Prescription for Chaos

by Christopher Anvil

  And yet, here were Heyden and Benning and their men, high above the bureaucrats, and rising higher fast, because they had risked disgrace and disaster. They were only here by the skin of their teeth, and Heyden was beginning to realize from his reaction just how long he would think before taking a risk like that again.

  But, all the same, they were here.

  "Come on," said Heyden, walking a little heavily under the steadily maintained thrust. "Let's either get to a place where we can sit down, or get up front to that window. Maybe we could see the moon."

  Doc's Legacy

  Felix N. Muir, A.S., forgot the beautiful summer morning outside as he glanced from James Allen, Director of Research, to the gadget that Allen with studied casualness was unloading onto Muir's desk.

  At first sight, the device looked like a pocket calculator. But where the display should be, there was a meter; and where there should be rows of push buttons, there were just two grey buttons, with an additional black button around on the side. Connected by a thick electric cord was a small megaphone-shaped apparatus of slender copper rod.

  As Muir came to his feet, Allen gave a genial nod, then reached back for the knob of the hall door. Plainly enough, the Director of Research was about to toss Muir a few words of instruction, and depart.

  Muir, though still new at this job, moved fast, and pulled over a chair.

  "Have a seat, Dr. Allen."

  "Oh," said Allen, "I don't have time—"

  "And what is this?"

  Allen favored Muir with a friendly man-to-man smile.

  "It's just a little—you know, a—ah—toy—of Doc's. I want you to—"

  Muir blinked. In this company, "Doc" meant just one person.

  "Toy? Of Dr. Griswell?"

  Allen got his hand on the knob. "Yes. Now, I want you—"

  The words were out before Muir had time to think: "If this belonged to Dr. Griswell, I don't touch it without an explanation."

  Allen's face lost its friendly smile. "See here, Muir—"

  Muir's thoughts caught up with his reactions, and he added persuasively, "Suppose someone gave you a bottle of yellowish oily liquid, Dr. Allen? Wouldn't you be uneasy if it turned out to be nitroglycerine?"

  "Glyceryl trinitrate. Well, that is a—h'm—mistaken comparison." Allen hesitated, cast a penetrating glance at Muir, and added, "But I see your point." He pulled over the chair, and uneasily moved the little megaphone-shaped device so it aimed elsewhere than at him. "You're comparatively new here, Muir. What do you know about Doc Griswell?"

  "Well—He invented the asterator."

  "Do you understand the asterator?"

  "As far as the mechanism is concerned, I don't remotely understand it. As for the effect, I know what's common knowledge."

  "Namely?"

  "The asterator has a number of reaction chambers. Each chamber emits a narrow beam. Just as glass is transparent to light, ordinary matter is transparent to the asterator beam. The beams can focus on a common target. In a target containing unstable nuclei, the nuclei decompose."

  "The significance of this—?"

  "Nuclear weapons and reactors contain a lot of unstable nuclei. If an asterator focuses on them, the weapon or reactor blows up."

  Allen nodded. "And the political effect?"

  "Not long ago, the major powers had arsenals of nuclear weapons. Then Doc Griswell invented the asterator. Suddenly a nuclear weapon was more dangerous to its possessor than to anyone else. The result was rapid voluntary nuclear disarmament, which is still going on."

  "And Dr. Griswell?"

  "Dr. Griswell's car crashed into a stone wall before the facts came out."

  Allen nodded soberly. "The asterator was a work of extraordinary genius, or a remarkable accidental discovery—Or, perhaps, both. But for Doc Griswell it was a tragedy. Doc wanted safe, trouble-free nuclear power. The wave of accidents, when the asterator was first tested, was completely unexpected. And, of course, no one realized at first that the asterator was the cause. Doc evidently blamed himself, and—" Allen's voice briefly choked.

  Muir said sympathetically, "Well—They said it was suicide. But who knows? Where his car went off the road, there's a sharp curve. If he was distracted—"

  "You're familiar with the spot?"

  "I drove out there one night. There are big evergreens that cast dense shadows in the moonlight. With the wall and the curve hidden in the shadows, that spot looks like two or three perfectly harmless places on the road."

  "But Doc's headlights—"

  "On high beam, on the rise just before the curve, the lights lift up off the road. The danger isn't clear."

  Allen stared across the room. "Beasley and I blamed ourselves, and felt guilty. You see, we worked very closely with Doc, but he didn't trust us enough to take us into his confidence when things went wrong."

  "That's assuming he deliberately drove into that wall. But suppose, as he neared the curve, that a thought occurred to him about the asterator? All it takes there is night, a fast car, the moon in a part of the sky to cast the right shadows, and one second's distraction. He knew the road; but he may not have had that combination before."

  Allen sat silent for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Gloria Griswell brought the touchstone in yesterday."

  Muir looked blank.

  Allen said, "Gloria is Doc's widow. The device I just put on your desk is what Doc called his 'touchstone.'"

  Muir looked at the meter, push buttons, and electric cord with its small cone-shaped apparatus. "A 'touchstone' is used to test whether something is genuine. What kind of—"

  "Exactly the sort of question I'd like you to investigate, Muir."

  Muir cast him a fishy look. "And Mrs. Griswell?"

  "What about her?"

  "Dr. Griswell died almost two years ago, didn't he? Why did his widow only bring this in yesterday?"

  "Roughly two years ago. Yes. I was surprised to see her."

  "Why did she bring it in now?"

  "She wanted it out of the house."

  "Why, after having it around that long, did she only now want it out of the house?"

  Allen looked at Muir approvingly. "You're quick, Muir. You really should try for a higher degree."

  "Not with my temperament. Why did Mrs. Griswell suddenly want to get rid of this device?"

  "What does your temperament have to do with it?"

  "There are times when I think I'm leaning over backward, and everyone else thinks I'm spoiling for a fight. It doesn't go down well against an academic background."

  "With a little tact, people would soon realize that they were mistaken."

  Muir looked faintly embarrassed. "The trouble is, they're not always mistaken."

  "Ah," said Allen, smiling, "that's different."

  "Why did Mrs. Griswell suddenly want this device out of the house?"

  "Her fiancé objected to it."

  "Fiancé?"

  "Well, she—you see, she—" Allen paused, then tried again. "She intends to remarry, and, of course, no one can criticize her for that. She's certainly waited long enough to show respect for Doc's memory. Especially as things are these days. And no one could ask—"

  Muir squinted as if trying to get Allen back into focus. "I had the impression Dr. Griswell was quite elderly when he died."

  "Yes. He was an elder brother to us. He had not only an exceptional and vigorous originality, but a long experience in the field."

  "How old is Gloria Griswell?"

  "Oh, quite young. Everyone was stunned when she and Doc got married. Two people more completely different . . . But they understood each other, and got along wonderfully."

  "You're saying Gloria Griswell is young, is getting remarried, and her boob of a fiancé doesn't want this 'touchstone' in the house?"

  Allen stared at Muir, then nodded.

  Muir said shortly, "Did she just let him into her bedroom, or what?"

  Allen's head jerked as if he had been slapped. He began to spe
ak angrily, then stopped with an odd listening look. "You reason that she would probably have kept the touchstone near her as a kind of memento? And that her fiancé would only have come in contact with it when he—er—experienced a—ah—considerable degree of intimacy?"

  "If this fiancé didn't object before, why now? Something must have changed."

  "That reasoning does seem valid."

  "What doesn't the cretin like about it?"

  "How—"

  Muir leaned across the desk. "You're holding something back, Dr. Allen. And incidentally, is he marrying her for money, or what?"

  Allen stared at him. "Muir, you have a habit—Not that I object, of course—Doc used to do the same thing—"

  "What?"

  "You don't respond to what's said, you respond to what you deduce from what's said. And I fail to grasp your reasoning. For instance, you've referred to Gloria Griswell's fiancé as a 'boob,' a 'cretin'—"

  "Isn't he?"

  "Oh, most assuredly. A more conceited, theatrical, self-seeking . . . But the question is, how do you know? Have you met him?"

  "No. And I'm not eager to."

  "And now, you ask, is he marrying her for money? Where did you get that idea?"

  "Don't you agree?"

  "Of course I agree! Though, really, she's attractive enough. Beautiful, actually. But the question is, how do you now deduce, rightly or wrongly, that he's marrying her for money?"

  "What you said implied it."

  "I didn't imply it. You inferred it. How?"

  "There was something in what you said—"

  "What?"

  "H'm . . . I don't know . . . But now you're saying that there is some serious drawback—some reason a man wouldn't want to marry her. Even though she's beautiful."

  Allen nodded wonderingly. "Exactly the kind of answer I used to get from Doc. That is, no answer at all, and very possibly a new deduction, equally unexplained."

  "It's there in what you said."

  "How?"

  "Well—if there was no reason to think this fiancé naturally would not marry her, then how can you be sure he's marrying her for money? If she's young, rich, and beautiful, how do you know he's only thinking of the 'rich,' and not the 'young and beautiful'?" Muir paused, frowning. "And incidentally, why is she marrying him?"

  Allen looked momentarily disoriented. "I don't know. But she's very vulnerable."

  "A young rich widow?"

  "It's worse than that. She admired Doc greatly. You could see the affection and the pride in her eyes. I'm afraid that her admiration for Doc led her to admire genius in general. Then, too—" He paused suddenly.

  Muir was frowning at Allen. "You mean, she takes this fake for a genius?"

  Allen sat back, staring at Muir. "Precisely. And—" He caught himself.

  "And what?"

  "Oh, nothing specific. We've gotten off the track. What I need done is to have the properties of this device very carefully investigated."

  Muir looked at him skeptically. "You worked with Dr. Griswell. You must know the answers already."

  "Well, but . . . You see, Beasley and I couldn't be sure . . . and . . . You could say Doc was much closer to Beasley . . . And of course to Gloria . . . Yes, I'm sure he explained to Gloria.—And then, his sense of humor. Was he serious, or . . . His scientific reputation could be badly damaged if . . . No. I can't do it. But . . ."

  Muir nodded. "In short, whatever the thing does, there are theoretical objections. So you are tossing me the hot potato."

  "Well, I—ah—" Allen smiled. "Yes. Precisely."

  "At least we understand each other. Now, what if there should turn out to be some credit in it?"

  " 'You do the work, you get the reward.' That was Doc's policy. But be careful, Muir. I doubt there is anything in this theoretically but trouble. And you have to remember, it's Doc's device. However, aside from all that, if it makes you rich and famous, well . . . just add a footnote that I put it on your desk."

  Muir smiled. "It's a nice dream."

  "Possibly more than that. I'd better mention what Doc said about it: 'If the human race survives the nuclear mess, the principle behind this may keep us out of the next hole.' He wouldn't have said that lightly."

  "But you don't want to say anything more about it?"

  "No."

  "Where is Dr. Beasley now?"

  "As nearly as I can recall, he was going to take a long vacation as far from the lab as he could get. I think that would put him somewhere in the South Pacific. I'm afraid he's out of reach."

  "I see. Well, if you should happen to remember anything about this device . . ."

  Allen gave a sort of half-nod and half-shake of the head, along with an uninterpretable wave of the hand. He came to his feet, and reached for the doorknob. For an instant, he seemed about to say more. Then he smiled, and went out.

  Muir sat for a moment looking at the closed door. Then he carefully picked up the device, turned it in his hands, and considered the black button on the side. Then he looked thoughtfully at the two grey buttons.

  He sat frowning for a moment, then went to the back of the room, and bent to a large old-fashioned safe. He straightened up holding a scuffed attaché case, crumpled up a newspaper for padding, and carefully put the "touchstone" in the case. A few minutes later, he was in the sunlit parking lot, getting into a small beat-up blue car that sat in the shade of the building. Despite its appearance, the car started at once, and he pulled out onto the road.

  If he remembered correctly, it should be seven or eight miles to the Griswell place.

  Eli Kenzie, president of the company, stood at his office window, and watched the battered blue car glide swiftly out of the lot and down the road. He turned at a knock on a door that led, not to his outer office, but to a short hall giving access to a washroom, a small elevator, and the stairs down to his parking slot.

  Kenzie unlatched the door, and Allen stepped in, looking bemused. "I gave Muir the touchstone. But it cost some information to get him to work on it."

  Kenzie closed and locked the door.

  "Why not just tell him to do it?"

  "He wouldn't touch it without an explanation. He compared it to 'nitroglycerine.'"

  "He did? Well, he's got a point. By the way, he just came out the north door carrying a briefcase, got in his car, and left in a streak."

  "Already? Which way?"

  "Away from the highway. Toward Doc's place."

  "Then there's a good chance he went to ask Gloria about the touchstone."

  Kenzie sat down on the edge of his desk. "I'm surprised he's so independent. From what you'd said, I'd gathered that his qualifications were few and far between."

  Allen looked uncomfortable. "He has few formal qualifications; but he was on that list Doc made out, of individuals whose work he wanted followed. When we needed someone, I sent a query to everyone on the list. Muir was the only one still low enough on the totem pole to be interested."

  "Which, by itself, suggests he's no hotshot."

  "No hotshot at getting ahead in the world."

  Kenzie shrugged. "Cream rises to the top."

  "There are times when you want to check the bottom. Gold is pretty heavy."

  "Name an instance."

  "Well, Galileo wound up imprisoned. If I'm not mistaken, Archimedes was very unpopular for a while. First-rate minds have passed unrecognized simply because they didn't seek recognition, antagonized people, published in the wrong journal, or their methods just weren't in style."

  "What's the explanation for Muir? He's old enough to be a lot further ahead."

  "I don't know. But for just an instant, I would cheerfully have fired him myself."

  Kenzie looked interested. "Why?"

  "He told me flatly he wouldn't work on the touchstone without an explanation."

  "He did, eh? He's lucky to have the job, and he's being paid for it. And if it weren't for Doc's interest, whatever the reason, he wouldn't have it."

  "All
that was in the back of my mind. It boiled down to: 'Who is he to use that tone?'"

  "What did you do?"

  "Before I got started, he explained his reasons."