by Anthology
She looked at him coolly for almost a minute. "All right, Frank," she said quietly. "Follow your nose. It's just liable to be right on the beam--for you. I might follow mine. I don't know."
"Joe and Two-and-Two are around--if you need anything, Nance," he said. "I'll tell them. Gimp, I hear, is on the way. Not much point in my waiting for him, though..."
Somehow he loved Nance Codiss as much or more than ever. But how could he tell her that and make sense? Not much made sense to him anymore. It seemed that he had to get away from everybody that he had ever seen in space.
Fifty hours before his departure with a returning bubb caravan that had brought more Earth-emigrants, Nelsen acquired a travelling companion who had arrived from Pallastown with a small caravan bringing machinery. The passenger-hostess brought him to Nelsen's prefab. He was a grave little guy, five years old. He was solemn, polite, frightened, tall for his age--funny how corn and kids grew at almost zero-gravity.
The boy handed Nelsen a letter. "From my father and mother, sir," he said.
Nelsen read the typed missive.
"Dear Frank: The rumor has come that you are going home. You have our very best wishes, as always. Our son, Davy, is being sent to his paternal grandmother, now living in Minneapolis. He will go to school there. He is capable of making the trip without any special attention. But--a small imposition. If you can manage it, please look in on him once in a while, on the way. We would appreciate this favor. Thank you, take care of yourself, and we shall hope to see you somewhere within the next few months. Your sincere friends, David and Helen Lester."
A lot of nerve, Nelsen thought first. But he tried to grin engagingly at the kid and almost succeeded.
"We're in luck, Dave," he said. "I'm going to Minneapolis, too. I'm afraid of a lot of things. What are you afraid of?"
The small fry's jutting lip trembled. "Earth," he said. "A great big planet. Hoppers tell me I won't even be able to stand up or breathe."
Nelsen very nearly laughed and went into hiccups, again. Fantastic. Another viewpoint. Seeing through the other end of the telescope. But how else would it be for a youngster born in the Belt, while being sent--in the old colonial pattern--to the place that his parents regarded as home?
"Those jokers," Nelsen scoffed. "They're pulling your leg! It just isn't so, Davy. Anyhow, during the trip, the big bubb will be spun fast enough, so that we will get used to the greater Earth-gravity. Let me tell you something. I guess it's space and the Belt that I'm afraid of. I never quite got over it. Silly, huh?"
But as Nelsen watched the kid brighten, he remembered that he, himself, had been scared of Earth, too. Scared to return, to show weakness, to lack pride... Well, to hell with that. He had accomplished enough, now, maybe, to cancel such objections. Now it seemed that he had to get to Earth before it vanished because of something he had helped start. Silly, of course...
He and Davy travelled fast and almost in luxury. Within two weeks they were in orbit around the bulk of the Old World. Then, in the powerful tender with its nuclear retard rockets, there was the Blast In--the reverse of that costly agony that had once meant hard won and enormous freedom, when he was poor in money and rich in mighty yearning. But now Nelsen yielded in all to the mother clutch of the gravity. The whole process had been gentled and improved. There were special anti-knock seats. There was sound- and vibration-insulation. Even Davy's slight fear was more than half thrill.
At the new Minneapolis port, Nelsen delivered David Lester, Junior into the care of his grandmother, who seemed much more human than Nelsen once had thought long ago. Then he excused himself quickly.
Seeking the shelter of anonymity, he bought a rucksack for his few clothes, and boarded a bus which dropped him at Jarviston, Minnesota, at two a.m. He thrust his hands into his pockets, partly like a lonesome tramp, partly like some carefree immortal, and partly like a mixed-up wraith who didn't quite know who or what he was, or where he belonged.
In his wallet he had about five hundred dollars. How much more he might have commanded, he couldn't even guess. Wups, fella, he told himself. That's too weird, too indigestible--don't start hiccuping again. How old are you--twenty-five, or twenty-five thousand years? Wups--careful...
The full Moon was past zenith, looking much as it always had. The blue-tinted air domes of colossal industrial development, were mostly too small at this distance to be seen without a glass. Good...
With wondering absorption he sniffed the mingling of ripe field and road smells, borne on the warm breeze of the late-August night. Some few cars evidently still ran on gasoline. For a moment he watched neon signs blink. In the desertion he walked past Lehman's Drug Store and Otto Kramer's bar, and crossed over to pause for a nameless moment in front of Paul Hendricks' Hobby Center, which was all dark, and seemed little changed. He took to a side street, and won back the rustle of trees and the click of his heels in the silence.
A few more buildings--that was about all that was visibly different in Jarviston, Minnesota.
A young cop eyed him as he returned to the main drag and paused near a street lamp. He had a flash of panic, thinking that the cop was somebody, grown up, now, who would recognize him. But at least it was no one that he remembered.
The cop grinned. "Get settled in a hotel, buddy," he said. "Or else move on, out of town."
Nelsen grinned back, and ambled out to the highway, where intermittent clumps of traffic whispered.
There he paused, and looked up at the sky, again. The electric beacon of a weather observation satellite blinked on and off, moving slowly. Venus had long since set, with hard-to-see Mercury preceding it. Jupiter glowed in the south. Mars looked as remote and changeless as it must have looked in the Stone Age. The asteroids were never even visible here without a telescope.
The people that he knew, and the events that he had experienced Out There, were like myths, now. How could he ever put Here and There together, and unite the mismatched halves of himself and his experience? He had been born on Earth, the single home of his kind from the beginning. How could he ever even have been Out There?
He didn't try to hitch a ride. He walked fourteen miles to the next town, bought a small tent, provisions and a special, miniaturized radio. Then he slipped into the woods, along Hickman's Lake, where he used to go.
There he camped, through September, and deep into October. He fished, he swam again. He dropped stones into the water, and watched the circles form, with a kind of puzzled groping in his memory. He retreated from the staggering magnificence of his recent past and clutched at old simplicities.
On those rare occasions when he shaved, he saw the confused sickness in his face, reflected by his mirror. Sometimes, for a moment, he felt hot, and then cold, as if his blood still held a tiny trace of Syrtis Fever. If there was such a thing? No--don't start to laugh, he warned himself. Relax. Let the phantoms fade away. Somewhere, that multiple bigness of Nothing, of life and death, of success and unfairness and surprise, must have reality--but not here...
Occasionally he listened to news on the radio. But mostly he shut it off--out. Until boredom at last began to overtake him--because he had been used to so much more than what was here. Until--specifically--one morning, when the news came too quickly, and with too much impact. It was a recording, scratchy, and full of unthinkable distance.
"... Frank, Gimp, Two-and-Two, Paul, Mr. Reynolds, Otto, Les, Joe, Art, everybody--especially you, Eileen--remember what you promised, when I get back, Eileen...! Here I am, on Pluto--edge of the star desert! Clear sailing--all the way. All I see, yet, is twilight, rocks, mountains, snow which must be frozen atmosphere--and one big star, Sol. But I'll get the data, and be back..."
Nelsen listened to the end, with panic in his face--as if such adventures and such living were too gigantic and too rich... He hiccuped once. Then he held himself very still and concentrated. He had known that voice Out There and Here, too. Now, as he heard it again--Here, but from Out There--it became like a joining force to bring th
em both together within himself. Though how could it be...?
"Ramos," he said aloud. "Made it... Another good guy, accomplishing what he wanted... Hey...! Hey, that's swell... Like things should happen."
He didn't hiccup anymore, or laugh. By being very careful, he just grinned, instead. He arose to his feet, slowly.
"What am I doing here--wasting time?" he seemed to ask the woods.
Without picking up his camping gear at all, he headed for the road, thumbed a ride to Jarviston, where he arrived before eight o'clock. Somebody had started ringing the city hall bell. Celebration?
Hendricks' was the most logical place for Nelsen to go, but he passed it by, following a hunch to his old street. She had almost said that she might come home, too. He touched the buzzer.
Not looking too completely dishevelled himself, he stood there, as a girl--briskly early in dress and impulse, so as not to waste the bright morning--opened the door.
"Yeah, Nance--me," he croaked apologetically. "Ramos has reached Pluto!"
"I know, Frankie!" she burst out.
But his words rushed on. "I've been goofing off--by Hickman's Lake. Over now. Emotional indigestion, I guess--from living too big, before I could take it. I figured you might be here. If you weren't, I'd come... Because I know where I belong. Nance--I hope you're not angry. Maybe we're pulling together, at last?"
"Angry--when I was the first fumbler? How could that be, Frank? Oh, I knew where you were--folks found out. I told them to leave you alone, because I understood some of what you were digging through. Because it was a little the same--for me... So, you see, I didn't just tag after you." She laughed a little. "That wouldn't be proud, would it? Even though Joe and Two-and-Two said I had to go bring you back..."
His arms went tight around her, right there on the old porch. "Nance--love you," he whispered. "And we've got to be tough. Everybody's got to be tough--to match what we've come to. Even little kids. But it was always like that--on any kind of frontier, wasn't it? A few will get killed, but more will live--many more..."
Like that, Frank Nelsen shook the last of the cobwebs out of his brain--and got back to his greater destiny.
"I'll buy all of that philosophy," Nance chuckled gently. "But you still look as though you needed some breakfast, Frank."
He grinned. "Later. Let's go to see Paul, first. A big day for him--because of Ramos. Paul is getting feeble, I suppose?" Nelsen's face had sobered.
"Not so you could notice it much, Frank," Nance answered. "There's a new therapy--another side of What's Coming, I guess..."
They walked the few blocks. The owner of the Hobby Center was now a long-time member of KRNH Enterprises. He had the means to expand and modernize the place beyond recognition. But clearly he had realized that some things should not change.
In the display window, however, there gleamed a brand-new Archer Nine, beautiful as a garden or a town floating, unsupported, under the stars--beautiful as the Future, which was born of the Past.
A Bunch of fellas--the current crop of aficionados--were inside the store, making lots of noise over the news. Was that Chip Potter, grown tall? Was that his same old dog, Blaster? Frank Nelsen could see Paul Hendricks' white-fringed bald-spot.
"Go ahead--open the door. Or are you still scared?" Nance challenged lightly.
"No--just anticipating," Nelsen gruffed. "And seeing if I can remember what's Out There ... Serene, bubb, Belt, Pallas..." He spoke the words like comic incantations, yet with a dash of reverence.
"Superbia?" Nance teased.
"That is somebody's impertinent joke!" he growled in feigned solemnity. "Anyhow, it would be too bad if something that important couldn't take a little ribbing. Shucks--we've hardly started to work, yet!"
He drew Nance back a pace, out of sight of those in the store, and kissed her long and rather savagely.
"With all its super-complications, life still seems pretty nice," he commented.
The door squeaked, just as it used to, as Nelsen pushed it open. The old overhead bell jangled.
Pale, watery eyes lifted and lighted with another fulfilment.
"Well, Frank! Long time no see...!"
* * *
Contents
OCCASION FOR DISASTER
By Randall Garrett
In 1914, it was enemy aliens.
In 1930, it was Wobblies.
In 1957, it was fellow-travelers.
In 1971, it was insane telepaths.
And, in 1973:
"We don't know what it is," said Andrew J. Burris, Director of the FBI. He threw his hands in the air and looked baffled and confused.
Kenneth J. Malone tried to appear sympathetic. "What what is?"
Burris frowned and drummed his fingers on his big desk. "Malone," he said, "make sense. And don't stutter."
"Stutter?" Malone said. "You said you didn't know what it was. And I wanted to know what it was."
"That's just it," Burris said. "I don't know."
Malone sighed and repressed an impulse to scream. "Now, wait a minute, Chief--" he started.
Burris frowned again. "Don't call me Chief," he said.
Malone nodded, "O.K.," he said. "But--if you don't know what it is, you must have some idea of what you don't know. I mean, is it larger than a breadbox? Does it perform helpful tasks? Is it self-employed?"
"Malone," Burris sighed, "you ought to be on television."
"But--"
"Let me explain," Burris said. His voice was calmer now, and he spoke as if he were enunciating nothing but the most obvious and eternal truths. "The country," he said, "is going to Hell in a handbasket."
Malone nodded again. "Well, after all, Chief--" he started.
"Don't call me Chief," Burris said wearily.
"Anything you say," Malone agreed peacefully. He eyed the Director of the FBI warily. "After all, it isn't anything new," he went on. "The country's always been going to Hell in a handbasket, one way or another. Look at Rome."
"Rome?" Burris said.
"Sure," Malone said. "Rome was always going to Hell in a handbasket, and finally it--" He paused. "Finally it did, I guess," he said.
"Exactly," Burris said. "And so are we. Finally." He passed a hand over his forehead and stared past Malone at a spot on the wall. Malone turned and looked at the spot, but saw nothing of interest. "Malone," Burris said, and the FBI Agent whirled around again.
"Yes, Ch--Yes?" he said.
"This time," Burris said, "it isn't the same old story at all. This time it's different."
"Different?" Malone said.
Burris nodded. "Look at it this way," he said. His eyes returned to the FBI Agent. "Suppose you're a congressman," he went on, "and you find evidence of inefficiency in the government."
"All right," Malone said agreeably. He had the feeling that if he waited around a little while everything would make sense, and he was willing to wait. After all, he wasn't on assignment at the moment, and there was nothing pressing waiting for him. He was even between romances.
If he waited long enough, he told himself, Andrew J. Burris might say something worth hearing. He looked attentive and eager. He considered leaning over the desk a little, to look even more eager, but decided against it; Burris might think he looked threatening. There was no telling.
"You're a congressman," Burris said, "and the government is inefficient. You find evidence of it. What do you do?"
* * * * *
Malone blinked and thought for a second. It didn't take any longer than that to come up with the old, old answer. "I start an investigation," he said. "I get a committee and I talk to a lot of newspaper editors and magazine editors and maybe I go on television and talk some more, and my committee has a lot of meetings--"
"Exactly," Burris said.
"And we talk a lot at the meetings," Malone went on, carried away, "and get a lot of publicity, and we subpoena famous people, just as famous as we can get, except governors or presidents, because you can't--they tried that back in the '50s
, and it didn't work very well--and that gives us some more publicity, and then when we have all the publicity we can possibly get--"
"You stop," Burris said hurriedly.
"That's right," Malone said. "We stop. And that's what I'd do."
"Of course, the problem of inefficiency is left exactly where it always was," Burris said. "Nothing's been done about it."
"Naturally," Malone said. "But think of all the lovely publicity. And all the nice talk. And the subpoenas and committees and everything."
"Sure," Burris said wearily. "It's happened a thousand times. But, Malone, that's the difference. It isn't happening this time."
There was a short pause. "What do you mean?" Malone said at last.
"This time," Burris said, in a tone that sounded almost awed, "they want to keep it a secret."
"A secret?" Malone said, blinking. "But that's ... that's not the American way."
Burris shrugged. "It's un-congressman-like, anyhow," he said. "But that's what they've done. Tiptoed over to me and whispered softly that the thing has to be investigated quietly. Naturally, they didn't give me any orders--but only because they know they can't make one stick. They suggested it pretty strongly."
"Any reasons?" Malone said. The whole idea interested him strangely. It was odd--and he found himself almost liking odd cases, lately. That is, he amended hurriedly, if they didn't get too odd.
"Oh, they had reasons, all right," Burris said. "It took a little coaxing, but I managed to pry some loose. You see, every one of them found inefficiency in his own department. And every one knows that other men are investigating inefficiency."
"Oh," Malone said.
"That's right," Burris said. "Every one of them came to me to get me to prove that the goof-ups in his particular department weren't his fault. That covers them in case one of the others happens to light into the department."