Ability Quotient

by Mack Reynolds

  “Gooks?”

  He looked at her. “Listen, when they’re trying to kill you, you don’t have polite names for them. They’re Gook’s, or Krauts, or Huns, or some such.”

  She nodded. “I see.” She looked at her watch. “I’ll have to hustle along too.” She looked into his face frankly. “Rather short notice, but I think I like you, Bert Alshuler. What was that Killer bit when he introduced us? Are you mad for the ladies or something?”

  He stood at the same time she did and walked along beside her to the door. “No,” he said wryly. “Kind of a old nickname back in the army. I’m not very smart with the ladies. I… I guess I got a late start. They hauled me into the military before I was out of short pants practically. At the door he said, I suppose I ought to go on back to my mini-apartment and get around to unpacking. Things have been so hectic these past couple of days that I’m still living out of my suitcases.”

  “Which way are you going?”

  “I’m over in the Parthenon Building.”

  “Well, so am I. I understand that the juniors and seniors call our quarters the dungeons. They’re not as bad as all that, though.”

  “Sort of cramped. The new buildings have more room, now they’ve got the housing shortage licked. What’s the population of this university city now?” He fell in step beside her, somewhat surprised that he didn’t have to slow his pace to accommodate to her hers. She was a brisk little thing.

  “Something like three hundred thousand,” she said. “The use of TV and the computers came just in time. What in the name of heavens would they have done with this educational revolution if they had to teach in the old manner?”

  “When the need for railroads came along, railroads were invented,” he misquoted. He took her in from the side of his eyes. “Jim likes you pretty well. I know Jim.”

  She looked straight ahead. “I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why? Jim’s the best.”

  She sighed and said, “I have to look up twice to see the top of him.”

  He was unhappy, but there was nothing to say. Jim Hawkins had always had hard luck with his women— the women he was serious about. Practically all men liked him. Well, practically all women liked him too, but those who had really mattered to him didn’t go further than that; they only liked him.

  They were coming up to the high-rise building that contained their respective apartments. They were silent now. At the elevator banks, she turned to him and extended her hand again. “Nice to have met you, Bert, Jim has mentioned you, more than once.”

  He stared at the elevator door which closed behind her. In the past, when Jim Hawkins had come up with a new girl he was hot about, Bert Alshuler had steered clear. He didn’t know if he was going to be able to do it this time, or not.

  Chapter Three

  He entered an empty elevator and said into the screen, “Sixty-third floor.”

  He was still bemused, thinking of Jim and the girl, when he reached his floor and walked down the corridor to his door. The door screen picked him up upon approach and opened, and he was in the small living room-cum-bedroom-cum-kitchenette before the other had any indication of his approach.

  Bert Alshuler stopped abruptly. “Looking for something?” he snapped.

  The stranger had been bent over one of his suitcases, rummaging through it. He came erect and faced the apartment’s tenant, his face embarrassed.

  He was a fraction smaller than Bert which made him about five-eight, about one-fifty and he looked to be in his middle thirties which gave him almost another ten years. He was dressed well but conservatively by present day standards, and was obviously no ordinary prowler.

  Bert said, “How in the hell did you get in here?”

  The stranger sat down on the couch which became a bed at night and looked defiant. He said, “What did you discuss with Professor Katz? I came to find what you discussed with Katz.”

  “Did you expect to find it in my suitcase?”

  “I thought I might find some indication. What did he want of you?”

  Bert Alshuler was intrigued. He sat down on the mini-apartment’s sole comfort chair and eyed the newcomer. “Why don’t you ask him?”

  Over the other’s face came a look of determination. He said, “I insist that you divulge to me the reason for your interview this morning with Leonard Katz.”

  Bert said mildly, “Fine. Who are you?”

  “That I am not ready to tell you.”

  “Great. Then why don’t you get lost, in view of the fact that I’m about to hang one on your for breaking into my apartment and going through my private possessions?”

  The stubborn determination intensified. The stranger put his hand inside his jacket and came forth with a pistol. He pointed it at Bert Alshuler. “Tell me immediately what it was that Professor Katz wanted with you this morning.”

  Bert Alshuler looked at the other for a long considering moment. He ran the palm of his right hand over his mouth in a gesture of disgust and leaned forward slightly in the chair.

  “You want to know something?” he said. “I’m an old combat man. I’ve been hit more times than I can offhand remember, but never with a gun of that small a caliber. It’s a twenty-two with a two-inch barrel, a very inaccurate gun. You want to know something else? On top of everything else, I’ll bet you’re a lousy shot. And I’ll bet that I can get out of this chair and rush you before you can finish me with that popgun.” He waited another long moment before adding, “Want to try? If you do, start shooting, friend.”

  The other bug-eyed him.

  Bert tensed up and repeated, “Start shooting, friend.”

  “Why… why…” The other darted a surprised look down at the gun, as though the small weapon had betrayed him.

  Bert held his peace, only looking coldly at the other. There were butterflies in his stomach, a whole bevy of them, but his eyes were level and he knew that the interloper was more frightened than he was. He had been shot at before—all too, many a time—and he doubted that this one had ever heard the sound of a gun, outside a shooting gallery, or hunting rabbits, or whatever.

  The stranger, his face working, came to his feet, the gun still at the ready. He began edging for the door. Bert Alshuler stayed where he was. There was no point in pushing his luck.

  When the would-be gunman reached his avenue of escape he said, trying to keep his voice firm, “I warn you. For your own good, tell me what it was that Katz wanted with you.”

  “Go on, get out of here,” Bert said in disgust. “Or maybe I’ll change my mind and take that peashooter away from you and stick it where it won’t do you much good at all.”

  The other was upset, but he had already lost the game and obviously knew it. He wasn’t ready to shoot, and a gun is valueless in controversy if you aren’t willing to use it.

  He grabbed the door open, fled through it, banged it behind him.

  Bert Alshuler continued to sit there in disgust. “Now what the hell was that all about?” he snarled.

  On second reflection, now, he decided that he should have taken on the twitch, got in contact with Katz and delved into the thing. Kay, great. But suppose the other had had luck and managed to drill him between the eyes. That’s all he needed. Two more holes in the head, one neatly centered between the eyes, the other taking out the back of the skull.

  Well, he’d mention it to Katz the next time he came in contact with the professor. He began to come to his feet to get about unpacking. The identity screen on the door pinged, and he looked at it.

  A stranger’s face was there, but was staring as though down the corridor, rather than looking directly ahead, so that Bert could see who it was.

  Bert Alshuler grunted and went over and opened up. The other was still looking down the hall and frowning unhappily.

  “Confound it, who was that?” he said, his voice highly testy. He was a somewhat pompous looking type, in his mid-fifties perhaps, about five and a half feet tall and too plump for his heig
ht. He had a very good tailor, a very good barber, and the briefcase he carried must have set him back a small fortune.

  “Who was who?” Bert said.

  “That man I just passed in the corridor.”

  “How would I know?” Bert said reasonably. “And just who are you?”

  “You’re Alshuler, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right, but that doesn’t answer my question.”

  “I’m a colleague of Professor Katz. You can call me Doctor Smith.”

  “John, I’ll bet.” For some reason this newcomer irritated Bert Alshuler. Possibly it was a carry-over from his last visitor. He said, “Just a minute,” and went over to the phone screen on the small desk of his mini-apartment.

  He sat down before it and said, “Professor Leonard Katz, please.”

  A robot voice said, “The number is restricted. Who is calling, please?”

  “Albert Alshuler.”

  “Your name is listed. Thank you.”

  Professor Katz’ face faded in, frowning.

  Bert said, “You impressed me with all your hush-hush gobbledygook. Kay. A character has shown up here calling himself Doctor Smith. Do you want to identify him?”

  Smith came over and looked into the screen.

  “Hello, Ralph,” Katz said to him, then looked back to Bert. “The doctor is one of your, ah, advisers. Anything else, Alshuler?”

  “No, I suppose not, except that when I got back to my rooms here, I caught a jittery type prowling my luggage. He wanted to know what it was you wanted to see me about.”

  Leonard Katz looked startled. “What was his name?”

  “He was a bit on the secretive side. But emphatic. He pulled a gun on me and insisted I tell him.”

  The professor’s eyes widened. “What did you do?”

  “What could I do?” Bert said sarcastically. “I offered to take it away from him if he didn’t get the hell out.”

  Dr. Smith leaned over again and said, excitement in his voice, “As I approached this place, I saw him coming out of Alshuler’s apartment…”

  “Hold it,” Katz said. “We’ll discuss it later. Anything else, my dear Alshuler?”

  “Listen, if this project of yours involves people who don’t know how to handle guns, I’d like to put it on the record that it makes me nervous.”

  “According to your Ability Quotient tests, you don’t get nervous,” Leonard Katz said. He looked at Dr. Smith. “Get him out of there,” he said, and evidently flicked off the phone.

  Doctor Smith looked at Bert. “How long will it take you to pack?”

  “About two minutes. I’m already packed. But why?”

  “I haven’t the time to go into details now. Please get your things and come with me.”

  Bert shrugged his disgust and began putting the few odds and ends he had removed from his bags, back into them. He had two medium large suitcases and a highly battered smaller one. He handed the smaller one to the self-named Doctor Smith.

  “Here you are, Ralph,” he said.

  The other took it, as though grudgingly, possibly because it looked so very proletarian compared to his get-up. But he led the way out the door and to the elevator banks, and jittered unhappily, looking up and down the hall, while they waited.

  In the elevator, he said into the screen, “Metro,” and the robot voice said, “Yes, Professor Marsh.”

  Bert looked at him and laughed. “One hell of a cloak and dagger man you turned out to be,” he said. “What’s all this about?”

  He who was obviously Professor Ralph Marsh, rather than Doctor Smith, John or otherwise, flushed in irritation. “I’ll tell you all you are to know when we get you to your new quarters.”

  “What was wrong with the old ones? I was satisfied.”

  “You’ll see.”

  Alshuler gave up and held his peace. Shortly, they arrived in the Parthenon Building’s metro station and his guide dialed a two-seater. They put the bags in the luggage rack and took their places on the seats. Marsh dialed the little vehicle’s controls and they took off through the automated underground. Bert didn’t bother to ask where they were going. He was moderately surprised at himself, but then in the army he had learned to follow instructions.

  They entered another metro station, took up the bags again and approached the elevator banks. Bert followed Marsh to the far end and to an elevator that seemed somewhat smaller in cubic content than the others. They stepped inside.

  Marsh said, “Stand in front of the screen.”

  Bert’s eyebrows went up a bit, but he followed orders.

  Marsh said, “Albert Alshuler, now assigned to Suite G.” He looked at Bert. “Do you have any close friends who might be inclined to call on you?”

  Mystified, Bert said, “I only know one person in this whole university city. I just got here a couple of days ago.”

  “What is his name? Is he registered here? How long have you known him?”

  “James Hawkins. He’s a sophomore. I’ve know him, let’s say five or six years.”

  “Very good.” Professor Marsh looked into the screen.

  “James Hawkins, registered as a sophomore, is to have access to Suite G.”

  “What the hell…” Bert began.

  The professor said testily, “You’ll see, you’ll see,” and to the screen, “Suite G.”

  “Yes, Professor Marsh.”

  Bert gave up, temporarily, at least. He was getting fed to the gills with all this razzle. He bent his knees to accommodate to the acceleration, and then again. And again. He looked at his guide. “What floor is this Suite G. on, anyway?”

  “Top.”

  Bert pursed his lips. He had already come to understand that the level of the floor on which you have your quarters was a status symbol even superior to what building you were in here in Mid-West University City.

  “By the way, what’s the name of this building? Just in case I might want to come home some night?”

  “Sarcasm does not become you, Mr. Alshuler. This is the Administration Building.”

  A suite on the top floor of the Ad building. He thought they were reserved for gods.

  Marsh said, as though just remembering, “This elevator is the one you will always use. The others don’t go as high as your floor. This is semi-restricted.”

  Bert was suitably impressed but couldn’t think of anything to say.

  The elevator began to decelerate and shortly they emerged into a swank corridor. Bert hissed appreciatively through his teeth, picked up his bags again and followed the leader. Evidently, the door screen on Suite G. was attuned to Professor Marsh. The door swung open at their approach.

  Bert followed on through, down a short hall, and put his bags on the living room floor and looked around. One whole wall was glass and looked out over the valley and the mountains beyond in such a manner that none of the other buildings of the ultra-large university could be seen without coming very near to the window and the terrace beyond.

  In his time, Bert Alshuler, on leave in some of the cities of the Far East, and with his pockets heavy with accumulated pay that he had never expected to live to spend, had stopped in some of the most luxurious hostelries in the world, and some of the most expensive. However, he had never witnessed an apartment such as this, no matter what the tariff.

  Marsh said, his voice condescending and a smirk on his face, “There are four of these. The university reserves them for V.I.P.s who visit us. The last occupant of this suite was the President.”

  “The president of what?”

  “The President of the United States of the Americas,” Marsh said, pompishness there. “And now, if you’ll follow me.”

  He led the way to a side room, saying, “We’ve made some alterations to convert this former bedroom into a study for you. As you’ve probably become aware, it is sometimes preferable, particularly if you are consulting more than one reference at a time, to have your reference works in the old book form, when you are working on a screen conn
ected with the National Data Banks, as a library booster.”

  He gestured with his hand.

  Bert said, “Jesus.”

  The decor of the room was that of an English mansion’s library of the 17th or 18th centuries, up to and including a small, old-fashioned bar in a corner. It had been a long time since Bert Alshuler had made a drink himself, or had one other than that supplied by an auto-bar.

  The only thing off-beat, due to its modern quality, was set in the very center of the room. It was an auto-teacher.

  Marsh said, “I’ll instruct you on the mechanics of that.”

  “You won’t have to. The army gave me some courses.”

  “All right, but this is a bit updated.”

  “Kay. When do we start?”

  The professor looked at his wrist chronometer. “It is still morning. You have time for an hour or so of instruction before you will wish your mid-day meal. You can begin as soon as you’ve had your shots and pills.”

  Bert looked at him coldly. “What shots and pills?”

  The other was fiddling with his fancy briefcase. “When I introduced myself as Doctor Smith, only one half was inaccurate. I am a doctor, you know.”

  “That’s fine. But I’ve never felt better in my life.”

  The other ignored him and began drawing various medical equipment from his oversized case. “This has nothing to do with your health,” he said. “We’ve already checked that out. Your health is excellent. Disgustingly so.”

  “Well, I figure on letting it stay that way. What shots and pills? This wasn’t in the bargain.”

  Even as he prepared a hypodermic, the Doctor-Professor, or whatever he was, said, “According to the information we have on you from the National Data Banks, Alshuler, you have no medical training. You would be unable to understand my terminology. Next week, or so, I’ll go into it with you a bit. Meanwhile, will you lower your trousers so that I may inject this into your hip?”

  Bert looked at him in frustration. “If I can’t understand it now, why should I be able to next week? What does it do?”