* * * *
Ryan carefully searched the attached file for viruses, then downloaded it. It was indeed a schematic for an electronic device, though the component specifications weren't in units he understood. Rather, everything was scaled to the voltage of the power supply, allowing him to pick any power supply he wanted. Did that mean Gleimickr wanted him to believe it would work as well with a pack of AA batteries as with a 110-volt DC converter? He had no idea, but in high school, one of his favorite classes had been shop, and it had been a long time since he'd had an opportunity to play around with soldering, machining, and circuit construction. A few of the components had rather exotic names, but he could definitely put the thing together, presuming his local store truly sold the parts. Along with the schematic was a second file, which contained computer software that he was supposed to load into a processor that was the device's most costly component.
Ryan wondered again what the hypothetical mark would do. That's when he realized he was getting ahead of the game. The mark wouldn't just go out and build the thing. He'd ask what the hell it was supposed to do.
* * * *
IT USES A FUNDAMENTAL PRINCIPLE NOT YET DISCOVERED BY YOUR SCIENCE, Gleimickr wrote back. WITH THE INTENSITY CONTROL PROPERLY SET, IT INVERTS THE ENERGY OF GRAVITY TO CREATE A REFLECTION FIELD THAT WILL HALT A FALLING OBJECT SLIGHTLY ABOVE THE GROUND, WITHOUT CREATING DAMAGING DECELERATIVE STRESSES. THIS EDITION OF THE DEVICE WILL RECOGNIZE SURFACE CONTOURS, SO THAT, WORN ON A BELT, IT WILL PROTECT YOUR ENTIRE BODY BUT WILL NOT ACTIVATE SO LONG AS YOU AND YOUR BICYCLE REMAIN IN CONTACT WITH AN UNDERLYING SURFACE.
* * * *
Briefly, Ryan forgot his role as an imitation mark. “Cool,” he typed, hitting send before remembering to ask himself if the remark was properly in character.
It was, he eventually decided, but it meant that he'd committed himself to building the device if he wanted to continue toying with the spammer. But why not? Even if the whole thing was just a ploy to sell electronic supplies (which he doubted), he could afford the $95: he'd have spent a lot more than that on cycling equipment if he wasn't laid up. And constructing the device wasn't going to take any heavy lifting; in fact, it would be another form of physical and mental therapy. Just to be on the safe side, he'd make a low-voltage version, though, in case the thing was some kind of booby trap designed to blow up in his face the moment he turned it on.
* * * *
Two days later, Ryan had soldered together a Rube Goldberg contraption that fit into a plastic case the size of a shoebox. It had two controls: an on-off switch and a potentiometer. Gleimickr's specs had called for the pot to be labeled logarithmically in units called choltus, ranging from zero to a million. “THE CHOLTU IS A BODY-SIZE SCALING FACTOR,” Gleimickr had explained when Ryan asked. “FOR IMPACT PROTECTION, YOU SHOULD SEEK THE SETTING THAT PUTS YOUR BODY ABOUT ONE-TENTH OF ITS LENGTH ABOVE THE GROUND. SCALE IS DIFFICULT TO DETERMINE FROM YOUR TV IMAGES AND INTERNET WEB SITES, PARTICULARLY BECAUSE MANY OF YOUR VIDEO GAMES AND ‘CARTOONS’ APPEAR TO BE HIGHLY INCONSISTENT, SO I HAVE PROVIDED A WIDE RANGE OF OPTIONS, MORE THAN COVERING THE GAMUT OF ALL INTELLIGENT SPECIES WE HAVE ENCOUNTERED. IT IS ADVISABLE TO DO INITIAL TESTS AT LOW SETTINGS TO AVOID BEING EXCESSIVELY ELEVATED. BE AWARE THAT BATTERY LIFE DIMINISHES WITH CHOLTUS, DUE TO THE POWER DRAIN OF CREATING LARGE INVERTER FIELDS. FOR MY CURIOSITY, I WILL BE FASCINATED TO LEARN THE SETTING THAT PROVIDES DESIROUS RESULTS FOR YOUR SPECIES."
When the time came to turn on the device, Ryan stood as far back as possible, pushing the switch with the tip of a ruler. Nothing happened, but that was no surprise, since he'd set the dial to zero.
Building the box, he had decided to ignore Gleimickr's weird units. Too many zeros. The potentiometer he'd bought had a ten-point, click-stop scale, which was a lot easier to use. He could always convert to choltus if the need arose. Now he moved it up a notch, to 1.
Ryan wasn't really expecting anything except perhaps a puff of smoke and a bad aroma, so he was surprised by how disappointed he was when the box just sat there. He turned the dial up to 2, then to 3, and had gotten as high as 6 when he remembered Gleimickr's talk of a surface sensor. Sitting on the table, the device wasn't supposed to do anything.
There was an easy solution to that. He picked it up, held it chest high, and let go.
The results were impressive. The box began to fall, then a solenoid hummed, an internal switch flipped with an audible click, and it shot upward. Even as Ryan was jumping backward with a yelp, it impacted the ceiling with a thump. There, it apparently figured out that the ceiling was in contact with walls that were rooted to the ground because there was another click and it began to fall. That kicked the inverter on again, and the box pogoed back upward until it again hit the ceiling, only to shut off and fall anew.
Obviously, 6 was the wrong setting.
* * * *
Nothing stifles doubts better than an antigravity device trying to batter through your ceiling. Gleimickr was either what he claimed to be or some kind of eccentric genius, and from Ryan's perspective, the difference was immaterial.
Unfortunately, his injuries meant he had no way to corral the runaway device—though perhaps that was for the better, because he might just have gotten his fingers mashed as he dangled from it, trying to find the “off” switch. As it was, he'd have to wait for the battery to run down or for one of the internal relays to fail so the thing would at least quit its infernal thumping. Or maybe it really would punch a hole in the ceiling and go die in the attic.
Meanwhile, he bought a new set of components and set about building Gravity Inverter, Mark II.
The Mark II had certain refinements of his own devising. To begin with, it was small enough to fit in a fanny pack. Also, Ryan bought an assortment of potentiometers, so he could pick the one whose operating range would preclude “excessive elevation.” Being able to levitate above the treetops might have its uses, but not in bicycle racing, and he didn't want to think about what might happen if he accidentally set the thing on 10.
By the time the Mark I finally ran out juice, Ryan was up to the Mark IV, which seemed trustworthy enough to risk testing on his own body.
He'd tried the Mark III on a stray cat with extremely satisfying results, other than some nasty claw marks and the discovery that it doesn't take much breeze to carry a floating cat away at a speed that's difficult to match on foot. Now, with a gulp, he realized he was ready to attempt for himself some of the experiments he'd done with the cat.
He'd substituted a digital readout for the click-stop dial and switched to finer gradations measured in percentages (though the Mark IV was capable of going only to the 45 percent level). The optimum setting appeared to be 30, but just to be on the safe side, he set the device at 35, climbed over the railing of his deck, and jumped. If it didn't work, he'd probably break an ankle along with at least one of his mending collarbones.
But work it did. With a nice, springy sensation, the deceleration kicked in well above the ground, rebounded him once, then positioned him with the lowest portion of his anatomy a couple of meters above the grass. From his experiments with the cat (once it had become sufficiently traumatized that it quit attempting to land on its feet), he knew that he'd be equally safe if he fell headfirst or belly-flopped, though he didn't have the nerve to try.
Carefully, he dialed the pot toward zero, until, gentle as a feather, he settled to earth. Gleimickr had delivered exactly what he'd promised.
* * * *
Over the next few weeks, Ryan wasn't sure which he wanted more: to get back into bicycle racing or get rich. Luckily, he could do both.
By the time he'd tested the Mark V, he was strong enough to lean on the handlebars, but it would be a month before he could risk a second fall. Now he didn't have to worry. But he still couldn't lift his bicycle over the cyclocross obstacles, so, in exchange for an explanation of the difference between titanium, carbon-fiber, and aluminum bicycle frames, he persuaded Gleimickr to show him how to convert the crash-p
rotector into a weight-neutralizer that he could place beneath the seat of his bicycle. A discreet flip of a switch would cancel 95 percent of the bicycle's weight, so that when he needed to lift it, he could swing it up, light as a feather: though he had to be careful, because it still retained full inertia—something he discovered the hard way, bashing his head on a pedal.
The gravity neutralizer allowed him to practice on obstacle courses, despite his injury, which was a lot more fun than just riding the roads. It also allowed him to return to competition. It wasn't exactly fair, but Ryan couldn't imagine that anyone had ever written a rule against such devices. And, he reasoned, innovation had always been part of the sport. Besides, he was lucky to be racing this year. Winning was out of the question, so who was hurt?
Meanwhile, he needed a patent attorney to help him cash in on Gleimickr's gift.
Obviously, cycling was a specialty market. But it didn't take a genius to realize that by tinkering with scale, the gravity neutralizer became an antigravity sled. So Ryan offered Gleimickr a trade. He would write a 10,000-word treatise contrasting “I Love Lucy,” “The Dick van Dyke Show,” and “Seinfeld” with contemporary reality-coms like “Insult Flame-War” and “Gross-Out Master.” In exchange, Gleimickr would tell him how to convert the inverter into a sled and, for good measure, a freight elevator.
Gleimickr agreed, with one caveat. YOU NEVER TOLD ME WHAT SETTING YOU'RE USING. MY CURIOSITY LINGERS.
Oops, Ryan thought, and flashed Gleimickr a photo of himself floating above his bed (he'd discovered that the neutralizer made a great sleep aid), with the digital readout clearly visible. “Sorry about that."
He quickly learned, though, that emailing the same photo to a patent attorney was a sure-fire way not to get an appointment. After four rejections, he simply picked the next attorney on his list and walked in, armed with the Mark VI, which was merely the Mark V with a power gauge so he wouldn't find out the hard way when the batteries wore out.
"Hi,” he said. “I have a new invention.” He turned it on, jumped up, and hovered—adjusting the control so that he bobbed entertainingly in front of the slack-jawed attorney. “Think you can help me market it?"
"Uhrb,” said the attorney.
Of course it wasn't quite that simple. Especially when Ryan told him about the freight elevator.
"Uh, there's one problem with that,” the attorney said.
Ryan nodded encouragingly. Problem solving was why he needed help. On his own, he'd have no option but to hand the device over to a big company and take his chances. “Yes?"
"Suppose you use your freight elevator to lift a big tank of water, then dump it down a pipe that feeds an electrical generator. From what you're saying, you could produce more power than it takes to do the lifting."
Ryan hadn't thought of that. “Wow. Goodbye, energy shortages."
"Maybe. The problem is that it's a form of perpetual-motion machine. The Patent Office isn't kindly disposed toward those."
"Oh? Then show them this.” Ryan twisted the dial until he was again floating. “I can do this for a week on a couple of flashlight batteries."
The attorney mopped his brow. “It would really help if you could explain why you're not violating the law of conservation of energy."
* * * *
That evening, Ryan asked Gleimickr.
AH, HYDROPOWER GENERATION, came the reply. PRIMITIVE, BUT EFFECTIVE. IF I HAD BEEN WISER, I WOULD HAVE SUGGESTED IT MYSELF. AS FOR YOUR QUESTION, NO, THE DEVICE DOES NOT VIOLATE FUNDAMENTAL LAWS OF PHYSICS. IT DOESN'T CREATE GRAVITY; IT MERELY REFLECTS IT. IF YOU REALLY WANT TO KNOW, THE ENERGY COMES FROM SUBDUCTING GRAVITONS INTO THE INTERSTITIAL MATRIX, BUT YOUR CULTURE'S INABILITY TO UNDERSTAND WHAT THAT MEANS IS ONE OF THE REASONS THESE NEGOTIATIONS HAVE TO BE CONDUCTED CLANDESTINELY.
His culture's lack of understanding also proved to be a major delay in making Ryan rich. But the fact that his device worked eventually carried the day, though it was three cyclocross seasons later before anyone but cyclists (famous for their willingness to try anything, especially if packaged as an expensive gadget) actually gave him money.
Meanwhile, he continued to trade information with Gleimickr. By the time his antigravity device was earning royalties, Ryan was ready to launch his next money-maker: an internal-combustion engine that ran on water, made 325 miles per gallon, and emitted zero pollutants. This one was on the market within a year. Partly that was due to his success with antigravity. But it helped that there had always been rumors that the oil industry long knew of such technologies and had ruthlessly suppressed them.
Next came flying cars, which used an angled inverter field to tack against the Earth's gravity at speeds of hundreds of miles per hour. These were followed by a dozen other gadgets—some revolutionary, some just for fun. Nobody really understood how any of them worked, but it didn't matter because they always did. Nearly as good, it was usually possible to add a few whistles and bells for the luxury market.
By now, Ryan was accepted as humanity's greatest inventor since Edison (and maybe before). So when Gleimickr offered him the pièce de résistance—teleportation booths that allowed you to beam yourself anywhere on the planet, it was only a couple of years before roads were obsolete.
* * * *
By this time, Ryan had a hilltop mansion with his own personal cyclocross course. Along with the mansion came a valet, cook, gardener, and a private transportation booth so that friends (especially of the more-discrete sex) could join him without becoming tabloid fodder.
But thanks to all of those amenities, Ryan had trouble finding the incentive to train for serious racing. Also, although he was still on the sunny side of the big four-oh, it wasn't by much, and despite increasingly urgent requests, Gleimickr was more interested in selling him transportation devices than in providing remedies for slowing reflexes and a growing paunch.
Still, life was good. There was even talk of a big contract with NASA to see whether teleportation could be used to create a permanent Mars base (the next robot lander might carry a mini-booth for the first tests). Someday, Ryan hoped to be the first mountain biker on the Solar System's most gonzo downhill run: Olympus Mons. But there were plenty of details to be ironed out first, not the least of which was a life-support suit strong and flexible enough to do the job.
* * * *
Partly from a sense of nostalgia and partly in the hope of learning something to bribe Gleimickr into giving him the secret of the Mars suit, Ryan continued watching at least thirty sitcoms per week.
One day, his vid center interrupted a particularly lame comedy with a “Special News Alert.” That heralded a logo of a bright, blue star, surrounded by planets orbiting in fast-forward, like a swarm of gnats.
Simultaneously, his transport booth chimed, announcing an unexpected visitor. “Who is it?” Ryan said automatically. Having an unguarded transport booth in your house was an obviously unwise idea, so he had programmed his to complete the link only on his command.
But his primary attention was for the vidscreen, which now held a message in a familiar font.
PEOPLES OF EARTH, it read: PLEASE BE ADVISED THAT YOU HAVE BEEN OFFICIALLY ANNEXED TO THE PLANETARY SYSTEMS OF OUTER VEGA. RESISTANCE WILL LEAD ONLY TO REGRETTABLE DESTRUCTION. AS YOU READ THIS, OUTER VEGAN STORM TROOPERS ARE ENTERING BY TACHYON DEVICE EACH AND EVERY TRANSPORTATION BOOTH ON YOUR PLANET. DO NOT BE DECEIVED BY THE ABSENCE OF MORE THAN ONE TROOPER PER BOOTH: IN TOTAL, THERE ARE AS MANY TROOPERS AS BOOTHS, EACH CARRYING WEAPONS AND ARMOR SUPERIOR TO THOSE OF YOUR MILITARY. IF YOU WISH TO LIVE, PLEASE FOLLOW THEIR INSTRUCTIONS WITH IMMEDIATE ALACRITY.
Reading the message, it never crossed Ryan's mind to doubt it. Rather, he felt a horrid sense of inevitability.
The trap in the old Nigerian Scam was the offer of riches for nothing. With Gleimickr's original letter, Ryan had been sure he'd spot the hook before it came, but instead, he'd fallen victim to his own sense of superiority. Then had come the flattering appeal to his “sensical commonality” and t
he fact that Gleimickr's devices had indeed made him rich.
All of that had blinded him to the fact that the hook had nothing to do with money. Instead, he'd happily built the aliens’ gateway for invasion, even as he was dreaming of his own trip to Mars. Guilty might not yet describe his feelings, but stupid certainly did. Which, he supposed, was how it went with any scam.
Meanwhile, his transport booth was still chiming.
"ACTIVATE THE TRANSFER LINK NOW OR SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES,” a basso profundo voice rumbled through the speaker.
Ryan stalled. “And if I don't?"
"THEN THE NEAREST TROOPER WILL COME BY HOVERBELT AND ERADICATE YOU. YOU WOULD BE BETTER ADVISED TO DEAL WITH ME."
"And you're..."
"EXACTLY WHO YOU SUSPECT. VICE-ADMIRAL GLEIMICKR OF THE OUTER VEGAN INVASION CONSORTIUM. YOU CANNOT DEFEAT US, BUT PRESUMING THAT HUMANS CHOOSE TO SURVIVE, WE WILL APPRECIATE ASSISTANCE IN RUNNING THE PLANET. NOW, ACTIVATE THE TRANSFER LINK OR DIE."
Years of bicycle racing had made Ryan a pragmatist. If you're beaten, you can't waste time on what-ifs. Instead, you must do your best to salvage whatever is still possible, whether it's second place or tenth. He wasn't sure what, if anything, was possible now, but thumbing his nose at a super-powerful alien wasn't going to gain him anything useful. “Okay,” he said, and pushed the very low-tech (and therefore unhackable) button that completed the transfer.
Normally, a transfer is soundless: just a light puff from the displaced air molecules in the receiving chamber. This time, there was an actinic flash and the smell of fried electronics. Apparently, Earth technology hadn't permitted construction of a booth totally suitable for interstellar transport, though presumably the invasion force knew how to rectify that once they'd taken control. Or maybe tachyon transport always destroyed the receiver. Ryan's didn't exactly have vast experience with the process.
But when the smoke cleared, there was nothing inside. Wondering if Gleimickr might have moved so quickly that he was now standing behind him, Ryan spun, but found himself alone. Cautiously, he stepped closer to the booth, though there was nowhere for Gleimickr to hide. Was this all just a practical joke, after all? Not funny if it was, because it appeared to have done serious damage to his booth.
Analog SFF, October 2005 Page 18