. I was brought up in it by a father who beat me unless I took everything—except of course, what was his. If I did that, I was beaten again . . .”

  His voice grew fainter, echoing in the humming idle industry of the machines. She stayed at the door, not listening to his senseless jaw. He came to the glass-cased chair and looked up at the cathode ray tubes. They glowed and sparked with electric futility.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Packard shouted suddenly. “Didn’t you have a soul after all?”

  The screens threw little, wriggling tadpoles of light across their blank faces. He turned away and felt the base of his neck where the shirt was undone. There was nothing he could do. The radio links with dead John Brunt were automatic from the time they had been set at the end of his life. To alter anything now might be to lose the slim thread that held him.

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  Or did it hold him? Was he gone, just like any other man who died?

  Packard threw his glass into a silver sink. It shattered into ice diamonds. He went back along the steel avenues to his office. Ann looked at him, and in answer he avoided her look.

  “Parker Moll is coming up,” she said. “I was going to call

  you.”

  “Blackout,” said Packard. Quite suddenly Brunt and his own position faded. A grim perplexity settled on him. He said no more until the American came in and Ann went out.

  “My favorite spy,” Packard said, and turned his back to go to the window.

  “Oh hell, Dave,” the long slim man said. He grinned a little sadly as he went to the desk and took a cigarette from a crystal box. “Can’t you forgive me, palwise, even?”

  “I have no pals, matey,” Packard said, turning. “I am Caesar. I must be slaughtered for political reasons. I am handing round the knives tomorrow, free giftwise from Turd, the detergent with the New Difference.”

  “You’re sick, man, you’re sick,” said Parker, frowning a little. “Or are you? I never make out with you in your moods.”

  “Blackout goes on?” Packard asked. His eyes were as

  brilliant as the glass he had shattered.

  “Surely. Count-down from eighteen hundred hours GMT tomorrow.”

  “And a vast area of the United States will be covered by an invisible shield of cobalt radiation, through which no missile will penetrate.”

  Parker was uneasy with Packard’s glum attitude.

  “It will mean the end of nuclear war,” he said, almost coaxingly.

  “If successful, insulationwise,” said Packard, mocking the bastard word with a twist of his voice and lips.

  “We can find no weak spot, Dave. What’s the itch with you?”

  “You’re right: it’s an itch,” Packard said. “A feeling."

  “Well, you’ve had feelings before, and we’ve analyzed them, itemized them, and it’s shown us faults. You have that gift.”

  “It’s not a gift. It’s the result of years of soaking in this mad world of mock science. It’s the vast experience of re

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  membering how often what we expected didn’t happen, but

  gave us something else. It’s a true depression that comes to me as I look back over years of devastating side-effects that nobody predicted. A long survey of people who died surprised in their millions because we were taken by surprise. That isn’t a gift, man. It’s earnings. The wages of sin.”

  “Jesus, you are in a mood, Dave,” Parker said, watching him. “Have you found something? Something that could need checking again, way back?”

  “It’s kind of you to ask my humble opinion,” Packard said.

  “Oh, don’t be sour, Dave. We’re all working together, the West. This is Defense. If Blackout succeeds, the system can be spread over every country that needs it.”

  “It’s a defense against fear,” Packard said. “And as such, my own true feeling is it isn’t worth the risk.”

  “We’ve checked every risk, Dave.” Parker was very quiet. “You don’t think I would lend my weight if I thought the risk was real, do you? There’s Madge and the children back home. I know it’s selfish and stupid to think of world events like that, but there’s no other honest way an ordinary man can feel.”

  “I can’t put my finger on it,” Packard said, loping about the room. He stopped behind the vast sofa and leaned on the back of it. “But the more we experiment with these types of fission the less become the odds against chain- reaction. So far we’ve skated round. But how near are we? Does anybody know?”

  “No one can tell that, Dave. But you can’t break through if you don’t take a risk.”

  “But you go on taking a risk, then another, then another, and all the time the ice is getting thinner and finally it cracks.”

  “Look, it isn’t us alone. It’s you. All of us. You never stood back before. What’s on your mind, Dave? We’ve all been in Blackout. You’ve been kept in step, according to the agreement.”

  “Well, they sent me you from far-off Washington,” said Packard, with a brief smile. “But whether you’re a fair exchange for the gen. we’ve sent over is questionable.”

  “Of course we’re doing the major part,” Parker said. “We have the facilities, but what’s the difference? It isn’t an all- American job. We buy scientists. We buy yours. They don’t

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  become Americans overnight. Everything they learned was

  learned here. They haven’t changed since they worked under you. They haven’t grown tails, Dave.”

  “That was singularly penetrating of you,” Packard said, straightening. “I was thinking sour, just like that. Have a drink.” He ambled toward the desk.

  As if by unspoken agreement, the Blackout subject paused.

  “How is Madge?” Packard said, pouring.

  “Missing me—she writes,” Parker said, and smiled. “Of course, she calls, too—I should say, rings. I’m learning, Dave.”

  “There are two ways to call,” said Packard. “You can stand somewhere and bellow, or you can present yourself, bodily . . . Those kids of yours must be getting on.”

  “Both at college now.”

  Packard watched with a frosting eye as a wallet with photographs was produced from the slim, shining gray suit.

  “Don’t blind me with beauty, mate,” Packard said, handing a glass to stop the selection.

  “How come you never gathered any kids?” Parker was curious, as if the question were of importance to him.

  Packard laughed shortly.

  “I married many years ago,” he said. “But I’m not the sort to be satisfied with one thing. I was happy at home, then gradually happier at work. I didn’t notice her minding. I didn’t notice anything until it was too late. Suddenly there was this other man, who had noticed. I was mad with fury. I promised I’d never give her a divorce, and then I did. Then I got on with work.”

  “I’m sorry. I never knew that.”

  “It’s thirty years ago,” Packard said. “I’m fifty-three now. I let her go. I did the same to God.”

  “You became an atheist?”

&
nbsp; Packard looked up sharply.

  “Good God, no!” he said. “I was blinded by the glory of my eldest brother. He early showed political acumen which was bound to raise him to the heights in the church. So I meant to follow him and take orders. I was firm for that when I went up to Cambridge. It was while I was there that I swung over to the scientific approach.”

  “The exact opposite.”

  “I don’t think so. That’s perhaps why I’m suspected by my own profession and disowned by my Church. I am the ugly

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  duckling, but I’m not a swan either. I’m still waiting for an identifiable mother to fly by.”

  Parker grinned.

  “You’re a boy, Dave. Your encephalograph would show the line tying itself in knots.” He put his glass down. The photographs, fanned out on the desk, he slipped together like a hand of cards and put back into his wallet. “What’s your real feeling about Blackout?”

  “My real feeling is that there’s going to be a side-effect, but I’m damned if I can see any weakness in the reasoning you served up.”

  “What gave you the feeling? That Des Moines fiasco?”

  “That was radio failure,” Packard said irritably. “No, I don’t think I’m basing this on any previous faults. Everything has been done to make sure they never happen again. I can’t detect any fault. It’s just the feeling.”

  “Can’t you put a finger on that?”

  “It could be depression. There has been a lot of worry lately. Another one this afternoon. The ABAC Chemicals’ Flightend stuff. Three thousand people choked this afternoon. More on the way.”

  “That’s happening all over,” Parker said. “We had it already.”

  “It came from you, that formula.”

  “It came from an English boy working at the Opal plant

  in Indianapolis,” Parker said mildly. “They bought him from your research lab at Cambridge.” He shook his head. “It’s nobody’s fault now, Dave. We’re all in these things, whichever way you look. You can’t track back out of the scene. The camera can only track forward and get you closer and closer to the truth.”

  “And the truth is what?” said Packard. “These poisons are being developed so the ground can be made to give more and more imitation foods, without taste, without goodness, veined with toxic matter. Why? Because they’re trying to grow money, and alongside that, nothing matters.”

  He shrugged.

  “It’s a way of life that’s come to be,” Parker said shortly, and changed the subject. “By the way, Dave, don’t forget there’s a replica meeting of service chiefs in the morning, tenwise.”

  Packard’s lips twisted.

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  “A replica meeting,” he sneered. “And the big original goes on in the Pentagon.”

  “The meetings exchange views, any findings,” Parker said. He looked uncomfortable, as if personally responsible for his country’s manners. “It’s the first of its type, but the project is so big—”

  “The thing that boffed me is that after the Des Moines shambles the service chiefs held a national vote as to whether they should carry out this experiment or not.” Packard’s eyes were cold, penetrating, holding Parker mercilessly. “They got an eighty percent ‘Aye’—in spite of Des Moines. How the hell was that arranged?”

  Parker took another cigarette from the box and looked at it as he spoke.

  “Subliminal matter was inserted into top television programs for a week before the vote,” he said, and looked up sharply. “Don’t think that I go along with this kind of thing, Dave. In fact—”

  “Subliminal persuasion!” Packard was incredulous. “Good God! You persuaded them to go like cattle into the Chicago stock pens without their poor brains knowing what it was about! But it was internationally agreed that no subliminal matter should be used in film or TV!”

  “This was a purely national affair.”

  “It was one thing you didn’t share with us.”

  “It was a national affair. The people were to vote whether their own nation would keep the lead. Leaving subliminal ads out, there is such a thing as patriotism.”

  “I thought Big Business was the name you and I agreed on for that disease.” Packard went to the window. “This is a bloody day. I’m sick, Park. There are too many daggers in my back already.”

  “Dave, you’ll call me if you put your finger on what’s worrying you?”

  “A finger? I need two full hands. Yes, of course I’ll ring. Of course.”

  He turned and stared at the American. Parker put the cigarette in an ashtray unlit, keeping his eyes down. He shrugged slightly, and went to the door. There he turned back, and there was a hurt look in his eyes.

  “It wasn’t my damn fault, you silly bastard!” He felt the knot of his tie. “You’ve got to take risks to find out.

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  You’ve been doing it all your live. Don’t point the finger at us now.”

  “Nobody’s pointing,” Packard said. “The trouble with you is you’re only half American, the sentimental half. . .My view of life has changed. Man used to be big, noble, courageous. Now I think he’s little, pitifully trying, but with a courage to meet failure after failure and still go on. He learned that from the animals, or maybe he didn’t have to learn. He is the missing link ... Did you let your wife and children see these programs?”

  “No. I knew nothing of them. It was a top level decision.”

  “It gives me omens,” said Packard. “My unease is increased by this. It doesn’t make it any easier for me that I was against it all along.”

  “But you were only concerned with the scientific part—

  not the political.”

  “They make politicians of us. That’s why I joined. I hate being forced,” Packard said. “You have to be in with the political tide or you can’t get anything done. You’re the same as I am, Park. You rise up in your own job, then they take you and use you as a spokesman, a backer- upper, one to throw on the cloth when it seems the game’s going bad. That’s what we are now. They say to you, ‘Give us something to play against the Commies,’ or ‘Give us something to make more money with less work.’ That’s all they want now. ‘And then tell everybody how marvelous and beneficial it is for them to poison themselves with.’ ”

  “Well, that’s part of the job,” Parker said. “You start off as a physicist or what have you. You get good, so they can get lots of physicists, they want you for other purposes. That figures.”

  “They put you up to defend your own trade,” Packard said. “And themselves, incidentally.”

  “Yeah, well it all adds up. It’s surely a long time since I did any of my own work, but they don’t want me for that any more. They assess me as a political contact with scientific know-how—”

  ‘To argue with and beat down opposition. That’s what your job is, and mine, too. They shift us out of the lab to justify trends which I long ago began to believe are wrong. That’s dishonest.”

  “These trends haven’t been the fault of Science,” Park said. “Science is always blamed. But all we’ve done is try to find

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  out, try to know. If the end-product gets twisted, that’s beyond our range.”

  “Sometimes I think we have the angle wrong,” Packard said, taking a cigarette. “We say, how remarkable that the science fiction writers foretold most of the things we’ve made in recent years. Is that the right way round? Isn’t it possible that we, never growing up have deliberately made fact of the science fiction we loved as boys? Wasn’t that the source of our inspiration?”

  Parker laughed suddenly.

  “You’re a refreshing breeze, Dave,” he said. “I confess I never did see it like that.”

  “How else can you explain the obsession with rockets, big bangs and the rest of the prehistoric nonsense? Isn’t it something we wanted to do because we couldn’t think in any other dimension? Bang. Bigger bang. Biggest bang to pre-bang
aggressive bangs. Jesus, it’s childish.”

  “Is that the base of your objection?”

  “No. I’ve told you I fear a chain-reaction this time. After all, Blackout itself is a miniature chain-reaction; creating a constant pulse of nuclear explosions for a given length of time to form an apparently continuous protective shield against missiles. That is a chain-reaction. One sets off another. We have not used it in this form before. I am not satisfied with it, but they won’t listen to me now because I’ve been against it all along. I’ve distrusted it all along.” “Many of your own men have been on this, each side of the water, Dave. You trained them.”

  “Do you mean I should work on the premise that / couldn’t make a mistake?” shouted Packard incredulously. Parker burst into sudden laughter.

  “All right, Dave! Don’t make a big bang right now. My nerves wouldn’t stand it.” He went to the window. “That’s some view.” He regarded it, frowning. “You must know what puts you against this project, Dave. You must know. Why would you be so sure about it?”

  “I don’t know,” Packard said. “But how can you find if I’m right until you try it? That’s the thing that empties out my guts. You can’t tell until you’ve done it! And the fact is, the reason for this risk is political. Which, to me, is unjustifiable.”

  Parker watched him.

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  “You’re such a talker, Dave, I’m getting so I could believe you’re right if you went on.”

  “Well, I am right,” Packard said. “The whole thing is getting out of hand. We are doing things for political reasons, for money reasons, and now both politics and money are more important than people. Flightend, Blackout, artificial manures, artificial erections, artificial sleep, artificial appetite, what hell life is this we’re heading into? Will we need to kill ’em off or will they just lose the energy of regeneration through pills? Sometimes I wonder whether we shouldn’t dump this phony civilization into the oceans and start again with nothing—try some other way.”

  Parker shrugged.

  “It’s later than you think,” he said. “But if you get me a reason before the meeting tomorrow, I promise I’ll think about it.”

  He laughed.