Prescription for Chaos

by Christopher Anvil

  "But where's the problem in swapping loads by hand? Why do you have to have a 'port'?"

  Stewart glanced at the drying mud and curving troughs of the parking lot.

  "You want to manhandle crates with your feet on that? You want a broken ankle or a cracked skull?"

  "But this male and female business. For—"

  Stewart walked behind the vehicle they'd come in, pulled on a lever, and the lower half of the rear door opened down horizontally, the upper half swung up horizontally; and, as he pulled again, inner doors swung out right and left, the four half-doors making an extension open at the rear. Several inches underneath, two steel beams slid back below the lower door.

  "This is a so-called male port. The female port is wider and higher. Now, watch." He heaved on the lever, and the two steel beams slid further, to project beyond the rear of the extension. "These support the floor of the joined ports, and the ends rest in brackets underneath the other vehicle's port. That joins the vehicles, and nobody slips in the mud or drops freight overside. But, boy, if the troughs are curved, or the trucks don't match just right—"

  "Why not just have a gate that drops down at the rear of the truck, with a chain on each side to keep the gate horizontal? That would work."

  Stewart thought it over. "Maybe. Unfortunately, we've now got regulations that require male or female ports, made to the standard pattern. This is the standard pattern. At least it's less bad than the gas nozzles. If they come out with one more pattern—"

  "What, for the gas pumps?"

  "At last count, there were eighteen different designs, and they make the intake on the auto to fit the nozzle. It depends on which car company strikes what deal with which gas company. Well, let's go see Jake."

  Randy, his head spinning, cranked the car and climbed in. Stewart started to pull out onto the road, then jammed on the brake. Out in the street, a truck rumbled past pushing a row of little shovels through the concrete troughs, to leave dirt and trash in long low piles to either side.

  Randy massages his temples, and watched a horse and open carriage rumble past at the corner. The horse was moving right along, and the people in the carriage grinned at Stewart and Randy waiting for the trough-cleaner. Stewart said, "Ah, nuts," and let the clutch out so fast the car bucked and stalled. This brought gales of laughter from the carriage.

  Stewart snarled, "I'll crank it. You work the throttle."

  Randy dragged his mind off the question why, if this were a dream, he hadn't woken up yet. He discovered that Stewart had left the car in gear just as Stewart found out, and said some words Randy hadn't heard before. Then they had the vehicle started, and jounced and slammed through the dirt piled into the junctions as the main troughs were cleaned out.

  "It would all be so easy," said Stewart, fighting the wheel, "if it weren't for the details. This is obviously the transportation system of the future—and yet—look at this."

  On the street in front were two long things like narrow trap doors that popped open as they crossed the intersection. It dawned on him that these were trough-covers, closed to keep the horses from falling where horse-streets and car-streets crossed on the same level. And, of course, the covers had to open for the vehicles to get through.

  "Quite a thing," said Stewart cynically, "when the trough cover gets grit in its hinges. Either the horses break their legs, or the cars climb out of the troughs."

  "Why not pave the whole street and have done with it?"

  "We can never vote it in. The horse interests go along with whoever favors the present set-up, and together they vote down any change. To pave the street would mean cars could go near horses, and scare the daylights out of them. And it would end the set-up we've got now, when only horses can go everywhere. Naturally, the horse-freight outfits want to keep that. It makes you wish Gritz hadn't invented the security slot in the first place."

  "Who?"

  "Gritz. Father of the auto industry. Invented the trough-section casting machine. The idea is to avoid accidents, and be able to keep moving in mud, fog and bad weather. Have a track, like the railroads. It sounds good. But ye gods, when you have a pile-up, or get a freezing rain!"

  "Speaking of inventors, weren't there some others—Henry Ford, Thomas Edison—?"

  "Ford? Let's see . . . Ford . . . no, never heard of him. Edison? Sure, he invented the electric light, the phonograph, the aerabat, the vacuum tube, and the relay-computer.—Ah, here we are!"

  Randy considered the fact that Henry Ford apparently hadn't lived in this universe, dream, or whatever it was. Instead of Ford's aim, "I'll belt the world with reliable motorcars," there were all these people figuring, "I'll patent a new gas nozzle and get a stranglehold on the industry." The car gave a jolt, brought his mind back to the present, and he saw a huge sign:

  JAKE'S

  Ahead of them, as they bounced through the trough junctions, was a fortresslike building behind a high chain link fence. Also behind the fence were separate sheds, and small lots filled with cars. Stewart hummed cheerfully as they stopped at a gate, and a guard peered out a slit.

  "Password?" said the guard.

  "Stewed prunes."

  The guard kept his eyes on Stewart and Randy, and spoke over his shoulder. "Stewed prunes."

  A man's voice answered, "Get his name."

  Stewart said, "Stewart Rafer."

  "Occupation?"

  "Computer dealer."

  The voice said, "Checks."

  The guard grinned. "Go in, but drive slow. We got a new shipment and they're fighting over it."

  Stewart swung the car around a big metal-sheathed shed, and jammed on the brakes. In front of the shed stood a large man in whipcord trousers and a white silk shirt, with a cigar jutting out the corner of his mouth. Opposite him, a man in a business suit pointed to a steam locomotive three hundred feet away on the far side of a barred gate.

  "You'll either let that consignment in, or that's the last load you get from me!"

  "You either forget that paper I'm supposed to sign, or the gate stays shut. And I want your personal guarantee on what I buy."

  "I can't change a thing. That paper was drawn up by the company's lawyers. I don't guarantee anything, either. That's company policy."

  "You see that row of junk parked in the lot over there? The slot-headed cretin who brought that in started out just like you, and ended up selling it two cents on the dollar and grateful for the pay. The only thing he could guarantee was that the tires were good. I'm selling the whole load in units of two pairs of tires with vehicle attached. The wheels happen to be InterCon format, so I've had a pretty fair sale."

  "I can't possibly—"

  "You're selling to me because you need cash. What I need is something I can sell at a fair price with a real guarantee. Take a look at that chain link fence. A while back, I unloaded some so-called bargains that strung my customers up by the ears. Now I sleep in a bombproof bunker with a forty-five under my pillow. Don't tell me about your company lawyers. They don't scare me half as much as a bankrupt customer with a gun."

  "What do you suggest?"

  "The first thing is get rid of this." He read aloud: " 'Purchaser by inserting the key in the doorlock of the aforesaid vehicle signifies irrevocable agreement with each and every clause, provision, and/or stipulation of this contract, without exception, he and his heirs and assigns forever.' And then this: 'User by paying the purchase price for permission to use this vehicle acquires no ownership right or interest therein, but only permission to use the vehicle under the terms of this contract.'"

  "Well, that's a perfectly standard vehicle usage clause, and you get the benefit—"

  "If I try to enforce it, there's only two possibilities. First, the courts throw out the whole thing. Then I look like a fool. Second, they approve it, and I have to hire more guards. No. I value what sleep I can still get."

  "What—What deal do you offer?"

  "What will you guarantee?"

  "The engines will run." />
  "Are they built-in?"

  "Well—heh—they just have to be adapted to fit. There are instructions included. I guess it wouldn't be impossible."

  "That doesn't sound too good."

  "The engines are all right. The wheels are all right, too."

  "InterCon format?"

  "Our own format. Exclusive. We've got the rights."

  "So nobody else can use it without a special trough?"

  "Exactly. We planned to get the monopoly."

  "What you've got now is an orphan format."

  "We'll sell you the rights!"

  "That wouldn't help me any. All you've mentioned so far is the engines. What about the bodies?"

  "The frame?"

  "That's what I'm talking about."

  "You're planning to check all this?"

  "I'd be crazy if I didn't."

  "The frame is a—er—an adaptation of the old standard InterCon frame. Practically indistinguishable from the Personal Car."

  "What's wrong with it?"

  "Well, we had them made up in a—ah—a foreign country—too assist in the industrial development of—ah—emerging—"

  "Skip all that. What's wrong with it?"

  "The roof leaks pretty bad in the rain. And what they used for paint—well—but you don't have to worry about that. The disclaimer covers everything."

  "Except a customer with a gun. So the paint's no good and the roof sealer's worthless. How's the structure?"

  "It's just as good as the InterCon job. Why not? It's a straight copy."

  "What else?"

  "The brakes are all right. The clutch will snap your head off."

  "Now we're talking. Bear in mind who's going to demonstrate these things. You."

  "I can find someone better."

  "I can't. How about the literature?"

  "The maps?"

  "The maps and instructions. A car's no good if you can't figure where to go with it, or how to shift gears."

  "We were figuring to sell the documentation separately, with the spark plugs."

  "I asked what good it is."

  "Some of it's copied from InterCon. That part's all right. The rest is good to give to your enemies. I don't think we've got the road to hell in there, but there's a lot of places you don't want to go."

  "Doesn't matter as long as it's labeled right."

  "Together with some stuff that looks great, but there isn't any place it matches up with. It's good for a demo."

  "We can sell that for novelty. How about the rest of the documentation?"

  "Ah—You mean the instructions?"

  "What else would I mean?"

  "You want the truth?"

  "No good, eh?"

  "We hired a guy to put together a hundred pages that would look good, and we gave him two weeks to do the job. He cobbled stuff together from copied InterCon drawings and an encyclopedia on mechanical design, and patched a pretty good introduction onto it. Not a bad job. The only problem is, it doesn't tell how to get the engine into the frame, or the wheels on the axles, or anything else you need to know. Of course, if you can read it and understand it, you already know enough to do the job without any instructions."

  Beside Randy, Stewart, who had been smiling, gave a low curse, shifted into gear, and backed up. Behind them, another high-wheeled car was just coming in, but Stewart managed to get off onto a sidetrack before this second car ground past.

  "Nuts," said Stewart, hauling on the wheel. "The trough's full of muck. All we need is to climb out of it."

  "Then what?"

  "The guide wheel, here—" he tapped the steering wheel—"is only meant to shift troughs at the junctions. It'll tear your arms out by the roots if you try steering through raw muck."

  He stopped at the gate, to shout, "You're gunked up in there!"

  "Trough cleaner's down!" The gate opened. The car jolted forward.

  "Miracle it didn't stall," snarled Stewart. "Damn it! I've got to deliver, and I've got to pick up repairs! But how do I do it? Did you hear that S.O.B. talk?"

  "The guy arguing with him seemed all right."

  Stewart hauled the wheel around, and they pulled out into a steady stream of traffic.

  "Jake's okay. That was all bull about the customers being out to get him. It's the dealers. Boy, there are those who hate him!"

  "Why not buy from him? At least you'd know what you were getting."

  "Sure, but buy what? I want something I can count on." Stewart stared ahead, and made a grab for the brake lever. "Hang on! Somebody's jumped the trough! LOOK OUT! IT'S A PILE-UP!"

  There was a crash ahead. Their own vehicle slowed, then slid. There was a jolt as someone banged them from behind. A quick glance showed Randy a monster van right behind. Off to the side, teams of horses trotted, eyes front, blinders cutting off the sight of the crashing cars.

  Randy glanced at Stewart. "We should have got a horse!"

  Stewart gave a fleeting grin. "Why tell me now? LOOK OUT!"

  The car in front slammed to a stop. There was a sledgehammer shock, a blinding whirl of dust, a crash, blackness, remoteness, and then finally, light, and a voice.

  He was slumped forward, his forehead against hard metal. He tried to stand, and landed painfully on one knee. His eyes came open and he saw a dim flat surface. He stumbled to his feet, looking for wreckage from the crash. He seemed to be in a dimly lit room.

  In the dimness, a reflection glinted from the chromed Cougar emblem of his computer.

  His wife asked anxiously, "Are you all right?"

  He put his hand on the computer. It at least felt real. "Physically," he said, "I feel horrible. But it could be worse. What time is it?"

  "Almost twelve."

  "You haven't been to sleep?"

  "I was waiting for you."

  "You haven't been in here since I started to run Armagast's program?"

  "No. Randy, what is it?"

  He described what had happened.

  She said, "It was like a dream?—A vivid dream?"

  "A vivid dream that compared the computer industry to the state the auto industry might be in if it had our problems."

  "Did it help?"

  "Well, my problem was, what has gone wrong? I've got plenty of answers."

  "You look awfully tired."

  "It wasn't restful. Wait while I put things away."

  The next day found Randy peering through bloodshot eyes at a hung-over-looking Stewart Rafer.

  "Pratt," said Rafer, "ah—this Armagast program—I took it home. Ah . . . Suppose the Wright Brothers—No. No, forget that. Now, about this program—I think it's salable, but—Things are tight. We can't have you making purchases for the store without confirmation from me. You understand that?"

  Randy forced a nod.

  Stewart—this Stewart—looked at him owlishly.

  "All right. Now, there's this business of the Gnat computer. How do you explain what we're going through with all these returns?"

  Randy scowled. The Gnat was Stewart's idea. Now he, Randy, was supposed to explain it?

  He reminded himself that he needed this job, and groped for a courteous answer.

  Out in the showroom the outer door went shut, and light footsteps approached in the hall. Stewart and Randy glanced around. There was a rap at the door. Stewart said, "Come in." Randy's woman customer of yesterday stepped inside.

  "I've brought my Shomizota printer, to be—ah—configured? It's in the trunk of my car, out front."

  Randy winced. "Without the Superbyte, I—"

  "I brought my Superbyte."

  Randy cast a look of appeal at Stewart.

  Stewart turned solicitously to the customer.

  "We believe in total service here. Mr. Pratt will be glad to take care of it."

  Randy went out to the car, and carried in the Shomizota. As he went back for the Superbyte, a thought occurred to him.

  Would Armagast's program handle customer problems?

  Why not?

&n
bsp; He lugged the Superbyte into the showroom, and the customer said sweetly, "Mr. Rafer has assured me you'll be happy to take care of this, too." She handed him a box labeled, "WordSnapper 2 for UltraByte Computers."