by Isaac Asimov
Haridin gasped. He pulled the shades and in the gloom, the globe of glowing haze bulked through half the tank. Little curving tentacles of light reached toward the remaining fern and one pulsing thread extended through the glass and was creeping along the table.
That fright in Ranin's voice rendered it a cracked, scarcely-understood sound.
'It's a lag reaction. Didn't you test it by Wilbon's Theorem?'
'How could I?' The other's heart pumped madly and his dry lips fought to form words. 'Wilbon's Theorem didn't make sense with an imaginary in the equation. I let it go.'
Ranin sped into action with feverish energy. He left the room and was back in a moment with a tiny, squealing, squirrel-like animal from his own lab. He dropped it in the path of the thread of light stealing along the table, and held it there with a yard rule.
The glowing thread wavered, seemed to sense the presence of life in some horribly blind way, and lunged toward it. The little rodent squealed once, a high-pitched shriek of infinite torture, and went limp. In two seconds it was a shriveled, shrunken travesty of its former self.
Ranin swore and dropped the rule with a sudden yell, for the thread of light - a bit brighter, a bit thicker - began creeping up the wood toward him.
'Here,' said Haridin, 'let's end this!' He yanked a drawer open and withdrew the chromium-plated Tonite gun within. Its sharp thin beam of purple light lunged forward toward the squid and exploded in blazing, soundless fury against the edge of the sphere of force. The psychologist shot again and again, and then compressed the trigger to form one continuous purple stream of destruction that ceased only when power failed.
And the glowing sphere remained unharmed. It engulfed the entire tank. The ferns were brown masses of death.
'Get the Board,' yelled Ranin. 'It's beyond us entirely!'
There was no confusion - humanoids in the mass are simply not subject to panic, if you don't count the half-genius, half-humanoid inhabitants of the planets of Sol - and the evacuation of the University grounds was carried out smoothly.
'One fool,' said old Mir Deana, ace physicist of Arcturus U., 'can ask more questions than a thousand wise men can answer.' He fingered his scraggly beard and his button nose sniffed loudly in disdain.
'What do you mean by that?' questioned Frian Obel sharply. His green Vegan skin darkened angrily.
'Just that, by analogy, one cosmic fool of a psychologist can make a bigger mess than a thousand physicists can clear up.'
Obel drew in his breath dangerously. He had his own opinion of Haridin and Ranin, but no lame-brain psysicist could -
The plump figure of Qual Wynn, university president, came charging down upon them. He was out of breath and spoke between puffs.
'I've gotten in touch with the Galactic Congress and they're arranging for evacuation of all Eron, if necessary.' His voice became pleading. 'Isn't there anything that can be done?'
Mir Deana sighed, 'Nothing - yet! All we know is this: the squid is emitting some sort of pseudo-living radiatory field which is not electromagnetic in character. Its advance cannot be stopped by anything we have yet tried, material or vacuum. None of our weapons affect it, for within the field the ordinary attributes of space-time apparently don't hold.'
The president shook a worried head. 'Bad, bad! You've sent for Porus, though?' He sounded as though he were clutching at a last straw.
'Yes,' scowled Frian Obel. 'He's the only one that really knows that squid. If he can't help us, no one can.' He stared off toward the gleaming white of the university buildings, where the grass over half the campus was brown stubble and the trees blasted ruins.
'Do you think,' said the president, turning to Deana once more, 'that the field can span interplanetary space?'
'Sizzling novae, I don't know what to think!' Deana exploded, and he turned pettishly away.
There was a thick silence of utter gloom.
Tan Porus was sunk in deep apathy. He was unaware of the brilliant coruscations of color overhead. He didn't hear a sound of the melodious tones that filled the auditorium.
He knew only one thing - that he had been talked into attending a concert. Concerts above all were anathema to him, and in twenty years of married life he had steered clear of them with a skill and ease that only the greatest psychologist of them all could have shown. And now -
He was startled out of his stupor by the sudden discordant sounds that arose from the rear.
There was a rush of ushers to the exit where the disturbance originated, a waving of protesting uniformed arms and then a strident voice: 'I am here on urgent business direct from the Galactic Congress on Eron, Arcturus. Is Tan Porus in the audience?'
Tan Porus was out of his seat with a bound. Any excuse to leave the auditorium was nothing short of heaven-sent.
He ripped open the communication handed him by the messenger and devoured its contents. At the second sentence, his elation left him. When he was finished, he raised a face in which only his darting green eyes seemed alive.
'How soon can we leave?'
'The ship is waiting now.'
'Come, then.'
He took one step forward and stopped. There was a hand on his elbow.
'Where are you going?' asked Nina Porus. There was hidden steel in her voice.
Tan Porus felt stifled for a moment. He foresaw what would happen. 'Darling, I must go to Eron immediately. The fate of a world, of the whole galaxy perhaps, is at stake. You don't know how important it is. I tell you -'
'All right, go! And I'll go with you.'
The psychologist bowed his head.
'Yes, dear!' he said. He sighed.
The psychological board hemmed and hawed as one man and then stared dubiously at the large-scale graph before them.
'Frankly, gentlemen,' said Tan Porus, 'I don't feel too certain about it myself, but - well, you've all seen my results, and checked them too. And it is the only stimulus that will yield a canceling reaction.'
Frian Obel fingered his chin nervously. 'Yes, the mathematics is clear. Increase of hydrogen-ion activity past pH3 would set up a Demane's Integral and that- But listen, Porus, we're not dealing with space-time. The math might not hold - perhaps nothing will hold.'
'It's our only chance. If we were dealing with normal space-time, we could just dump in enough acid to kill the blasted squid or fry it with a Tonite. As it is, we have no choice but to take our chances with -'
Loud voices interrupted him. 'Let me through, I say! I don't care if there are ten conferences going on!'
The door swung open and Qual Wynn's portly figure made its entrance. He spied Porus and bore down upon him. 'Porus, I tell you I'm going crazy. Parliament is holding me, as university president, responsible for all this, and now Deana says that-' He sputtered into silence and Mir Deana, standing composedly behind him, took up the tale.
'The field now covers better than one thousand square miles and its rate of increase is growing steadily. There seems to be no doubt now that it can span interplanetary space if it wishes to do so - interstellar as well, if given the time.'
'You hear that? You hear that?' Wynn was fairly dancing in his anxiety. 'Can't you do something? The galaxy is doomed, I tell you, doomed!'
'Oh, keep your tunic on,' groaned Porus, 'and let us handle this.' He turned to Deana. 'Didn't your physicist stooges conduct some clumsy investigations as to the speed of penetration of the field through various substances?'
Deana nodded stiffly.
'Penetration varies, in general, inversely with density. Osmium, iridium and platinum are the best. Lead and gold are fair.'
'Good! That checks! What I'll need then is an osmium-plated suit with a lead-glass helmet. And make both plating and helmet good and thick.'
Qual Wynn stared horrified. 'Osmium plating! Osmium! By the great nebula, think of the expense.'
'I'm thinking,' said Porus frostily.
'But they'll charge it to the university; they'll -' He recovered with difficulty as the somber s
tares of the assembled psychologists fastened themselves upon him. 'When do you need it?' he muttered weakly.
'You're really going, yourself?'
'Why not?' asked Porus, clambering out of the suit.
Mir Deana said, 'The lead-glass headpiece will hold off the field not longer than an hour and you'll probably be getting partial penetration in much shorter time. I don't know if you can do it.'
'I'll worry about that.' He paused, and then continued uncertainly. 'I'll be ready in a few minutes. I'd like to speak to my wife first - alone.'
The interview was a short one. It was one of the very few occasions that Tan Porus forgot that he was a psychologist, and spoke as his heart moved him, without stopping to consider the natural reaction of the one spoken to.
One thing he did know - by instinct rather than thought -and that was that his wife would not break down or go sentimental on him; and there he was right. It was only in the last few seconds that her eyes fell and her voice quavered. She tugged a handkerchief from her wide sleeve and hurried from the room.
The psychologist stared after her and then stooped to pick up the thin book that had fallen as she had removed the handkerchief. Without looking at it, he placed it in the inner pocket of his tunic. He smiled crookedly. 'A talisman!' he said.
Tan Porus's gleaming one-man cruiser whistled into the 'death field.' The clammy sensation of desolation impressed itself upon him at once.
He shrugged. 'Imagination! Mustn't get nervy now.'
There was the vaguest glitter - a sparkle that was felt rather than seen - in the air about him. And then it invaded the ship itself, and, looking up, the Rigellian saw the five Eronian rice-birds he had brought with him lying dead on the floor of their cage, huddled masses of bedraggled feathers.
'The "death field" is in,' he whispered. It had penetrated the steel hull of the cruiser.
The cruiser bumped to a rather unskillful landing on the broad university athletic field, and Tan Porus, an incongruous figure in the bulky osmium suit, stepped out. He surveyed his depressing surroundings. From the brown stubble underfoot to the glimmering haze that hid the normal blue of the sky, all seemed - dead.
He entered Psychology Hall.
His lab was dark; the shades were still drawn. He parted them and studied the squid's tank. The water replenisher was still working, for the tank was full. However, that was the only normal thing about it. Only a few dark-brown, ragged strands of rot were left of what had once been sea-fern. The squid itself lay inertly upon the floor of the tank.
Tan Porus sighed. He felt tired and numbed. His mind was hazy and unclear. For long minutes he stared about him un-seeingly.
Then, with an effort, he raised the bottle he held and glanced at the label - 12 molar hydrochloric acid.
He mumbled vaguely to himself. 'Two hundred cc. Just dump the whole thing in. That'll force the pH down - if only hydrogen ion activity means something here.'
He was fumbling with the glass stopper, and - suddenly -laughing. He had felt exactly like this the one and only time he had ever been drunk.
He shook the gathering cobwebs from his brain. 'Only got a few minutes to do - to do what? I don't know - something anyway. Dump this thing in. Dump it in. Dump! Dump! Dumpety-dump!' He was mumbling a silly popular song to himself as the acid gurgled its way into the open tank.
Tan Porus felt pleased with himself and he laughed. He stirred the water with his mailed fist and laughed some more. He was still singing that song.
And then he became aware of a subtle change in environment. He fumbled for it and stopped singing. And then it hit him with the suddenness of a downpour of cold water. The glitter in the atmosphere had gone!
With a sudden motion, he unclasped the helmet and cast it off. He drew in long breaths of air, a bit musty, but unkilling.
He had acidified the water of the tank, and destroyed the field at its source. Chalk up another victory for the pure mathematics of psychology!
He stepped out of his osmium suit and stretched. The pressure on his chest reminded him of something. Withdrawing the booklet his wife had dropped, he said, 'The talisman came through!' and smiled indulgently at his own whimsy.
The smile froze as he saw for the first time the title upon the book.
The title was Intermediate Course in Applied Psychology -Volume 5.
It was as if something large and heavy had suddenly fallen onto Porus's head and driven understanding into it. Nina had been boning up on applied psych for two whole years.
This was the missing factor. He could allow for it. He would have to use triple time integrals, but -
He threw the communicator switch and waited for contact.
'Hello! This is Porus! Come on in, all of you! The death field is gone! I've beaten the squid.' He broke contact and added triumphantly, '- and my wife!'
Strangely enough - or, perhaps, not so strangely - it was the latter feat that pleased him more.
***
The chief interest to me in 'The Imaginary' is that it foreshadows 'psychohistory' that was to play such a big role in the 'Foundation' series. It was in this story and in its predecessor, 'Homo Sol,' that for the first time I treated psychology as a mathematically refined science.
It was about time that I made another stab at Unknown, and I did so with a story called The Oak,' which, as I recall, was something about an oak tree that served as an oracle and delivered ambiguous statements. I submitted it to Campbell on July 16, 1940, and it was promptly rejected.
One of the bad things about writing for Unknown was that the magazine was one of a kind. If Unknown rejected a story, there was no place else to submit it. It was possible to try Weird Tales, a magazine that was older than any science fiction magazine, but it dealt with old-fashioned, creaky horror tales and paid very little to boot. I wasn't really interested in trying to get into it. (And besides, they rejected both 'Life Before Birth' and 'The Oak' when I submitted them.)
Still, July 29, 1940, was a turning point in my career, although, of course, I had no way of telling it. I had up to that point written twenty-two stories in twenty-five months. Of these I had sold (or was to sell) thirteen, while nine never sold at all and no longer exist. The record wasn't abysmal but neither was it great - let's call it mediocre.
However, as it happened, except for two short-short stories that were special cases, I never again wrote a science fiction story I could never sell. I had found the range.
But not Campbell 's range particularly. In August I wrote 'Heredity,' which I submitted to Campbell on August 15, and which he rejected two weeks later. Fortunately, Pohl snapped it up at once.
Heredity [4]
Dr. Stefansson fondled the thick sheaf of typewritten papers that lay before him, 'It's all here, Harvey - twenty-five years of work.'
Mild-mannered Professor Harvey puffed idly at his pipe, 'Well, your part is over - and Markey's, too, on Ganymede. It's up to the twins, themselves, now.'
A short ruminative silence, and then Dr. Stefansson stirred uneasily, 'Are you going to break the news to Allen soon?'
The other nodded quietly, 'It will have to be done before we get to Mars, and the sooner the better.' He paused, then added in a tightened voice, 'I wonder how it feels to find out after twenty-five years that one has a twin brother whom one has never seen. It must be a damned shock.'
'How did George take it?'
'Didn't believe it at first, and I don't blame him. Markey had to work like a horse to convince him it wasn't a hoax. I suppose I'll have as hard a job with Allen.' He knocked the dottle from his pipe and shook his head.
'I have half a mind to go to Mars just to see those two get together,' remarked Dr. Stefansson wistfully.
'You'll do no such thing, Stef. This experiment's taken too long and means too much to have you ruin it by any such fool move.'
'I know, I know! Heredity versus environment! Perhaps at last the definite answer.' He spoke half to himself, as if repeating an old, familiar formula, 'Two
identical twins, separated at birth; one brought up oh old, civilized Earth, the other on pioneer Ganymede. Then, on their twenty-fifth birthday brought together for the first time on Mars - God! I wish Carter had lived to see the end of it. They're his children.'
'Too bad! - But we're alive, and the twins. To carry the experiment to its end will be our tribute to him.'
There is no way of telling, at first seeing the Martian branch of Medicinal Products, Inc., that it is surrounded by anything but desert. You can't see the vast underground caverns where the native fungi of Mars are artificially nurtured into huge blooming fields. The intricate transportation system that connects all parts of the square miles of fields to the central building is invisible. The irrigation system; the air-purifiers; the drainage pipes, are all hidden.
And what one sees is the broad squat red-brick building and Martian desert, rusty and dry, all about.
That had been all George Carter had seen upon arriving via rocket-taxi, but him, at least, appearances had not deceived. It would have been strange had it done so, for his life on Ganymede had been oriented in its every phase towards eventual general managership of that very concern. He knew every square inch of the caverns below as well as if he had been born and raised in them himself.
And now he sat in Professor Lemuel Harvey's small office and allowed just the slightest trace of uneasiness to cross his impassive countenance. His ice-blue eyes sought those of Professor Harvey.
'This - this twin brother o' mine. He'll be here soon?'
Professor Harvey nodded, 'He's on his way over right now.'
George Carter uncrossed his knees. His expression was almost wistful, 'He looks a lot like me, d'ya rack on?'
'Quite a lot. You're identical twins, you know.'
'Hmm! Rackon so! Wish I'd known him all the time - on Ganny!' He frowned, 'He's lived on Airth all's life, huh?'
An expression of interest crossed Professor Harvey's face. He said briskly, 'You dislike Earthmen?'
'No, not exactly,' came the immediate answer. 'It's just the Airthmen are tenderfeet. All of 'm I know are.'