Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume One

by Short Story Anthology

  Larry Woolford was scowling. “Something wrong with his math? What kind of a degree does he have?”

  Sam grinned in memory. “I got a good quote on that. He doesn't have any degree. He said he'd learned to read by the time he'd reached high school and since then he figured spending time in classrooms was a matter of interfering with his education.”

  “No wonder they turned him down. No degree at all. You can't get anywhere in science like that.”

  Sam said, “The courts rejected his suit but he got a certain amount of support here and there. Peter Voss, over at the university, claims he's one of the great intuitive scientists, whatever that is, of our generation.”

  “Who said that?”

  “Professor Voss. Not that it makes any difference what he says. Another crackpot.”

  After Sam's less than handsome face was gone from the phone, Larry walked over to the bar with his empty glass and stared at the mixer for several minutes. He began to make himself another flip, but cut it short in the middle, put down the ingredients and went back to the phone to dial Records again.

  He went through first the brief and then the full dossier on Professor Peter Luther Voss. Aside from his academic accomplishments, particularly in the fields of political economy and international law, and the dozen or so books accredited to him, there wasn't anything particularly noteworthy. A bachelor in his fifties. No criminal record of any kind, of course, and no military career. No known political affiliations. Evidently a strong predilection for Thorstein Veblen's theories. And he'd been a friend of Henry Mencken back when that old nonconformist was tearing down contemporary society seemingly largely for the fun involved in the tearing.

  On the face of it, the man was no radical, and the term “crackpot” which Sam had applied was hardly called for.

  Larry Woolford went back to the bar and resumed the job of mixing his own version of a rum flip.

  But his heart wasn't in it. The Professor, Susan had said.

  ***

  Before he'd gone to bed the night before, Larry Woolford had ordered a seat on the shuttle jet for Jacksonville and a hover-cab there to take him to Astor, on the St. Johns River. And he'd requested to be wakened in ample time to get to the shuttleport.

  But it wasn't the saccharine pleasant face of the Personal Service operator which confronted him when he grumpily answered the phone in the morning. In fact, the screen remained blank.

  Larry decided that sweet long drinks were fine, but that anyone who took several of them in a row needed to be candied. He grumbled into the phone, “All right, who is it?”

  A Teutonic voice chuckled and said, “You're going to have to decide whether or not you're on vacation, my friend. At this time of day, why aren't you at work?”

  Larry Woolford was waking up. He said, “What can I do for you, Distelmayer?” The German merchant-of-espionage wasn't the type to make personal calls.

  “Have you forgotten so soon, my friend?” the other chuckled. “It was I who was going to do you a favor.” He hesitated momentarily, before adding, “In possible return for future—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Larry said. He was fully awake now.

  The German said slowly, “You asked if any of your friends from, ah, abroad were newly in the country. Frol Eivazov has recently appeared on the scene.”

  Eivazov! In various respects, Larry Woolford's counterpart. Hatchetman for the Chrezvychainaya Komissiya. Woolford had met him on occasion when they'd both been present at international summit meetings, busily working at counter-espionage for their respective superiors. Blandly shaking hands with each other, blandly drinking toasts to peace and international co-existence, blandly sizing each other up and wondering if it'd ever come to the point where one would blandly treat the other to a hole in the head, possibly in some dark alley in Havana or Singapore, Leopoldville or Saigon.

  Larry said sharply, “Where is he? How'd he get in the country?”

  “My friend, my friend,” the German grunted good-humoredly. “You know better than to ask the first question. As for the second, Frol's command of American-English is at least as good as your own. Do you think his Komissiya less capable than your own department and unable to do him up suitable papers so that he could be, perhaps, a ‘returning tourist’from Europe?”

  Larry Woolford was impatient with himself for asking. He said now, “It's not important. If we want to locate Frol and pick him up, we'll probably not have too much trouble doing it.”

  “I wouldn't think so,” the other said humorously. “Since 1919, when they were first organized, the so-called Communists in this country, from the lowest to the highest echelons, have been so riddled with police agents that a federal judge in New England once refused to prosecute a case against them on the grounds that the party was a United States government agency.”

  Larry was in no frame of mind for the other's heavy humor. “Look, Hans,” he said, “what I want to know is what Frol is over here for.”

  “Of course you do,” Hans Distelmayer said, unable evidently to keep note of puzzlement from his voice. “Larry,” he said, “I assume your people know of the new American underground.”

  “What underground?” Larry snapped.

  The professional spy chief said, his voice strange, “The Soviets seem to have picked up an idea somewhere, possibly through their membership in this country, that something is abrewing in the States. That a change is being engineered.”

  Larry stared at the blank phone screen.

  “What kind of a change?” he said finally. “You mean a change to the Soviet system?” Surely not even the self-deluding Russkies could think it possible to overthrow the American socio-economic system in favor of the Soviet brand.

  “No, no, no,” the German chuckled. “Of course not. It's not of their working at all.”

  “Then what's Frol Eivazov's interest, if they aren't engineering it?”

  Distelmayer rumbled his characteristic chuckle with humor. “My dear friend, don't be naive. Anything that happens in America is of interest to the Soviets. There is delicate peace between you now that they have changed their direction and are occupying themselves largely with the economic and agricultural development of Asia and such portions of the world as have come under their hegemony, and while you put all efforts into modernizing the more backward countries among your satellites.”

  Larry said automatically, “Our allies aren't satellites.”

  The spy-master went on without contesting the statement. “There is immediate peace but surely governmental officials on both sides keep careful watch on the internal developments of the other. True, the current heads of the Soviet Complex would like to see the governments of all the Western powers changed—but only if they are changed in the direction of communism. They are hardly interested in seeing changes made which would strengthen the West in the, ah, Battle For Men's Minds.”

  Larry snorted his disgust. “What sort of change in government would strengthen the United States in—”

  The German interrupted smoothly, “Evidently, that's what Frol seems to be here for, Larry. To find out more about this movement and—”

  “This what?” Larry blurted.

  “The term seems to be movement.”

  Larry Woolford held a long silence before saying, “And Frol is actually here in this country to buck this ... this movement.”

  “Not necessarily,” the other said impatiently. “He is here to find out more about it. Evidently Peking and Moscow have heard just enough to make them nervous.”

  Larry said, “You have anything more, Hans?”

  “I'm afraid that's about it.”

  “All right,” Larry said. He added absently, “Thanks, Hans.”

  “Thank me some day with deeds, not with words,” the German chuckled.

  ***

  Larry Woolford looked at his watch and grimaced. He was either going to get going now or forget about doing any fishing in Florida this afternoon.

  Grudgingly, he d
ialed the phone company's Personal Service and said to the impossibly cheerful blonde who answered, “Where can I find Professor Peter Voss who teaches over at the University in Baltimore? I don't want to talk with him, just want to know where he'll be an hour from now.”

  While waiting for his information, he dressed, deciding inwardly that he hated his job, the department in which he was employed, the Boss and Greater Washington. On top of that, he hated himself. He'd already been taken off this assignment, why couldn't he leave it lay?

  The blonde rang him back. Professor Peter Voss was at home. He had no classes today. She gave him the address.

  Larry Woolford raised his car from his auto-bungalow in the Brandywine suburb and headed northwest at a high level for the old Baltimore section of the city.

  The Professor's house, he noted, was of an earlier day and located on the opposite side of Paterson Park from Elwood avenue, the street on which Susan Self and her father had resided. That didn't necessarily hold significance, the park was a large one and the Professor's section a well-to-do neighborhood, while Self's was just short of a slum these days.

  He brought his car down to street level, and parked before the scholar's three-story, brick house. Baltimore-like, it was identical to every other house in the block; Larry wondered vaguely how anybody ever managed to find his own place when it was very dark out.

  There was an old-fashioned bell at the side of the entrance and Larry Woolford pushed it. There was no identification screen in the door, evidently the inhabitants had to open up to see who was calling, a tiring chore if you were on the far side of the house and the caller nothing more than a salesman.

  It was obviously the Professor himself who answered.

  He was in shirtsleeves, tieless and with age-old slippers on his stockingless feet. He evidently hadn't bothered to shave this morning and he held a dog-earred pamphlet in his right hand, his forefinger tucked in it to mark his place. He wore thick-lensed, gold-rimmed glasses through which he blinked at Larry Woolford questioningly, without speaking. Professor Peter Voss was a man in his mid fifties, and, on the face of it, couldn't care less right now about his physical appearance.

  A weird, Larry decided immediately. He wondered at the University, one of the nation's best, keeping on such a figure.

  “Professor Voss?” he said. “Lawrence Woolford.” He brought forth his identification.

  The Professor blinked down at it. “I see,” he said. “Won't you come in?”

  The house was old, all right. From the outside, quite acceptable, but the interior boasted few of the latest amenities which made all the difference in modern existence. Larry was taken back by the fact that the phone which he spotted in the entrada hadn't even a screen—an old model for speaking only.

  The Professor noticed his glance and said dryly, “The advantages of combining television and telephone have never seemed valid to me. In my own home, I feel free to relax, as you can observe. Had I a screen on my phone, it would be necessary for me to maintain the same appearance as I must on the streets or before my classes.”

  Larry cleared his throat without saying anything. This was a weird one, all right.

  The living room was comfortable in a blatantly primitive way. Three or four paintings on the walls which were probably originals, Larry decided, and should have been in museums. Not an abstract among them. A Grant Wood, a Marin, and that over there could only be a Grandma Moses. The sort of things you might keep in your private den, but hardly to be seen as culture symbols.

  The chairs were large, of leather, and comfortable and probably belonged to the period before the Second War. Peter Voss, evidently, was little short of an exhibitionist.

  The Professor took up a battered humidor. “Cigar?” he said. “Manila. Hard to get these days.”

  A cigar? Good grief, the man would be offering him a chaw of tobacco next.

  “Thanks, no,” Larry said. “I smoke a pipe.”

  “I see,” the Professor said, lighting his stogie. “Do you really like a pipe? Personally, I've always thought the cigar by far the most satisfactory method of taking tobacco.”

  What can you say to a question like that? Larry ignored it, as though it was rhetorical. Actually, he smoked cigarettes in the privacy of his den. A habit which was on the proletarian side and not consistent with his status level.

  He said, to get things under way, “Professor Voss, what is an intuitive scientist?”

  The Professor exhaled blue smoke, shook out the old-time kitchen match with which he'd lit it, and tossed the matchstick into an ashtray. “Intuitive scientist?”

  “You once called Ernest Self a great intuitive scientist.”

  “Oh, Self. Yes, indeed. What is he doing these days?”

  Larry said wryly, “That's what I came to ask you about.”

  The Professor was puzzled. “I'm afraid you came to the wrong place, Mr. Woolford. I haven't seen Ernest for quite a time. Why?”

  “Some of his researches seem to have taken him rather far afield. Actually, I know practically nothing about him. I wonder if you could fill me in a bit.”

  Peter Voss looked at the ash on the end of his cigar. “I really don't know the man that well. He lives across the park. Why don't—”

  “He's disappeared,” Larry said.

  The Professor blinked. “I see,” he said. “And in view of the fact that you are a security officer, I assume under strange circumstances.” Larry Woolford said nothing and the Professor sank back into his chair and pursed his lips. “I can't really tell you much. I became interested in Self two or three years ago when gathering materials for a paper on the inadequate manner in which our country rewards its inventors.”

  Larry said, “I've heard about his suit against the government.”

  The Professor became more animated. “Ha!” he snorted. “One example among many. Self is not alone. Our culture is such that the genius is smothered. The great contributors to our society are ignored, or worse.”

  Larry Woolford was feeling his way. Now he said mildly, “I was under the impression that American free enterprise gave the individual the best opportunity to prove himself and that if he had it on the ball he'd get to the top.”

  “Were you really?” the Professor said snappishly. “And did you know that Edison died a comparatively poor man with an estate somewhere in the vicinity of a hundred thousand dollars? An amount that might sound like a good deal to you or me, but, when you consider his contributions, shockingly little. Did you know that Eli Whitney realized little, if anything, from the cotton gin? Or that McCormick didn't invent the reaper but gained it in a dubious court victory? Or take Robert Goddard, one of the best examples of modern times. He developed the basics of rocket technology—gyroscopic stabilizers, fuel pumps, self-cooling motors, landing devices. He died in 1945 leaving behind twenty-two volumes of records that proved priceless. What did he get out of his researches? Nothing. It was fifteen years later that his widow won her suit against the government for patent infringements!”

  Larry held up a hand. “Really,” he said. “My interest is in Ernest Self.”

  The Professor relaxed. “Sorry. I'm afraid I get carried away. Self, to get back to your original question, is a great intuitive scientist. Unfortunately for him, society being what it is today, he fits into few grooves. Our educational system was little more than an irritation to him and consequently he holds no degrees. Needless to say, this interfered with his gaining employment with the universities and the large corporations which dominate our country's research, not to mention governmental agencies.

  “Ernest Self holds none of the status labels that count. The fact that he is a genius means nothing. He is supposedly qualified no more than to hold a janitor's position in laboratories where his inferiors conduct experiments in fields where he is a dozenfold more capable than they. No one is interested in his genius, they want to know what status labels are pinned to him. Ernest has no respect for labels.”

  ***


  Larry Woolford figured he was picking up background and didn't force a change of subject. “Just what do you mean by intuitive scientist?”

  “It's a term I have used loosely,” the Professor admitted. “Possibly a scientist who makes a break-through in his field, destroying formerly held positions—in Self's case, without the math, without the accepted theories to back him. He finds something that works, possibly without knowing why or how and by using unorthodox analytical techniques. An intuitive scientist, if I may use the term, is a thorn in the side of our theoretical physicists laden down with their burden of a status label but who are themselves short of the makings of a Leonardo, a Newton, a Galileo, or even a Nicholas Christofilos.”

  “I'm afraid that last name escapes me,” Larry said.

  “Similar to Self's case and Robert Goddard's,” Voss said, his voice bitter. “Although his story has a better ending. Christofilos invented the strong-focusing principle that made possible the multi-billion-volt particle accelerators currently so widely used in nuclear physics experimentation. However, he was nothing but a Greek elevator electrical system engineer and the supposed experts turned him down on the grounds that his math was faulty. It seems that he submitted the idea in straight-algebra terms instead of differential equations. He finally won through after patenting the discovery and rubbing their noses in it. Previously, none of the physics journals would publish his paper—he didn't have the right status labels to impress them.”

  Larry said, almost with amusement, “You seem to have quite a phobia against the status label, as you call it. However, I don't see how as complicated a world as ours could get along without it.”

  The Professor snorted his contempt. “Tell me,” he said, “to which class do you consider yourself to belong?”

  Larry Woolford shrugged. “I suppose individuals in my bracket are usually thought of as being middle-middle class.”