"We were friends in childhood. He has crossed the—"Martel started to say "the Up-and-Out" and remembered that the phrase was current only among Scanners. "He has leapt from Earth to Earth, and has just now returned. I knew him well and I seek him out. I have word of his kith. May the Instrumentality protect us!"
"Heard and believed. Adam Stone will be searched."
At a risk, though a slight one, of having the sphere sound an alarm for non-Man, Martel cut in on his Scanner speaker within his jacket. He saw the trembling needle of light await his words and he started to write on it with his blunt finger. That won't work, he thought, and had a moment's panic until he found his comb, which had a sharp enough tooth to write. He wrote: "Emergency none. Martel Scanner calling Parizianski Scanner."
The needle quivered and the reply glowed and faded out: "Parizianski Scanner on duty and D.C. Calls taken by Scanner Relay."
Martel cut off his speaker.
Parizianski was somewhere around. Could he have crossed the direct way, right over the city wall, setting off the alert, and invoking official business when the petty officers overtook him in mid-air? Scarcely. That meant that a number of other Scanners must have come in with Parizianski, all of them pretending to be in search of a few of the tenuous pleasures which could be enjoyed by a haberman, such as the sight of the newspictures or the viewing of beautiful women in the Pleasure Gallery. Parizianski was around, but he could not have moved privately, because Scanner Central registered him on duty and recorded his movements city by city.
The voice returned. Puzzlement was expressed in it. "Adam Stone is found and awakened. He has asked pardon of the Honorable, and says he knows no Martel. Will you see Adam Stone in the morning? The city will bid you welcome."
Martel ran out of resources. It was hard enough mimicking a man without having to tell lies in the guise of one. Martel could only repeat: "Tell him I am Martel. The husband of Lûci."
"It will be done."
Again the silence, and the hostile stars, and the sense that Parizianski was somewhere near and getting nearer; Martel felt his heart beating faster. He stole a glimpse at his chestbox and set his heart down a point. He felt calmer, even though he had not been able to scan with care.
The voice this time was cheerful, as though an annoyance had been settled: "Adam Stone consents to see you. Enter Chief Downport, and welcome."
The little sphere dropped noiselessly to the ground and the wire whispered away into the darkness. A bright arc of narrow light rose from the ground in front of Martel and swept through the city to one of the higher towers—apparently a hostel, which Martel had never entered. Martel plucked his aircoat to his chest for ballast, stepped heel-and-toe on the beam, and felt himself whistle through the air to an entrance window which sprang up before him as suddenly as a devouring mouth.
A tower guard stood in the doorway. "You are awaited, sir. Do you bear weapons, sir?"
"None," said Martel, grateful that he was relying on his own strength.
The guard led him past the check-screen. Martel noticed the quick flight of a warning across the screen as his instruments registered and identified him as a Scanner. But the guard had not noticed it.
The guard stopped at a door. "Adam Stone is armed. He is lawfully armed by authority of the Instrumentality and by the liberty of this city. All those who enter are given warning."
Martel nodded in understanding at the man, and went in.
Adam Stone was a short man, stout and benign. His gray hair rose stiffly from a low forehead. His whole face was red and merry-looking. He looked like a jolly guide from the Pleasure Gallery, not like a man who had been at the edge of the Up-and-Out, fighting the Great Pain without haberman protection.
He stared at Martel. His look was puzzled, perhaps a little annoyed, but not hostile.
Martel came to the point. "You do not know me. I lied. My name is Martel, and I mean you no harm. But I lied. I beg the Honorable gift of your hospitality. Remain armed. Direct your weapon against me—"
Stone smiled: "I am doing so," and Martel noticed the small Wirepoint in Stone's capable, plump hand.
"Good. Keep on guard against me. It will give you confidence in what I shall say. But do, I beg you, give us a screen of privacy. I want no casual lookers. This is a matter of life and death."
"First: whose life and death?" Stone's face remained calm, his voice even.
"Yours and mine, and the worlds'."
"You are cryptic but I agree." Stone called through the doorway: "Privacy, please." There was a sudden hum, and all the little noises of the night quickly vanished from the air of the room.
Said Adam Stone: "Sir, who are you? What brings you here?"
"I am Scanner Thirty-four."
"You a Scanner? I don't believe it."
For answer, Martel pulled his jacket open, showing his chestbox. Stone looked up at him, amazed. Martel explained:
"I am cranched. Have you never seen it before?"
"Not with men. On animals. Amazing! But—what do you want?"
"The truth. Do you fear me?"
"Not with this," said Stone, grasping the Wirepoint. "But I shall tell you the truth."
"Is it true that you have conquered the Great Pain?"
Stone hesitated, seeking words for an answer.
"Quick, can you tell me how you have done it, so that I may believe you?"
"I have loaded ships with life."
"Life?"
"Life. I don't know what the Great Pain is, but I did find that in the experiments, when I sent out masses of animals or plants, the life in the center of the mass lived longest. I built ships—small ones, of course—and sent them out with rabbits, with monkeys—"
"Those are Beasts?"
"Yes. With small Beasts. And the Beasts came back unhurt. They came back because the walls of the ships were filled with life. I tried many kinds, and finally found a sort of life which lives in the waters. Oysters. Oysterbeds. The outermost oysters died in the great pain. The inner ones lived. The passengers were unhurt."
"But they were Beasts?"
"Not only Beasts. Myself."
"You!"
"I came through Space alone. Through what you call the Up-and-Out, alone. Awake and sleeping. I am unhurt. If you do not believe me, ask your brother Scanners. Come and see my ship in the morning. I will be glad to see you then, along with your brother Scanners. I am going to demonstrate before the Chiefs of the Instrumentality."
Martel repeated his question: "You came here alone?"
Adam Stone grew testy: "Yes, alone. Go back and check your Scanners' register if you do not believe me. You never put me in a bottle to cross Space."
Martel's face was radiant. "I believe you now. It is true. No more Scanners. No more habermans. No more cranching."
Stone looked significantly toward the door.
Martel did not take the hint. "I must tell you that—"
"Sir, tell me in the morning. Go enjoy your cranch. Isn't it supposed to be pleasure? Medically I know it well. But not in practice."
"It is pleasure. It's normality—for a while. But listen. The Scanners have sworn to destroy you, and your work."
"What!"
"They have met and have voted and sworn. You will make Scanners unnecessary, they say. You will bring the Ancient Wars back to the world, if Scanning is lost and the Scanners live in vain!"
Adam Stone was nervous but kept his wits about him: "You're a Scanner. Are you going to kill me—or try?"
"No, you fool. I have betrayed the Confraternity. Call guards the moment I escape. Keep guards around you. I will try to intercept the killer."
Martel saw a blur in the window. Before Stone could turn, the Wirepoint was whipped out of his hand. The blur solidified and took form as Parizianski.
Martel recognized what Parizianski was doing: High speed.
Without thinking of his cranch, he thrust his hand to his chest, set himself up to High speed too. Waves of fire, like the Great Pain,
but hotter, flooded over him. He fought to keep his face readable as he stepped in front of Parizianski and gave the sign,
Top Emergency.
Parizianski spoke, while the normally moving body of Stone stepped away from them as slowly as a drifting cloud: "Get out of my way. I am on a mission."
"I know it. I stop you here and now. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stone is right."
Parizianski's lips were barely readable in the haze of pain which flooded Martel. (He thought: God, God, God of the Ancients! Let me hold on! Let me live under Overload just long enough!) Parizianski was saying: "Get out of my way. By order of the Confraternity, get out of my way!" And Parizianski gave the sign, Help I demand in the name of my Duty!
Martel choked for breath in the syrup-like air. He tried one last time: "Parizianski, friend, friend, my friend. Stop. Stop." (No Scanner had ever murdered Scanner before.)
Parizianski made the sign: You are unfit for duty, and I will take over.
Martel thought, For the first time in the world! as he reached over and twisted Parizianski's Brainbox up to Overload. Parizianski's eyes glittered in terror and understanding. His body began to drift down toward the floor.
Martel had just strength enough to reach his own Chestbox. As he faded into Haberman or death, he knew not which, he felt his fingers turning on the control of speed, turning down. He tried to speak, to say, "Get a Scanner, I need help, get a Scanner . . ."
But the darkness rose about him, and the numb silence clasped him.
Martel awakened to see the face of Lûci near his own.
He opened his eyes wider, and found that he was hearing—hearing the sound of her happy weeping, the sound of her chest as she caught the air back into her throat.
He spoke weakly: "Still cranched? Alive?"
Another face swam into the blur beside Lûci's. It was Adam Stone. His deep voice rang across immensities of Space before coming to Mattel's hearing. Martel tried to read Stone's lips, but could not make them out. He went back to listening to the voice:
". . . not cranched. Do you understand me? Not cranched!"
Martel tried to say: "But I can hear! I can feel!" The others got his sense if not his words.
Adam Stone spoke again:
"You have gone back through the Haberman. I put you back first. I didn't know how it would work in practice, but I had the theory all worked out. You don't think the Instrumentality would waste the Scanners, do you? You go back to normality. We are letting the habermans die as fast as the ships come in. They don't need to live any more. But we are restoring the Scanners. You are the first. Do you understand me? You are the first. Take it easy, now."
Adam Stone smiled. Dimly behind Stone, Martel thought that he saw the face of one of the Chiefs of the Instrumentality. That face, too, smiled at him, and then both faces disappeared upward and away.
Martel tried to lift his head, to scan himself. He could not. Lûci stared at him, calming herself, but with an expression of loving perplexity. She said,
"My darling husband! You're back again, to stay!"
Still, Martel tried to see his box. Finally he swept his hand across his chest with a clumsy motion. There was nothing there. The instruments were gone. He was back to normality but still alive.
In the deep weak peacefulness of his mind, another troubling thought took shape. He tried to write with his finger, the way that Lûci wanted him to, but he had neither pointed fingernail nor Scanner's Tablet. He had to use his voice. He summoned up his strength and whispered:
"Scanners?"
"Yes, darling? What is it?"
"Scanners?"
"Scanners. Oh, yes, darling, they're all right. They had to arrest some of them for going into High speed and running away. But the Instrumentality caught them all—all those on the ground—and they're happy now. Do you know, darling," she laughed, "some of them didn't want to be restored to normality. But Stone and the Chiefs persuaded them."
"Vomact?"
"He's fine, too. He's staying cranched until he can be restored. Do you know, he has arranged for Scanners to take new jobs. You're all Deputy Chiefs for Space. Isn't that nice? But he got himself made Chief for Space. You're all going to be pilots, so that your fraternity and guild can go on. And Chang's getting changed back right now. You'll see him soon."
Her face turned sad. She looked at him earnestly and said: "I might as well tell you now. You'll worry otherwise. There has been one accident. Only one. When you and your friend called on Adam Stone, your friend was so happy that he forgot to scan, and he let himself die of Overload."
"Called on Stone?"
"Yes. Don't you remember? Your friend."
He still looked surprised, so she said:
"Parizianski."
ALFRED BESTER
Alfred Bester (December 18, 1913—September 30, 1987) was a science-fiction author and the winner of the first Hugo Award in 1953 for his novel The Demolished Man.
Bester published his first short story, "The Broken Axiom," in Thrilling Wonder Stories (April 1939) after winning an amateur story competition. This competition was arranged so he could have a start on the business. He already knew some people and had given to them some work to read, and they came up with the contest. He continued to publish short fiction, most notably in John W. Campbell's Astounding Science Fiction, and in 1942 he began working at DC Comics as a writer for Superman, Green Lantern, and other titles. He wrote the original Green Lantern Oath. After four years in the comics industry, he turned his attention to radio scripts, writing for The Shadow and Charlie Chan.
His short fiction was initially collected in Starburst (1958) and The Dark Side of the Earth(1964), with further collections appearing in the 1970s. His short stories, such as "The Men Who Murdered Mohammed" (about unsuccessful attempts to change history through time travel), cemented his reputation, but he is best known for two of his novels, The Demolished Man and The Stars My Destination (a.k.a. Tiger! Tiger!).
Bester wrote one mainstream novel in the 1950s, Who He?(a.k.a. The Rat Race), in which a TV game-show host, waking up after an alcoholic blackout, discovers that someone is out to destroy his life.
Science fiction author Harry Harrison wrote, "Alfred Bester was one of the handful of writers who invented modern science fiction."
Shortly before his death, the Science Fiction Writers of America (SFWA) named Bester its ninth Grand Master, presented posthumously in 1988. The Science Fiction and Fantasy Hall of Fame inducted him in 2001.
Fondly Fahrenheit, by Alfred Bester
He doesn’t know which of us we are these days, but they know one truth. You must own nothing but yourself. You must make your own life, live your own life and die your own death.. . or else you will die another’s.
The rice fields on Paragon III stretch for hundreds of miles like checkerboard tundras, a blue and brown mosaic under a burning sky of orange. In the evening, clouds whip like smoke, and the paddies rustle and murmur.
A long line of men marched across the paddies the evening we escaped from Paragon III. They were silent, armed, intent; a long rank of silhouetted statues looming against the smoking sky. Each man carried a gun. Each man wore a walkie-talkie belt pack, the speaker button in his ear, the microphone bug clipped to his throat, the glowing view-screen strapped to his wrist like a green-eyed watch. The multitude of screens showed nothing but a multitude of individual paths through the paddies. The annunciators made no sound but the rustle and splash of steps. The men spoke infrequently, in heavy grunts, all speaking to all.
“Nothing here.”
“Where’s here?”
“Jenson’s fields.”
“You’re drifting too far west.”
“Close in the line there.”
“Anybody covered the Grimson paddy?”
“Yeah. Nothing.”
“She couldn’t have walked this far.”
“Could have been carried.”
“Think she’s alive?”
“Why should she be dead?�
��
The slow refrain swept up and down the long line of beaters advancing toward the smoky sunset. The line of beaters wavered like a writhing snake, but never ceased its remorseless advance. One hundred men spaced fifty feet apart. Five thousand feet of ominous search. One mile of angry determination stretching from east to west across a compass of heart. Evening fell. Each man lit his search lamp. The writhing snake was transformed into a necklace of wavering diamonds.
“Clear here. Nothing.”
“Nothing here.”
“Nothing.”
“What about the Allen paddies?”
“Covering them now.”
“Think we missed her?”
“Maybe.”
“We’ll beat back and check.”
“This’ll be an all-night job.”
“Allen paddies clear.”
“God damn! We’ve got to find her!”
“We’ll find her.”
“Here she is. Sector Seven. Tune in.”
The line stopped. The diamonds froze in the heat. There was silence. Each man gazed into the glowing green screen on his wrist, tuning to Sector 7. All tuned to one. All showed a small nude figure awash in the muddy water of a paddy. Alongside the figure an owner’s stake of bronze read: VANDALEUR. The ends of the line converged toward the Vandaleur field. The necklace turned into a cluster of stars. One hundred men gathered around a small nude body, a child dead in a rice paddy. There was no water in her mouth. There were fingermarks on her throat. Her innocent face was battered. Her body was torn. Clotted blood on her skin was crusted and hard.
“Dead three—four hours at least.”
“Her mouth is dry.”
“She wasn’t drowned. Beaten to death.”
In the dark evening heat-the men swore softly. They picked up the body. One stopped the others and pointed to the child’s fingernails. She had fought her murderer. Under the nails were particles of flesh and bright drops of scarlet red, still liquid, still uncoagulated.
“That blood ought to be clotted too.”
“Funny.”
“Not so funny. What kind of blood don’t clot??’
Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume One Page 157