Prescription for Chaos

by Christopher Anvil

  Kenzie glanced at Allen.

  "That's where we got stuck."

  Allen nodded soberly.

  Kenzie looked back at Muir. "We have got to get moving on this. You've had little enough time, but let's hear your impressions."

  "At first, I thought the touchstone might be a joke, detecting something Dr. Griswell had already put in the objects it judges. But Gloria said it works on things made recently, and it does."

  Kenzie looked at him sharply.

  "Mrs. Griswell helped show you how it works."

  "Yes."

  "She has a fiancé. Did you meet the—"

  "He was there when I got there."

  "You met her family? A son and daughter?"

  Dr. Allen said dryly, "Both delightful."

  Muir smiled, and nodded. "Nice kids."

  Allen stared. Kenzie looked momentarily blank, then said, "Do you see any way yet to market or even explain the touchstone?"

  "To explain it, yes. But I'm not sure . . ."

  Allen said, "Namely?"

  "Well . . . People judge workmanship by appearance, performance, and comparison with some standard. This device does it some other way; the works suggest a radiation counter. But what's counted? Could there be a form of radiation that gives a measure of quality of workmanship?"

  Allen said, "If so, where would you go from there?"

  "Then the operation of the device would be possible to work out. But first there are some trifling little problems in identifying this radiation."

  Allen nodded. "Not least of which is that 'quality' and 'workmanship' relate to subjective human judgments, and they are being measured objectively by an instrument. The explanation will blow up in your face."

  "Unfortunately, there so far seems to be no alternative. For the sake of argument, why should that create an explosion?"

  "Science," said Allen, "is based on objective repeatable experiments. The judgment of quality rests on what is essentially a subjective sense of esthetics, combined with various aspects of experience. There's no connection."

  "The touchstone works. Therefore there must be a connection."

  "There can't be."

  Kenzie straightened his tie. "There's no connection between 'objective experiments' and 'various aspects of experience'?"

  "No relevant connection. Quality of workmanship involves human esthetics; human esthetics is not an objectively measurable quality."

  Muir nodded. "Obviously, that's true. But we're up against something still more basic than that, and that has been shown over and over again. It's why there's a bloodbath every now and then between science and philosophy."

  Allen looked at Muir in foreboding. "What?"

  "Argument doesn't refute facts. Facts dominate. An argument only interprets facts."

  "But what—"

  "The touchstone exists. It is a device based on science. It accurately judges the quality of workmanship. Therefore workmanship must be objectively measurable."

  Kenzie glanced at Allen.

  Allen exhaled slowly, and nodded. "It's arguable in the case of a structure or a machine. There esthetics may depend on function. But what about modern art?"

  Kenzie nodded. "Doc had two touchstones, Muir. One he kept at home, one in a safe in his office. We tried out the one he kept in his office. Among other things, we took it to a museum, to see if it would judge art."

  Muir remembered the green plastic hand and pot-metal ashtray. "And it did?"

  Kenzie nodded. "And it actively disliked most modern art."

  "What did it—"

  Allen shook his head. "You can't imagine. The noises it made brought a guard on the run. He thought we were sick."

  Kenzie said, "The only way we see to market this thing is as what it seems to be . . . a detector of quality workmanship. But how do we prove it? And what happens when the museum, for instance, discovers that most of the exhibits in that priceless collection have been 'scientifically' graded as junk?"

  Muir thought it over. "The touchstone could be right."

  Kenzie nodded. "Ninety percent of those expensive exhibits could be the worst kind of artistic trash. But how does that help us? Whoever the touchstone damages financially may try to recover. He may very naturally try to recover by means of a lawsuit. If we claim that the touchstone is what it seems to be, we have to be able to prove it."

  "Where it judges technology," said Allen, "at least we can argue the case; but it will judge any kind of workmanship. Outside the museum, there's a pedestal that holds up a thing like a—ah—like a—"

  Kenzie said, "Like an oversize bronze pretzel with its hands in its pockets."

  Allen nodded. "Exactly. You don't dare get anywhere near that piece of statuary till you've shut off the touchstone."

  Muir laughed. "That's a reason to question its judgment?"

  "Legally," said Kenzie, "yes, it is. That bronze pretzel cost the museum sixty thousand dollars. Just suppose our device should knock the market price down to the scrap value of the bronze? The museum will naturally think they've been damaged by false claims. How do you defend a thing like this in court?"

  "I don't know."

  "Doc was a genius. My impression is that the touchstone sees through slipshod work and confidence stunts, artistic or otherwise, as an x-ray sees through tissue paper. But we may have to prove it. How?"

  Muir said, "Gloria would like to see the touchstone produced and sold. She thinks it could do a lot of good."

  Kenzie nodded. "We all have to rely on specialists; and it's all but impossible to judge their work except by results, and then it's too late. The touchstone could help. Suppose you need a car. You aim the touchstone, push the button, and if there's a groaning noise, you walk off the lot. That's better than buying a lemon. But again, if this happens often enough, what's the manufacturer likely to do? Attack the touchstone. How do we defend it?"

  "Maybe we're approaching this from the wrong direction."

  "It could be," said Kenzie exasperatedly. "The whole thing is skewed, off-center, and hard to grasp. What's your thought?"

  "The better we prove the touchstone is right, the worse it makes the problem. We've vouching for the truth of what the victim sees as slander."

  "The touchstone unmistakably detects quality workmanship. That's a slap in the face to the sellers of all the inferior goods on the market, but it's true. To compound the problem, the touchstone is scientific, but sounds like a joke. If Doc hadn't invented it, I wouldn't touch it."

  Muir said, "But that may be the answer!"

  "What?"

  "That Doc Griswell invented it!"

  Kenzie shook his head. "The whole problem is that Doc isn't here and can't explain it. Believe me, when Doc got on the witness stand, the opposition had troubles. But he's not here. How do we explain what only he, if anyone, understood?"

  "But since he isn't here, how does it help to argue that the touchstone's judgment is scientifically accurate? It's better the other way around."

  "How . . ."

  "Why not call this 'Doc's Legacy,' say that Doc left this behind, you don't want to withhold it, because it seems useful; but you don't know for sure just what it does. You think Doc used it as a touchstone for good workmanship; but does it give exact truth, or a curmudgeon's viewpoint, or the facts as Doc saw them, or what? Anyone can try it, and see for himself. It would still be just as useful. But you would have sold it as an intriguing puzzle, not as an infallible electronic judge."

  Kenzie looked thoughtful, and glanced at Allen.

  Allen rubbed his chin. "It might work. Would Gloria be agreeable to this?"

  Muir said, "I expect to see her tonight. I can ask."

  Kenzie nodded absently, then joined Allen in a close look at Muir, who missed the look, as he said, "Incidentally, what you would be saying would be the strict truth. Who can say what Doc Griswell was trying for, or for sure that he got it?"

  Another look passed between Kenzie and Allen. Muir, who saw this one, was remin
ded of parents debating whether to reveal some jarring fact of life to their offspring.

  Allen gave an embarrassed cough. "Well, Muir, that question involves something I—ah—hadn't mentioned to you as yet. There was a discarded first draft of a patent application in Doc's desk. It includes a theory to the effect that the human mind, in a particular creative state, produces 'alpha-psychons,' which, impinging upon matter, in turn cause certain changes, such as the radiation of what are tentatively called 'qualitons.' There is a large faint X penciled across the cover page of this mind-boggling document, along with a big question mark. What the theory hypothesizes is nothing less than interaction between mind and matter, with the touchstone detecting 'qualitons,' to prove the theory. Of course, it is in this creative state that high-quality workmanship is achieved, and the touchstone judges it by the qualitons emitted."

  Muir tried to speak, but words wouldn't come.

  Kenzie said dryly, "Doc had these inspirations from time to time."

  Allen said, "But usually he took care of them himself. This is the first one we've had to contend with on our own."

  Muir exhaled carefully. "Is the theory comprehensible?"

  Allen thought the question over. "Well—"

  Kenzie said, "Not to ordinary human beings."

  "Doc," said Allen judiciously, "usually made considerable use of mathematics. The problem is that there were times when no one else could follow his math. That's not to say that the math isn't valid. But there is that problem of following it in this case. Much worse is that there are parts that are not mathematical and that will be automatically rejected."

  Kenzie sighed. "In addition to which, he uses a theory of atomic structure—"

  "Subatomic structure," said Allen.

  "Atomic substructure," said Kenzie. "If an atom were a house, Doc would be talking about the composition of the bricks the house is built of. You not only have the complications of Doc's math, but also the complications of this theory to which Doc was applying his math. Plus the alpha-psychons. Taken all together . . ."

  Muir kept a firm grip on his choice of words. "Does the part of this theory that is comprehensible seem self-consistent, assuming you don't automatically reject it?"

  Kenzie glanced at Allen. Allen looked thoughtful, hesitated, then finally nodded. "I suppose in that respect it's a little like the quantum theory, when it was first proposed. You have to accept certain assumptions you don't want to accept; but if you do that, the rest becomes reasonably clear—except that in this case we have the theory without the theorist, so it is not easy to follow the details."

  "But the details you can follow?"

  "Well—it depends. There is one aspect of this, Doc called it 'the remote resonance force' I think, that could make special trouble. You see, the touchstone not only reacts to the original inspired plans for a device, but to later reproductions of the device, very possibly made by not especially inspired people routinely following the plan. How do the alpha-psychons radiated in March of one year, in Boston, create qualitons in Savannah, Georgia, two years later, when the blueprints are turned into reality? There's a problem there. Doc may have four pages of mathematics and two special theories between Boston and Savannah; but there are going to be people who skip all that, and intuitively reject the idea."

  "The 'remote resonance force,'" said Muir, "explains how this could happen?"

  Allen glanced helplessly at Kenzie. Kenzie smiled. "With Doc on the other end of the theory, the 'remote resonance force' is like a sixteen-inch gun aimed at the critics. Most of them wouldn't want to face the monster projectiles Doc could fire from that cannon. Unfortunately, we don't know how to load the thing."

  Allen said exasperatedly, "And Doc very evidently was dissatisfied with something about the theory."

  "Yes," said Kenzie, "or he wouldn't have put an 'X' across it and tossed it in his bottom drawer."

  Muir said, "But, the touchstone works."

  Allen nodded. "All told, the mathematics is baffling but very possibly valid; the theory of matter to which the math is applied is anyone's guess; the device itself works. But the idea behind it all is going to be just as nice to put across as Galileo's original argument."

  "Yes," said Muir. "I can see that."

  Kenzie said, "But your suggestion about marketing the touchstone is a help, Muir. We're going to have to think that through. It's the first progress we've made with this thing in quite a while."

  "But how does it fit in with that patent application?"

  "As far as I can see, it doesn't. But don't worry about it. Ah—You said you were going to see Gloria Griswell—?"

  "Yes, for dinner tonight. And I'll ask if she's agreeable to marketing it that way. But—" He paused, baffled at Kenzie's wistfully hopeful expression.

  "Don't worry," said Allen, following Kenzie's thoughts easily enough. "It's like a jigsaw puzzle, Muir, and you've just given us a good-sized piece. You've had very little time to work on it, but it's a pleasure to see how you've taken hold of the problem. It's a relief to see this . . . ah . . . this last work of Doc's moving again."

  Late that day, with the sun at the horizon, Muir was in the little clearing with Gloria when Marius spoke:

  "Felix?"

  Muir looked blankly around.

  Overhead, something moved against the deep-red sky. Muir glanced up, to see Marius, apparently floating face-down by the tops of the evergreens. Marius said, "Why don't we write out our ideas about the touchstone, then use the touchstone to judge them?"

  Muir heard the words, but didn't answer as he stepped aside, eyes narrowed, to look up at Marius from a different angle. Muir had the impression of looking up from the bottom of a pool at a swimmer on the surface. Obviously there had to be something holding Marius up, but so far all Muir could see was the thin pale-blue thing Marius was lying on, and it appeared to be unsupported from any angle.

  The slender tops of the evergreens moved in a light breeze, and Marius, looking down at Muir's face, grinned suddenly and slid sidewise in the air, gathered speed, and shot off to the side out of sight, streaked back from a different angle, much higher, then dropped like a rock to brake to a stop, and hover motionless, overhead.

  Muir, looking at the pale-blue something Marius was lying on, belatedly recognized Marius's "flying carpet," a gift from his father, Doc Griswell. Next he remembered the feel of fine wires when Marius had pressed the "blanket" to his fingers.

  It dawned on Muir with a shock that the idea of taking care of 'Doc's last work' was premature. Here was another of Doc's working models. Like the others, it came with no warning, with no one knew what complications to follow.

  For the first time, Muir felt sympathy for people who had bet against the incandescent light and snorted at the thought of a carriage with no horse. Progress was fine, but the touchstone had yet to be worked out, no one dared say whether Doc's asterator would save humanity or wreck it, and here was this thing.

  And why would Doc Griswell make a toy of an invention that, on a large scale, could lift man off the earth and truly begin the Age of Space? Why, for that matter, had Doc just used the touchstone himself, when he could have got it into production? Legal uncertainty might stop Kenzie and Allen, aware they didn't understand Doc's device; but would it stop Doc?

  It was then that Muir thought of the patent application with the question mark and the X across it.

  What if Doc didn't understand it, either?

  From time to time, someone uncovered something really new, perhaps just as everything seemed finally explained and systematized. The results could turn civilization on its head. To most of the survivors, it might some day seem perfectly clear, one of life's familiar certainties. But those who had known other certainties tended to be more cautious.

  Now, looking up from below at something really new and revolutionary, Muir winced.

  Looking down from atop it, Marius grinned.

  Negative Feedback

  Julia Ravagger watched her husband
, Nelson Ravagger, pay off the deliverymen. Nelson's somewhat predatory profile, the workmen's uneasy glances at the chandelier, marble floor, sunlit conservatory, and other details of the lavishly furnished apartment, taken together with the aggressively prosaic look of the object they had just delivered, all added up to something Julia had felt too often since marrying the famous—or infamous—stock speculator.

  "Ummm, Nels—" she said, as the door closed, leaving them alone, "why do I again have this feeling of total perplexity? What, precisely, is that thing?"