Prescription for Chaos

by Christopher Anvil

  A sense of horror began to grip him.

  He opened his eyes.

  His left hand, resting on the green table by the dial, twisted the pointer back to zero.

  All along the green table, hands were twisting at the pointers.

  Macon tore off the headphones.

  A horrible scream gurgled up from the stretcher and filled the room.

  Macon shut his eyes.

  There was the sound of a body hitting the floor across the room. Then there was a floundering, flopping sound, as of a caught fish in the bottom of a boat.

  The scream went on. Then words could be made out, as if spoken with a thick tongue. At first the words weren't clear. Then there was a vivid, clearly spoken cry:

  "Oh, my God! Oh, help me! Please help me!"

  There was a sudden, total silence.

  Macon, both hands gripping the edge of the green table, stayed still for a long time, then forced open his eyes.

  One of the attendants was wheeling the prisoner, white-faced and unconscious, toward the door. The other attendant was drawing the cover back over the lifeless face on the other stretcher. On the floor beside the stretcher lay the headset, and its cord neatly coiled.

  The official in street clothes glanced at Macon and the others on the bench. "We anticipate that this form of punishment will cut the rate of certain categories of crime considerably. If any of you would like to stay, several other prisoners are scheduled for similar treatment. It will only be a comparatively short wait."

  "Thank you," said Macon. There was a mumble of voices around him.

  Hastily, they all made for the hall.

  Identification

  Mike Carstairs rose to shake hands with his latest client, a tall, expensively-dressed man with a streak of silver at his temples. The client reached into his coat pocket as he sat down, and handed Mike a small newspaper clipping.

  "This is yours, Mr. Carstairs. Do you mean it seriously?"

  Mike glanced at the clipping, which was a small ad reading:

  "Law enforcement agencies punish crime. Criminal syndicates commit crime. We prevent crime. Call Carstairs Consultants . . ."

  Mike nodded, and handed the clipping back. "That's the service we offer, Mr. Johnston."

  Johnston said hesitantly, "I am in a very serious position, Mr. Carstairs. This is a matter of life and death."

  "We'll do everything we can for you," said Mike.

  Johnston glanced first around the office, which was furnished with expensive simplicity, then at a framed drawing on the wall, behind Mike's desk. The drawing was an artist's sketch of the Carstairs Building, and showed it rising impressively in a stretch of flat land well outside the city. Mike, who considered the building to be ugly but functional, had put the drawing where he wouldn't have to look at it, but where it would intimidate the type of client who otherwise might have a thousand questions as to Mike's ability to perform the service he offered.

  Johnston said hesitantly, "I understand your principal interest, Mr. Carstairs, is in manufacturing electronic components."

  Mike said, "Was that your purpose in coming here, Mr. Johnston?"

  Johnston started to answer, hesitated, glanced again at the sketch of the building they were in, and shifted his position uneasily in the chair. He leaned forward, and said, "As a matter of fact Mr. Carstairs, I'm here because of a very ugly personal situation. Now, I hope you'll excuse me if I ask a little further as to the service you offer. You say you can prevent crime?"

  "We can prevent certain crimes, including generally, the more serious crimes of passion."

  Johnston said tensely, "Can you prevent murder?"

  "Generally."

  "Will the potential murderer, when he has been stopped, try again to commit murder?"

  "No. Once we stop him, he has usually had enough for a long time."

  "Will he be injured mentally?"

  "He may suffer something similar to the dread, anguish, and remorse he might have felt after he had committed the crime."

  "But this isn't anything similar to . . . say . . . prefrontal lobotomy?"

  "No."

  "I see." Johnston hesitated, then said tensely, "Mr. Carstairs, three years ago, my wife died. Some time after her death, my son and I had a serious disagreement, and I was forced to discharge him from my firm. There were some pretty harsh words spoken. Then last year, I remarried. My wife is considerably younger than I. Last night, I came home from the office somewhat earlier than usual, and overheard my wife crying, and being comforted by my son." Johnston hesitated.

  Mike said, "Your son had a key to the house?"

  Johnston shook his head. "I haven't got the picture across, Mr. Carstairs. My house is a very large one, really much larger than I need. When I discharged my son, for business reasons, I saw no reason to throw him out of his home. We don't get along. But the house, as I say, is a very large one. He has his room in another wing, and takes his meals in the kitchen. Our paths seldom cross. For some reason, it never entered my head that he and my young wife would do more than nod in passing if they chanced to meet. I realize now that this was extremely stupid."

  "What did you do when you overheard them?"

  "I stood stock-still for the moment, and listened. My wife's voice, between sobs, was very low. My son was saying, rather briskly, "Don't worry. I'll take care of him for you. There won't be anything left when I get through with him."

  "Did you see them?"

  "No. I just heard them. The conversation seemed rather out-of-focus to me. It was a great deal clearer to me this morning, when my brakes failed in heavy traffic, and I narrowly escaped a serious accident. The brake line had been cut."

  "What did you do?"

  "I'd seen your ad in the paper a week or two ago, and been curious about it. I immediately bought a paper and turned to the classified section. You see, I don't want the police or private detectives in this. There is too much possibility of scandal. I want you to find out what is going on, and if my son is behind this, stop him. It seems clear enough that the situation is very bad. But it may be possible to save something out of the wreckage."

  Mike leaned back and carefully thought over what Johnston had told him. Then Mike said, "Would you mind repeating what you heard your son say?"

  "He said, 'Don't worry. I'll take care of him for you. There won't be anything left when I get through with him.'"

  "How did he say it?"

  Johnston frowned. "He said it briskly, as if he were about to squash a spider."

  "Then what?"

  "My wife was crying, and saying 'Don't. You can't do it,' or words to that effect."

  "What did you do?"

  "Well, I was furious. To tell the truth, it didn't all add up to me until my brakes failed this morning. But I had a perfectly plain impression that something was going on behind my back. I was home early, you see, or I wouldn't have come across this. For just an instant, I considered walking in on them. Then, instead, I went back outside and closed the door heavily as I came in. Sure enough, my wife acted odd when I got there. My son had gotten away, and I didn't see him till this morning."

  "How did he act?"

  "Perfectly cool, as usual."

  Mike thought for a few moments, then said, "How did you get here? Did you come in a taxi, or did you drive out yourself?"

  "I drove myself."

  "Did you, by any chance, notice a car that stayed behind you for some time?"

  Johnston looked at Mike sharply. "How did you know that?"

  "It seemed a reasonable inference, in the circumstances."

  "Yes, there was a blue sedan about three years old, that I noticed several times in the rear-view mirror. Sometimes it was one car behind, and sometimes two. I was suspicious because of the accident. I slowed down, and the car slowed down with me. When I speeded up, it dropped several cars back. But when I pulled into the parking lot here, it went on past."

  "Did you happen to notice this car when your brakes gave out?" />
  "Mr. Carstairs, I didn't notice anything."

  Mike laughed, then said, "When did you plan to go home tonight?"

  "Not till around eight. There's some work I have to finish up at the office."

  "Good. We'll be on the job by then. I think we can protect you, but chance can always enter into the things, so be on your guard."

  Johnston nodded. "It will be worth a great deal to me, if you can take care of this."

  "We'll do our best."

  The two men shook hands, and Johnston went out.

  Mike leaned back in his chair, shut his eyes, and thought it over carefully. Then he snapped on the intercom.

  A few minutes later, Sue Lathrop came in.

  Mike took the sheet she handed him, glanced at the background information Johnston had filled in while waiting for his appointment, and noted the type of car Johnston drove and its license number. Mike picked up the phone, and asked his man on parking-lot duty if the car was there.

  "It's right here, Mr. Carstairs, parked near the west wall of the building."

  "Has anyone been near it since it was parked?"

  There was a pause of about thirty seconds. "No, sir. Ten minutes ago, a man walked past the car . . . oh, about twelve feet away . . . and got into his own car. That's all."

  "Have we a blue car in the lot? One about three years old?"

  "N-No. We haven't. But one drove through the lot slowly about half-an-hour ago, and went out again."

  "Drove in, didn't park, and drove out again?"

  "That's right. As if it were looking for someone."

  "Did it pass near the car we're interested in?"

  "Yes, sir, it drove right past it."

  "Good. Get the license number from the films, and see if you can find a decent shot of the driver. Have it blown up and sent up to me."

  "Yes, sir. I'll get right at it."

  "Fine." Mike hung up and glanced at Sue. "How much did Johnston give you as a retainer?"

  "Five thousand. He said money was no object, and not to hesitate if we thought we needed more."

  Mike nodded and picked up the phone again. Looking at the addresses on the data sheet Sue had given him he said, "Hello, Martin?"

  "Right here, Chief."

  "Send one of our special cars out by 1430 Ridgewood Drive, and another to 1112 Main Avenue." Mike read off Johnston's name, gave a description of him, of his car, and briefly described the trouble he was having. "You might put one of our own cars out to follow him when he leaves here, and have the driver keep his eye open for a blue car about three years old. You can get what is probably a good picture of that car from the lot."

  "O.K., Chief. You'll want us to have a couple guys in the tank, too, won't you?"

  "Yes, I don't think we can afford to waste any time."

  "O.K. We'll get right to work. Good-by."

  "Good-by."

  Mike hung up and glanced at Sue. "How did you know to send Johnston in to me, instead of one of our interviewers."

  "I can usually tell when it's serious."

  The phone rang, and Mike picked it up to hear the man on duty in the lot say, "Mr. Carstairs?"

  "Right here."

  "We've run into something a little peculiar."

  "What's that?"

  "The license plate on the front of the blue car we want to trace is splashed with mud, as if the car had gone through a puddle."

  "Does that obscure the number?"

  "Well, no. But there's a blob of mud that partially covers that last numeral in the date of the plate."

  "This is in front?"

  "Yes, sir. And, strange to say, there's a blob just about the same shape over the same numeral in back."

  "You think the plates are old ones?"

  "Yes, sir. It looks as if the plates are old, and probably the numerals of the date are retouched."

  "What about the driver of the car?"

  "He's got a hat on, and he's wearing a big set of dark glasses. Aside from that, we've got a good picture of him."

  "Well, send it up, and send pictures of the man and the car to Mr. Martin, too."

  "Yes, sir."

  Mike set the phone back in its cradle, glanced at Sue, and said, "You heard me describe this to Martin. How does it seem to you?"

  Sue frowned. "A little out-of-focus."

  Mike smiled. "It could be. Or it could fit the pattern of a slightly careless murderer. He has a plan that strikes him as brilliant. It is brilliant. But he's afraid that if he waits, something about the situation will change. Therefore, he puts the plan into effect, right away, and drives it hard to finish things off fast before they get out of control. From the look of things, I think this might come to its conclusion pretty fast. How would you like to be in on the end of it?"

  "I'd like to. I could have one of the other girls take over for me here."

  He smiled. "Care to go in the tank?"

  She shivered. "I'll watch at a screen if you don't mind."

  Mike laughed, and glanced at his watch. "I don't think anything will happen till Johnston reaches either his home or his office. That gives us an hour, and probably a lot longer. It might be a good idea to have a light lunch first, then go on down to the tanks. We may be there for a while."

  She nodded. "Good idea."

  Sue and Mike had lunch in the dining room at the top of the Carstairs Building. Mike, having had the building constructed well out of town, had also provided a place to eat. The dining room he'd had built was quiet, modern, and pleasant, but the view from it was terrible. He looked out the window and groaned.

  Sue followed his gaze, and laughed. Directly below was the blacktopped parking lot. Then came a tall wire mesh fence. Beyond that stretched the railroad track, a mathematically straight strip of cinders dividing the scrubby vegetation into two halves. In the distance, the city hunched on the horizon, its manufacturing district contributing a pall of smoke to the general desolation.

  Sue said, "It's no worse now than when the Indians were here. It only seems bad by contrast."

  "The taxes aren't bad," he growled. "And it gives us room for expansion. That's about all you can say."

  The waitress brought their order, then moved quietly away.

  Sue said, "Yet, five years ago, I wouldn't have thought this was possible. I was still your combined stenographer, receptionist, confidential secretary, and laboratory assistant. When the bills came, I'd divide then into three classes. Those without threats or pleading went into the wastebasket. Those that tried to appeal to our better nature and sense of fair play went into the wastebasket. The ones that threatened us with lawyers, I passed on to you."

  He laughed, "Yes, and I could always reduce that bunch by three-quarters, at least."

  "And we ate lunch in terrible places, or brought it in with us."

  "True," he said, "and what is this leading up to?"

  "We're here," she said.

  A messenger threaded his way among the tables to Mike's place at the window, apologized for interrupting, and handed him a brown envelope about twelve inches by eight. Mike opened it up, and took out two large photographs, one of a blue sedan, and one of a pale man wearing dark glasses and a gray felt hat. Two smaller photos showed the mud-splashed license plates. Mike studied them carefully, then slid them across to Sue.

  "Not much," he said. "That's a popular car, and those license plates are probably inside the car trunk by now."

  "If we ever see this man," said Sue exasperatedly, "we can recognize him by the nondescript appearance of the lower half of his face. Plus that mole just to the left of his nose."

  "I know. The mole is the only distinguishing feature. And it could possibly be a fake."

  They ate in silence for a moment, then Mike said, "What did you mean when you said, 'We're here'?"

  "I mean, we've arrived. You've done it, and we've reached the goal." She glanced at him with a trace of exasperation. "What I'm trying to say is, here you are, a success. We are now eating in a dining room
that you own, rather than in a scrubby joint. But somehow, I don't think it really means anything to you."

  He looked at her earnest expression and laughed suddenly.