Ability Quotient

by Mack Reynolds

  The antidote worked with surprising speed.

  She looked at him and shook her head as though in rejection. She said, “You were moving so slowly. As though you were an old, old man.”

  “Yeah, I know. Obviously, Doc Marsh gave you your preliminary shot this morning and your turn-on and turn-off pills.”

  She came over to him and put a hand on his arm. “Bert, it’s fantastic. Since you were here, I finished a course in Comparative Religion and one on the Humanities.”

  He nodded. “I know. I’ve been on the stuff for several days now.”

  She said, “You’ve seen Professor Katz? What did he say? What did he say about Kneedler’s accusations?”

  “Among other things, he revealed that we are to be given what amounts to all the accumulated knowledge (he world possesses. Not just the complete curriculum of this university city, but all other schools in the world that have material not available here. Even some behind the so-called iron curtain. We’re to be made into walking encyclopedias. By the way, he claims your accusation was incorrect. They aren’t particularly interested in my, in our, I.Q.s. Evidently they can be, are being, stimulated.”

  She said, “Bert, Bert. What in the name of heavens is this all about? What do they ultimately expect?”

  He rubbed his mouth ruefully. “You know, Jill, I sometimes suspect they don’t even know. I get the feeling from Katz that they’re being pushed, at least the real scientists among them are. There are forces working that they’re not sure how to deal with. Elements like Kneedler’s group—God only knows how many of them there are—who want the information released to everybody. I get the feeling that General Paul, who is evidently high up in the thing, possibly their liaison man with the top echelons of the government, wants it restricted to an elite. He being one of them, of course. Then they’re being pushed by the fear that the Soviets or Chinese will hit on the same techniques.”

  He took a deep breath. “We’re guinea pigs, Jill. According to what happens to us, they’ll move this way or that.”

  “Bert,” she cried, “I’m afraid. It’s so fascinating that I don’t want to give it up, but I’m afraid.”

  He took her into his arms and patted her on the back. She came very willingly.

  She raised her face and, totally unexpected by them both, their lips met. He had a silly thought come to him, two babes in the woods. However, her generous mouth had a warm, delicately soft quality that he couldn’t remember ever experiencing with another woman.

  A voice behind them said indignantly, “Hey, old buddy, that’s my girl.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bert and Jill came quickly apart, embarrassed.

  Bert Alshuler said, “Jill had her wind up a little. I don’t blame her.”

  Jim said, “Holy smokes, Killer. There’s not enough of her for both of us. She’s too small. Share and share alike is all great between buddies, but there comes a point—”

  “Oh, good heavens, Jim, don’t be silly,” Jill protested. “You’re not my lord and master.” She looked up into Bert’s face and there was a new shine in her eyes that irritated him. Damn it all, he hadn’t asked for this. He had no intention of stepping on his friend’s toes.

  Bert said gruffly, “Let’s go back into the other apartment and have a pow-wow. There’s some stuff to discuss.”

  “No hooch,” Jim told her. “They put a nice bar in Bert’s joint, but they evidently figure ladies don’t drink.”

  Back in Suite G, Jim took over the bar. “How about me mixing a John Brown’s Body?” he asked, staring at the collection of bottles happily.

  “How about a beer instead?” Bert growled. “We’ve got some thinking to do.”

  “Beer?” Jim said plaintively. “With all this fancy hooch?”

  “Shut up, you rummy, and bring the beer and sit down.”

  When they were organized in chairs, drinks in hand, Bert Alshuler said, “The time has come for Machiavellian tactics.”

  “Come again?” Jim said.

  Bert said, “I continually get the impression in this whole deal that nobody is being straight forward. There are wheels within wheels. I get the feeling that everybody involved has a different idea of what the end product should be.”

  “Even Professor Katz?” Jill wanted to know. “He strikes me as having a basic integrity.”

  “Maybe. But he’s got something up his sleeve we don’t know about. And somehow I get the feeling that possibly General Paul doesn’t know about it either.”

  “So what do we do?” Jim said, crossing his impossibly long legs.

  Bert looked at Jill. “The theory is that we study the subjects that the computers shove off on us. It’s probably a valid idea so far as the project is concerned. They’d undoubtedly take us along, step by step, until we’d assimilated everything there was to be assimilated.”

  “I can see it coming,” Jim chortled. “Old Killer Caine’s going to fox them.”

  “What can we do instead?” Jill said cautiously.

  “Oh, we can study the courses the computers give us. We’ll have to, or Marsh, or Katz, or some of the other eggheads who must be in on this will smell a rat. However, we only spend half of our time at our scheduled courses.”

  “And the other half?” Jill asked.

  “When this started, they lowered my priority rating on the National Data Banks to One, so that I couldn’t stick my nose into angles they didn’t want me to know about, at least not yet. And I suspect they did the same to you. But today I put it to them and Katz agreed to an unlimited priority—short of classified military and such, I imagine. At any rate, we’re now free to dig out anything in the National Data Banks that’s there.”

  She was beginning to get it.

  Bert leaned forward. “This big explosion in the field of neuro-physiology and related subjects started at least a quarter of a century ago. Some of the research people got a mite frightened at some of the ramifications and they’ve done a bang-up job of keeping a lot of the developments from the layman. But it’s all there, somewhere in the data banks. It has to be. Kay. We’re going to fish it out. We’re going to learn as much or more about the subject than Katz and Marsh and all the rest of them do.”

  Jill said, “It seems sort of underhanded.”

  “It’s known as self-defense,” Bert said.

  Jim said, “Okay. What am I doing while you two are about all this super-cramming? Sitting around as kind of a bodyguard, sipping up this fancy booze—I hope?”

  Bert shook his head, “No, you exercise these special abilities of yours that I didn’t know you had until a couple of days ago.”

  “Oh, oh,” Jim said. “Such as?”

  “Can you get into that penthouse of Katz’?”

  “Why?”

  “Because somewhere there are probably papers, or whatever, that deal with this whole project. We need a look at them. We also need a look at Bugs Paul’s secret, secrets.”

  “Oh, swell. I can just see me prowling the Octagon.”

  “What we want wouldn’t be in the Octagon. It’d be in his private house or apartment, wherever he lives. And, in view of his position in Security, it’s doubtful if anyone expects burglars to be breaking into his place.”

  “Burglar?” Jim said, aggrieved. “That’s a devil of a handle to hang on me. I’m currently a scholar and a gentleman.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “I guess I can try, Killer.”

  They began their new campaign immediately, Bert and Jill going to their respective studies and turning on with the brown pills.

  Bert checked out whether or not his priority rating in (he data banks had been changed as promised. He dialed information, put his card in the screen slot and said, “What is my priority rating?”

  “Priority Five, Mr. Alshuler.”

  Fine. He assumed that Jill’s had also been upped. He didn’t know exactly what a five priority meant but it seemed satisfactory, if Jim Hawkins, as a university student, had only
a three.

  Yesterday, with Jim’s card he had been able to get various books on neuro-physiology, but had been stymied in looking into the science beyond a certain point. He recalled some of the books and authors involved and now requested them. And soon realized how lacking in background he was to make a serious study.

  After an hour or two, he called it quits for the time being and went over to his auto-teacher and took up his examination stylus.

  “Next subject,” he said.

  “Elementary Biology,” the screen’s voice told him.

  Well, at least that would fit in with his secret research. It was one of his difficulties in his studies of the highly specialized field of medicine. He hadn’t the scientific background to understand enough of it, no matter how stimulated his I.Q. and perception.

  He got through the biology course and one in beginning French before stopping. He had a sneaking suspicion that although he already had a sizable vocabulary in the language and could read it fairly well, he’d have his work cut out communicating with any Frenchman. His accent was undoubtedly atrocious and he didn’t see how they were going to improve it much on an auto-teacher. Picking up an acceptable accent in a foreign tongue was largely experience.

  The three of them had dinner together in Bert’s dining room and went into more details of their campaign. It was astonishing how much food Jill was capable of putting away.

  Jim stared at her. “How in the devil am I ever going to afford that appetite when we’re married?”

  “Ha,” she said. “Where’d you get the idea we were going to be married, lover boy?”

  He portrayed hurt “It’s my fondest dream.”

  “Nightmare, you mean,” she told him. “I’d have to have a stepladder to get up to where I could kiss you.”

  “I could scrooch down,” he said.

  It was decided that Bert and Jill would take four auto-teacher courses a day, two in the morning, two in the afternoon. That should be enough to divert suspicion. But between hours and in the evenings they would cram up on books in the National Data Banks. A few textbooks assimilated and they should be in a position to go deeper into the subject.

  Jim was going to have to wait until his arm was healed before he could do his prying, but the inactivity worried him not at all.

  Bert did a lead on the girl by waking, as usual, at dawn. He got a full course under his belt, German, before she appeared for breakfast. After breakfast, he got in another course, more math, before the door of the suite pinged. He took one of the green pills and went into the living room. Jim was sprawled before the Tri-Di set, a long drink in his left hand.

  Bert said, in disgust, “Why didn’t you get the door?”

  “I figured you needed a break, old buddy. Besides, it’ll be for you, not me.”

  It was the inevitable Professor Marsh but this time he was accompanied by another, an efficient looking younger man Bert Alshuler hadn’t seen before. He carried a rather bulky case.

  Bert said, “Doctor Smith, I presume,” and followed the other back into the living room.

  Marsh didn’t bother to introduce them. He said, “We have a few tests to be made, but first let me give you your regular shots.”

  “I’m beginning to feel like a pin cushion,” Bert complained mildly.

  Marsh ignored him and began to bring forth the usual equipment. At the same time, his companion put his case on a table and opened it. It was full of shiny, sterile looking medical equipment. Bert groaned.

  There were three shots from Marsh and then they sat him in a straight chair and the newcomer began taking blood samples, giving him injections, examining him for reflexes and in general giving him a checkout such as he hadn’t had since being hospitalized during the war.

  Jim said to Marsh, “Hey, Doc, how about taking a gander at this wing of mine? I’m getting tired of stashing it in this sling.”

  Marsh went over to him.

  The technician said to Bert, “Have you ever had children?”

  “I’m not even married.”

  The other looked at him patiently.

  “Not so far as I know,” Bert said. “I’m sterile.”

  “Sterile!” Marsh blurted, turning as quickly as his plump body allowed. “Are you jesting?”

  “No. Why not? One of those temporary deals. If and when I get married and want kids, I have another treatment. Latest thing in controlling the population explosion.”

  “Oh.” The professor turned back to Jim. “You’re about healed up.”

  Finished with Bert Alshuler, the two went on into Jill’s suite.

  The following day, Jim Hawkins took off, after shucking his arm sling and securing a shoulder rig holster similar to that of Bert’s from the arms cache. He didn’t show up that night, nor was he present when Marsh returned, alone, the following morning.

  Bert and Jill met at meal times, but otherwise continued their campaign at a punishing pace. The computers were giving her a somewhat different series of studies from Bert’s, evidently keyed to her own Ability Quotient. Both were making progress in their investigations into medicine and particularly those relating to the brain but were still not up to the most advanced studies.

  At lunch the following day, even though Bert had taken his green pill, he seemed to note that the second hand of his watch was moving at less than normal speed. Ho checked with Jill’s and noted the same.

  He grimaced at her. “You know, I think that some of this speeded up metabolism is becoming permanent. Not all of it, but some of it.”

  “I think you’re right and I believe stimulated I.Q. is sinking in as well. It seems to me I can think faster and better even when I’m not on the drugs.”

  Bert said thoughtfully, “We’d better watch it. God only knows what the end will be, but we’re in it now for the duration. I suggest that when others are around, possibly even Jim, that we deliberately speak slowly and move slowly.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.”

  There had been no more physical contact, nor any allusion to the incident of the other day, but there was a growing awareness between them. Bert disliked the situation, in view of his old friend’s feelings, but he was afraid it was getting beyond his control. From time to time when they were together he had to steel himself against physical contact with her. And he seemed to note an amused glint in her eyes, a slightly mocking quality that unnerved him.

  That afternoon, following lunch and just before taking his stimulant, Bert heard a slight sound behind him. He spun and almost drew his gun, but then recognized the man leaning in the study’s doorway, a gyro-jet pistol in hand.

  It was Frank Harmon, the Security man. “Don’t go for it, Major Caine,” he said. “Like I told you, I too was in the big one. I can handle a shooter possibly just as well as you.”

  Bert said, “You startled me. An old combat man’s reflexes are automatic when somebody comes up behind him. How did you get in here? Do you have a warrant?”

  Harmon looked about the study, ignoring the questions. “So you were telling the truth. One of the professors has you up here on a special study experiment.”

  “That’s right,” Bert said, forcing himself to simmer down. “Come on into the living room and tell me what this is all about.”

  Frank Harmon followed him into the other room, his gun at the easy ready. Bert sat down and looked politely inquiring; the Security man remained standing.

  “The other day,” he said, “the same day as the shoot out, an assistant professor in political economy, Kenneth Kneedler, disappeared. His offices were in this building. The lock of the door had been shot off with a laser beam. Immediately previous to his disappearance there had been some inquiries about him and his whereabouts to the computers. Whose Identity Card was utilized to acquire the information had been wiped from the data banks. I was looking into it further when I was suddenly informed I had been promoted to captain and assigned to Hawaii.”

  “Congratulations,” Bert said.

  “I
’m not going, Caine.”

  “Alshuler,” Bert said mildly. “Why bother to tell me about it?”

  The Security man motioned with his gun. “Line up against the wall over there. Lean up against it with your hands, and spread your legs wide. I want to take a look at that gun of yours. Say no, and I’ll take you in.”

  Bert’s mind raced. If he could talk this character out of it, it might go no further. But if he was taken down to headquarters and booked, then it would be all over the town, probably all over the world, in short order, and then God only knew who might start prying further.

  He shrugged and came to his feet and went over to the wall and leaned against it, in the standard position used for shaking down prisoners. Harmon came up behind him with great care which amused Bert—there was nothing like having a reputation—reached around and drew the gun from its underarm holster. Harmon stepped back.

  “A laser,” he said. “You claimed you carried a gyro-jet.”

  Bert turned and his voice took on a weary note. “I did, when you asked me there in the auto-cafeteria. I just got that yesterday.”

  “You have a permit for it, of course. There is no such thing as a permit to carry a laser pistol.”

  “Of course.”

  “Where is it?” the other said scornfully.

  “The general hasn’t sent it around yet.”

  “What general? Where did you get this gun, Caine?”

  “Alshuler. Your superior, General Russell Paul, gave it to me. He’s an old war acquaintance. When I told him about all the shooting that was going on around here, he insisted that he issue me a laser. I didn’t really think I needed it, but he insisted.”

  The other snapped, “You expect me to believe that?”

  “You can always call the general, friend.”

  Jill entered from the bedroom that connected with her own suite. She looked from Bert to the newcomer, surprised, especially in view of the fact that Frank Harmon had a gun in each hand.