The 34th Golden Age of Science Fiction: C.M. Kornbluth

by C. M. Kornbluth

  HWAI BI ASHEEMPD UV EUR TCHAIRZ?

  GET ROLFASTS!

  No uth’r tcheir haz thi immidjit respons uv a Rolfast. Sit enihweir—eur Rolfast iz ther! Eur Rolfast metl partz ar solid gold to avoid tairsum polishing. Eur Rolfast beirings are thi fain’st six-intch dupliks di’mondz for long wair.

  Walter’s heart pounded. Gold—to avoid tiresome polishing! Six-inch diamonds—for long wear!

  And Clurg must be a time policeman. “Only in the time police can you see the pageant of the ages!” What did a time policeman do? He wasn’t quite clear about that. But what they didn’t do was let anybody else—anybody earlier—know that the Time Police existed. He, Walter Lachlan of the Twentieth Century, held in the palm of his hand Time Policeman Clurg of the Twenty-Fifth Century—the Twenty-Fifth Century where gold and diamonds were common as steel and glass in this!

  * * * *

  He was there when Clurg came back from the matinee. Mutely, Walter extended the page of newsprint. Clurg snatched it incredulously, stared at it, and crumpled it in his fist. He collapsed on the floor with a groan.

  “I’m done for!” Walter heard him say.

  “Listen, Clurg,” Walter said. “Nobody ever needs to know about this—nobody.”

  Clurg looked up with sudden hope in his eyes. “You will keep silent?” he asked wildly. “It is my life!”

  “What’s it worth to you?” Walter demanded with brutal directness. “I can use some of those diamonds and some of that gold. Can you get it into this century?”

  “It would be missed. It would be over my mass-balance,” Qurg said. “But I have a Duplix. I can copy diamonds and gold for you; that was how I made my feoff money.”

  He snatched an instrument from his pocket—a fountain pen, Walter thought.

  “It is low in charge. It would Duplix about five kilograms in one operation—”

  “You mean,” Walter demanded, “that if I brought you five kilograms of diamonds and gold you could duplicate it? And the originals wouldn’t be harmed? Let me see that thing. Can I work it?”

  Clurg passed over the “fountain pen”. Walter saw that within the case was a tangle of wires, tiny tubes, lenses—he passed it back hastily.

  Clurg said, “That is correct. You could buy or borrow jewelry and I could duplix it. Then you could return the originals and retain the copies. You swear by your contemporary God that you would say nothing?”

  Walter was thinking. He could scrape together a good thirty thousand dollars by pledging the house, the business, his own real estate, the bank account, the life insurance, the securities. Put it all into diamonds, of course and then—doubled! Overnight!

  “I’ll say nothing,” he told Clurg. “If you come through.” He took the sheet from the twenty-fifth-century newspaper from Clurg’s hands and put it securely in his own pocket. “When I get those-diamonds duplicated,” he said, “I’ll burn this paper and forget the rest. Until then, I want you to stay close to home. I’ll come around in a day or so with the stuff for you to duplicate.”

  Clurg nervously promised.

  * * * *

  The secrecy, of course, didn’t include Betty. He told her when he got home, and she let out a yell of delight. She demanded the newspaper, read it avidly, and then demanded to see Clurg.

  “I don’t think he’ll talk,” Walter said doubtfully. “But if you really want to…”

  She did, and they walked to the Curran bungalow. Clurg was gone, lock, stock and barrel, leaving not a trace behind. They waited for hours, nervously.

  At last Betty said, “He’s gone back.”

  Walter nodded. “He wouldn’t keep his bargain, but by God I’m going to keep mine. Come along. We’re going to the Enterprise.”

  “Walter,” she said. “You wouldn’t—would you?”

  * * * *

  He went alone, after a bitter quarrel.

  At the Enterprise office, he was wearily listened to by a reporter, who wearily looked over the twenty-fifth-century newspaper. “I don’t know what you’re peddling, Mr. Lachlan,” he said, “but we like people to buy their ads in the Enterprise. This is a pretty bare-faced publicity grab.”

  “But—” Walter sputtered.

  “Sam, would you please ask Mr. Morris to come up here if he can?” the reporter was saying into the phone. To Walter he explained, “Mr. Morris is our press-room foreman.”

  The foreman was a huge, white-haired old fellow, partly deaf. The reporter showed him the newspaper from the twenty-fifth century and said, “How about this?”

  Mr. Morris looked at it and smelled it and said, showing no interest in the reading matter: “American Type Foundry Futura number nine, discontinued about ten years ago. It’s been hand-set. The ink—hard to say. Expensive stuff, not a news ink. A book ink, a job-printing ink. The paper, now, I know. A nice linen rag that Benziger jobs in Philadelphia.”

  “You see, Mr. Lachlan? It’s a fake.” The reporter shrugged.

  Walter walked slowly from the city room. The press-room foreman knew. It was a fake. And Clurg was a faker. Suddenly Walter’s heels touched the ground after twenty-four hours and stayed there. Good God, the diamonds! Clurg was a conman! He would have worked a package switch! He would have had thirty thousand dollars’ worth of diamonds for less than a month’s work!

  He told Betty about it when he got home, and she laughed unmercifully. “Time Policeman” was to become a family joke between the Lachlans.

  * * * *

  Harry Twenty-Third Street stood, blinking, in a very peculiar place. Peculiarly, his feet were firmly encased, up to the ankles, in a block of clear plastic.

  There were odd-looking people, and a big voice was saying: “May it please the court. The People of the Twenty-Fifth Century versus Harold Parish, alias Harry Twenty-Third Street, alias Clurg, of the Twentieth Century. The charge is impersonating an officer of the Time Police. The Prosecutor’s Office will ask the death penalty in view of the heinous nature of the offense, which threatens the whole fabric—”

  TAKEOFF

  Originally published as a three-part serial in New Worlds Science Fiction, Volumes 22, 23 and 24 (1954).

  PART ONE

  I.

  Morning of a bureaucrat.

  On the wall behind his desk Daniel Holland, general manager of the U.S. Atomic Energy Commission, had hung the following:

  His diploma from Harvard Law, ’39;

  A photograph of himself shaking hands with his hero, the late David Lilienthal, first A.E.C. chairman;

  His certificate of honorable active service in the Army of the United States as a first lieutenant, in the Judge Advocate General’s Department, dated February 12, 1945;

  A letter of commendation from the general counsel of the T.V.A., which included best wishes for his former assistant’s success in the new and challenging field of public administration he was entering;

  A diploma declaring in Latin that he was an honorary Doctor of Laws of the University of North Carolina as of June 15, 1956; A blowup of The New Republic’s vitriolic paragraph on his “Bureaucracy versus the People” (New York, 1956);

  A blowup of Time magazine’s vitriolic paragraph on his “Red Tape Empires” (New York, 1957);

  Signed photographs of heroes (Lilienthal, the late Senator McMahon); industrialists (Henry Kaiser, the late Charles E. Wilson of General Motors, Wilson Stuart of Western Aircraft, the late John B. Watson of International Business Machines); scientists (James B. Conant, J. Robert Oppenheimer); and politicians (Chief Justice Palmer, Senator John Marshall Butler of Maryland, ex-President Truman, ex-President Warren, President Douglas);

  An extract from the January 27, 1947, hearings of the Senate half of the joint Senate-House Committee on Atomic Energy—held in connection with confirmation of the President’s appointees to the A.E.C., particularly that of Lilienthal—which ran as f
ollows:

  Senator McKellar (to Mr. Lilienthal): Did it not seem to you to be remarkable that in connection with experiments that have been carried on since the days of Alexander the Great, when he had his Macedonian scientists trying to split the atom, the President of the United States would discharge General Groves, the discoverer of the greatest secret that the world has ever known, the greatest discovery, scientific discovery, that has ever been made, to turn the whole matter over to you: who never really knew, except from what you saw in the newspapers, that the Government was even thinking about atomic energy?

  The Chairman: Let us have it quiet please.

  Senator McKellar: You are willing to admit, are you, that this secret, or the first history of it, dated from the time when Alexander the Great had his Macedonian scientists trying to make this discovery, and then Lucretius wrote a poem about it, about two thousand years ago? And everybody has been trying to discover it, or most scientists have been trying to discuss it, ever since. And do you not really think that General Groves, for having discovered it, is entitled to some little credit for it?

  “Read that,” said Holland to his first caller of the morning. “Go on, read it.”

  James MacIlheny, Los Angeles insurance man and president of the American Society for Space Flight, gave him an inquiring look and slowly read the extract.

  “I suppose,” MacIlheny said at last, “your point is that you wouldn’t be able to justify granting my request if Congress called you to account.”

  “Exactly. I’m a lawyer myself; I know how they think. Right-wrong, black-white, convicted-acquitted. Exactly why should A.E.C. ‘cooperate and exchange information with’ you people? If you’re any good, we ought to hire you. If you aren’t any good, we oughtn’t to waste time on you.”

  “Are those your personal views, Mr. Holland?” asked MacIlheny, flushing.

  Holland sighed. “My personal views are on the record in a couple of out-of-print books, a few magazine articles, and far too many congressional-hearing minutes. You didn’t come here to discuss my personal views; you came for an answer to a question. The answer has got to be ‘no’”.

  “I came on your invitation—” MacIlheny began angrily, and then he pulled himself together. “I’m not going to waste time losing my temper. I just want you to consider some facts. American Government rocket research is scattered all over hell—Army, Navy, Air Force, Bureau of Standards, Coast and Geodetic Survey, and God-alone-knows-where-else. You gentlemen don’t let much news out, but obviously we’re getting nowhere. We would have had a manned rocket on the moon ten years ago if we were! I’m speaking for some people who know the problem, a lot of them trained, technical men. We’ve got the drawings. We’ve had some of them for fifteen years! All that’s needed is money and fuel, atomic fuel—”

  Holland looked at his watch, and MacIlheny stopped in mid-flight. “I see it’s not getting through,” he said bitterly. “When the Russian or Argentine lunar guided missiles begin to fall on America you’ll have a lot to be proud of, Mr. Holland.” He started for the door. Before he was out, Holland’s secretary was in, summoned by a buzzer.

  “Let’s hit the mail, Charlie,” Holland said, lighting a cigarette and emptying his overflowing “in” basket on his desk.

  Ryan’s bid on the Missoula construction job. “Tell him very firmly that I want him to get the contract because of his experience, but that his bid’s ridiculously high. Scare him a little.”

  Damages claim from an ex-A.E.C. employee’s lawyer, alleging loss of virility from radiation exposure. “Tell Morton to write this shyster absolutely nothing doing; it’s utterly ridiculous. Hint that we’ll have him up before his state bar association if he pesters us any more. And follow through if he does!”

  Dr. Mornay at Oak Ridge still wanted to publish his article arguing for employment of foreign-born scientific personnel in the A.E.C. “Write him a very nice letter. Say I’ve seriously considered his arguments but I still think publication would be a grave error on his part. See my previous letter for reasons and ask him just to consider what Senator Hoyt would make of his attitude.”

  The governor of Nevada wanted him to speak at a dam dedication. “Tell him no, I never speak, sorry.”

  Personnel report from Missoula Directed Ops. “Greenleaf’s lost three more good men, damn it. Acknowledge his letter of transmittal—warm personal regards. And tell Weiss to look over the table of organization for a spot we can switch him to where he’ll stay in grade but won’t be a boss-man.”

  Half-year fiscal estimate from Holloway at Chalk River Liaison Group in Canada. “Acknowledge it but don’t say yes or no. Make copies for Budget and Comptroller. Tell Weiss to ride them for an opinion but not to give them any idea whether I think it’s high, low, or perfect. I want to know what they think by tomorrow afternoon.”

  Messenger query from the A.P. on Hoyt’s speech in the Senate. “Tell them I haven’t seen the text yet and haven’t had a chance to check A.E.C. medical records against the Senator’s allegations. Add that in my personal experience I’ve never met an alcoholic scientist and until I do I’ll continue to doubt that there is any such animal. Put some jokes in it.”

  The retiring Regional Security and Intelligence Office agent in charge at Los Angeles wanted to know Holland’s views on who should succeed him. Records of three senior agents attached. “Tell him Anheier looks like the best bet.”

  The Iranian ambassador, with an air of injured innocence, wanted to know why his country’s exchange students had been barred even from nonrestricted A.E.C. facilities. “Tell him it was a State Department decision. Put in some kind of a dig so he’ll know I know they started it with our kids. Clear it with State before I see it.”

  A rambling petition from the Reverend Oliver Townsend Warner, Omaha spellbinder. “I can’t make head or tail of this. Tell Weiss to answer it some way or other. I don’t want to see any more stuff from Warner; he may have a following but the man’s a crank.”

  Recruiting programme report from Personnel Office. “Acknowledge this and tell them I’m not happy about it. Tell them I want on my desk next Monday morning some constructive ideas about roping better junior personnel in, and keeping them with us. Tell them it’s perfectly plain that we’re getting the third-rate graduates of the third-rate schools and it’s got to stop.”

  Letter from Regional Security and Intelligence officer at Chicago; the F.B.I, had turned over a derogatory information against Dr. Oslonski, mathematical physicist. “Hell. Write Oslonski a personal letter and tell him I’m sorry but he’s going to be suspended from duty and barred from the grounds again. Tell him we’ll get his clearance over within the minimum possible time and I know it’s a lot of foolishness but policy is policy and we’ve got to think of the papers and Congress. Ask him please to consider the letter a very private communication. And process the S. and I. advisory.”

  A North Dakota senator wanted a job for his daughter, who had just graduated from Bennington. “Tell Morton to write him that Organization and Personnel hires, not the general manager.”

  Dr. Redford at Los Alamos wanted to resign; he said he felt he was getting nowhere. “Ask him please, as a personal favor to me, to delay action on his resignation until I’ve been able to have a talk with him. Put in something about our acute shortage of first-line men. And teletype the director there to rush-reply a report on the trouble.”

  A red-bordered, courier-transmitted letter from the Secretary of the Department of the Interior, stamped Secret. He wanted to know when he would be able to figure on results from A.E.C.’s A.D.M.P.—Atomic Demolition Material Programme—in connection with planning for Sierra Reclamation Project. “Tell Interior we haven’t got a thing for him and haven’t got a date. The feeling among the A.D.M.P. boys is that they’ve been off on a blind alley for the past year and ought to resurvey their approach to the problem. I’m giving them another month because Scientific
Advisory claims the theory is sound. That’s secret, by courier.”

  Hanford’s quarterly omnibus report. “Acknowledge it and give it to Weiss to brief for me.”

  Messenger query from the Bennet newspapers; what about a rumour from Los Angeles that the A.E.C. had launched a great and costly programme for a space-rocket atomic fuel. “Tell them A.E.C. did not, does not, and probably will not contemplate a space-rocket fuel programme. Say I think I know where the rumour started and that it’s absolutely without foundation, impossible to launch such a programme without diverting needed weaponeering personnel, etcetera.”

  Field Investigations wanted to know whether they should tell the Attorney General about a trucking line they caught swindling the A.E.C. “Tell them I don’t want prosecution except as a last resort. I do want restitution of the grafted dough, I want the Blue Streak board of directors to fire the president and his damn cousin in the dispatcher’s office, and most of all I want Field Investigations to keep these things from happening instead of catching them after they happen.”

  And so on.

  * * * *

  MacIlheny went disconsolately to his room at the Willard and packed. They wouldn’t start charging him for another day until 3.00 p.m.: he opened his portable and began tapping out his overdue “President’s Message” for Starward, monthly bulletin of the American Society for Space Flight. It flowed more easily than usual. MacIlheny was sore.

  Fellow Members:

  I am writing this shortly after being given a verbal spanking by a high muckamuck of the A.E.C. I was told in effect to pick up my marbles and not to bother the older boys: the Government isn’t interested in us bumbling amateurs. I can’t say I enjoyed this after my hopes had been raised by the exchange of several letters and an invitation to see Mr. Holland about it “the next time I was in Washington.” I suppose I mistook routine for genuine interest. But I’ve learned something out of this disheartening experience.

  It’s this: we’ve been wasting a lot of time in the A.S.F.S.F. by romancing about how the Government would some day automatically take cognizance of our sincere and persistent work. My experience today duplicates what happened in 1946, when our campaign for the Government to release unnecessarily classified rocketry art was the flop of the year.