Prescription for Chaos

by Christopher Anvil

  She came running down the drive.

  Johnston stepped further back behind the shrub, and watched.

  Mike was now well overhead.

  In the gloom, Johnston's wife bent briefly at the fallen figure, then screamed, "He's killed Roger! Oh he's killed Roger!" She ran back towards the little crowd, advancing none too eagerly down the driveway, with their flashlights swinging around over the numerous shadowy shrubs to either side.

  Just then the side door of the house came open, and Johnston's son, the thick belt in his hand, came out. The crowd was by now opposite the side door.

  Johnston's wife screamed, "You murderer! You killed him!"

  Martin growled, "Aldo. Get that woman."

  The son was looking around in the gloom. He said in a low furious voice, "Give me that light," and taking the flashlight from one of the unresisting crowd, started down the drive with it.

  There was brief whir, and Mrs. Johnston was falling. While the crowd was still paralyzed by the sight of Johnston's son, Mike dropped his receptor by the wife, and repeated the process he'd used on the man who'd attacked Johnston.

  Martin said, "Aldo. He's coming out of it. Just in case, get a sleeper ready."

  The would-be assailant came to his feet, still holding the knife, and blinking in the glare from the son's flashlight.

  In the darkness, there was only the steady crunch of gravel, and then the low voice of Johnston's son as he came forward with the belt:

  "Now, we'll even things up a little."

  "Aldo," snapped Martin. "Hit the son!"

  "Not on your life," said Aldo.

  "Mike," said Martin.

  "I've got a malfunction," said Mike.

  Terry said, "That one tried to kill the guy's father, and frame him into the deathhouse as a murderer. Don't ask me to interrupt."

  Some moments later, the voice of Johnston shouted, "Don't kill him, Boy! Stop!"

  The wail of a police siren traveled down the street and there was a crunch of gravel as the headlights swung in the drive.

  Martin growled, "You fools. This muddies it up so the police won't know who to drag in."

  Mike said, "Don't jump to conclusions. Watch."

  The police, four of them, were springing out of the car, demanding to know what was going on. Johnston's voice rose over the clamor with the ring of authority.

  "Officers! Down here!" Taking his son's flashlight, he flashed it around till he found what he wanted, then angrily pointed out the recorder, still unreeling its tape under the tree. "This thing," he said, "had recorded snatches of argument my son and I have had together. As my second wife here brought neighbors in to hear it, my handyman came at me from behind with a knife. They were going to hang this on my son, who was no doubt tied up inside, but he got free and came out just in time."

  Martin growled, "That isn't exactly what happened."

  "No," said Mike, "but don't worry. They'll work out an explanation."

  One of the policeman growled, "Guy had a knife all right. Look here. And look at these rubber gloves he's wearing."

  Another said, "You know how to run this recorder? I'm afraid I'll erase it."

  "I'll show you," said Johnston. A few moments later the recorded argument was playing back.

  At this point, Johnston's wife revived, and came down the drive weeping and crying, "Oh, I'm sorry, Roger. I shouldn't have done it!"

  Martin grunted, "Well, that ties it up. Start working the receptors back to the car. Watch out as you bring them by the house lights, and hurry it up."

  Mike was grateful it was over. He felt totally worn out. But there was the advantage that now the cellar door was open, apparently so that Johnston's assailant could get back through it quickly after murdering him. This would enable him to yank the recorder back in, quietly shut the window, erase the recording, and then rush out to join in accusing Johnston's son. As it was, the pillows were still spread out, to muffle the sound of a crash, if the recorder had to be shoved through the window hurriedly. But what was now of most interest to Mike was that the back door was still open, which made removal of the receptors from the cellar much easier.

  Outside, Johnston's revived and bloody assailant was remorsefully telling his story to the police.

  "All in a day's work," grunted Martin. "Next get the receptors out of that garage. We want to be sure they don't get locked in. Then it's home for a hot toddy and a good night's sleep."

  A huge dim shape flashed toward and over Mike, swung back, came closer and darted away. Mike dove for the nearest shrubbery.

  Aldo's voice growled, "The hell you say, Mart. There are bats cruising around here."

  Terry said, "Now, what do we do?"

  "Wait," said Martin disgustedly. "You'll have to go back in short sprints or we'll lose a hundred thousand dollars worth of equipment, and a lot of bats will have bellyaches tomorrow."

  "Tough on the bats," snarled Terry. "It'll be black as pitch in another hour."

  The job dragged on till about three in the morning when it was over, and Mike had never felt gladder to get out of the tank.

  The next day, Sue brought the newspaper in to him, as he and Mart were discussing equipment modifications at No. 1 block of tanks in the subbasement. Sue held up the newspaper to show the big black headlines:

  EX-MARINE BEATS KILLER!

  "You boys don't get much credit," she said.

  Mike said, "Well, we have Johnston's five thousand advance to split with the government, and maybe we ought to bill him for more. I think we earned it."

  "More headlines," said Sue, giggling, "CARSTAIRS CLOBBERS CLIENT!—WANTS CASH!"

  Martin stared at her, then glanced with a smile at Mike. "I haven't seen her in this mood before, Chief. You think it's safe to let this girl monitor for us? It seems to hit her like drink."

  "I think she needs some work in the bookkeeping department," said Mike. "Long columns of figures ought to quiet her down."

  "You know you wouldn't trust me with long columns of figures," she said, grinning. "Besides, what did you get all those computers for?"

  Martin said, "What gets me is, how does she get the courage to come down here? Yesterday, the place made her shiver."

  Mike said dryly, "Women are changeable."

  "No," she said. "I'm curious. You've made some changes in things, and I want to know about them. What's a 'finalist', for instance. I take it a 'sleeper' is a receptor fitted with a small hypodermic. But what's a 'finalist'? And exactly why did Johnston's wife and his handyman break down? According to this paper, they've told all and seem filled with remorse."

  Mike nodded. "As I told Johnston, once we take care of the attempted murderer, he has had enough to last him for a while."

  "But what's the process?"

  "Well," said Mike, "the basis of our process is the biophysical method we use in constructing and improving these receptors. But once you have one basic technical advance, you're likely to stumble over others accidentally, and that happened with us. We know, you see, that in some way the brain stores impressions of past events. But these impressions aren't always available on demand. There is a scanning process by which the memory is obtained from the stored record of events."

  "Yes, I understand that."

  "Well, we've found purely by accident that a particular signal serves to trigger the remembrance of very recent events. This signal is apparently much stronger than that occurring naturally in the brain itself, as the memory is close to complete. It is possible to detect and amplify the complex signal that accompanies this vivid memory, provided you have sufficiently sensitive equipment."

  "A sort of electronic telepathy?" she said.

  "Not exactly," said Mike, "because no one else is aware of the thought as yet. The signal accompanying the thought has only been recorded. But it can be transferred provided a second person's recent memory is first triggered, and then while that small section of the brain is sensitized, the stored signal previously taken from another brain is t
ransmitted to it. It's a clumsy procedure, but it works."

  "But what happens?" asked Sue. "Does the second person seem to receive a thought from the first person?"

  "Oh, no. The second person finds himself suddenly with two complete sets of memories. He has his own memories as he plans the other man's death. He has also the memories of the other man, as he approaches the spot, as he hears the footsteps behind him, as he turns, as he sees the knife, as suddenly he realizes he hasn't time to get out of the way—it's all there in full detail, just as clearly as if he lived it himself."

  "Oh," said Sue, her eyes widening.

  "You know," said Mike, "the impression a narrow escape will make. The man, for instance, who jams his car to a halt at the cliff-edge, to admire the view, and who suddenly feels the brake pedal go all the way to the floor. That man can get the parking brake on before the car starts to roll, but when he steps out of the car, looks at the pool of brake fluid underneath, then looks down over the edge of the cliff, something happens inside of him. His mind can't help putting that brake fluid and the cliff-edge together. He is likely to wake up in a sweat for some time afterward. It's much the same thing with the would-be killer, who also puts two and two together. The victim's memory is now his own, seen from within, and experienced just as the victim experienced it. When he thinks of the incident, the murderer can't help identifying with the victim."

  Sue shivered, "I don't believe I want to try any murders."

  "No," said Mike.

  He glanced at the front page photographs in the newspaper she was holding, and pointed out the horror-struck face of Johnston's wife.

  "It makes quite a difference," he said, "if the victim turns out to be yourself."

  The Golden Years

  The three tough youthful figures rose intently from the shrubbery, to watch the elderly man stroll through the sunlit park toward the lake. Briefly they studied his neatly pressed expensive blue suit, his stylish black cane, and his air of peaceful assurance. Then the tallest of the three jerked his head, and they were out from behind the brush.

  They crossed the grass swiftly, almost silently.

  Eric Morgan felt the warmth of the sun through his suit, breathed the comparative freshness of the air, enjoyed the park's varied shades of green and brown, and light and shadow. Ahead, still out of sight, was the lake. Today, the lake should be calm, reflecting the trees along the shore, though on a more breezy day the waves would sparkle, and—

  His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp buzz—a sound that seemed right in his head.

  There was an instant before Morgan's nearly automatic reaction could operate. In that instant, his attention was drawn to the chain of associations roused by the buzz, and, for a moment, he seemed to be back there at the beginning, two years ago, looking at the small white card, like a business card, that Ben Stevenson had handed him:

  Benjamin L. Stevenson

  Associate

  The Prudent Assurance Co.

  Morgan blinked at the card, then looked at Stevenson.

  "What's this, Ben? I thought you'd retired, too."

  Stevenson grinned.

  "I have retired."

  There was something carefree about Stevenson that puzzled Morgan.

  "Retired from W-S," said Morgan, referring to Stevenson's old company, "and working for this Prudent Assurance outfit?"

  Stevenson continued to smile.

  "Not working for them. Working with them."

  Morgan, faintly irritated, glanced back at the card, and on impulse turned it over. The reverse side bore an address and phone number in Stevenson's handwriting. Morgan started to hand it back, but Stevenson stopped him.

  "I wrote that down for you. Listen, Eric, how does retirement hit you."

  "You want a frank answer?"

  "That's why I asked."

  "I figure everybody dies sometime. I also figure everybody retires sometime. Retirement is like death and taxes. And old age. You're stuck with it. That's how I feel about retirement."

  Stevenson nodded. "My own feelings exactly."

  "But, what good—"

  "That's why I gave you the card. I have to pass that card to someone. It's a condition of association with Prudent."

  "Wait a minute. 'Association' means employment? Or what?"

  "Go to that address and they'll tell you."

  "Generous of them." Morgan's eyes narrowed. "What's their line of business?"

  "Assurance company."

  "They're insurers?"

  "Not in the usual sense. If you have an automobile accident insurance policy, then you're insured against auto accidents, right?"

  Morgan frowned. "Go on."

  "But," said Stevenson, "you can wrap the car around a light pole any time. All your insurance means is—you or your heirs will receive a certain amount of reimbursement—a cash payment, or protection against being forced to pay damages—in case of an auto accident. Prudent is different."

  "How?"

  "Its policy aims to protect you against the actual situation specified."

  There was a silence as Morgan stared at Stevenson.

  Stevenson smiled, and raised his hand.

  "If you're interested, they'll tell you about it. I have to go now. See you."

  Morgan blankly raised his hand in good-bye, then, during his solitary lunch, he glanced again at the card, looked up at the phone booth in the back of the restaurant, then glanced at his watch. Like a blow at the back of the head, it came to him again that he had nothing to do this afternoon. A succession of empty days stretched out before him like vacant subway platforms in a deserted city. He got up, paid his check, and went outside, calculating the shortest route to the Prudent office.

  Twenty-five minutes later, he stood before a tall narrow marble-faced building, and read its discreet bronze plaque:

  THE

  PRUDENT

  ASSURANCE

  COMPANY

  He crossed the marble pavement, pushed open one of the short row of polished glass doors, and went in. A line in the building directory caught his attention:

  Prudent Assurance, Information 401

  Morgan stepped into the nearest elevator, and punched the button for the fourth floor. 401 proved to be a large room divided into cubicles. A pretty girl flashed a smiled at him, and directed him to a Mr. Benvenuto.

  Morgan, unable to fit the arrangement into his experience, shook hands with Benvenuto, and held out Stevenson's card.

  "A business acquaintance of mine recommended Prudent. He said you don't reimburse—say—accident victims who have one of your policies. You provide against the accident's happening in the first place."

  Benvenuto studied the card briefly, and smiled.

  "Did Mr. Stevenson draw a distinction between the approach of an insurer and our approach, so far as policies are concerned?"

  "He drew the distinction I've just mentioned."

  Benvenuto returned the card, and sat back.

  "The usual insurance company policy is based on probabilities. Our policies are based on probabilities. But there is a difference. We attempt to alter the probabilities in our policy-holders' favor. What do you consider to be the usual basis of an insurance company's operations?"

  Morgan, frowning, settled back.

  "The idea is that there are bound to be a certain number of accidents. Other things being equal, the cost of these accidents will naturally fall on those who have the accidents. These costs will often be so heavy as to ruin people financially. But—by spreading the costs over a great number of individuals, each individual has to bear only a small share of the total expense, whether he had an accident or not. And he can bear that share of the expense. The underlying principle insurance companies are based on is—'Many hands make light labor.'"

  Benvenuto nodded. "The drawback is that many hands make light labor only if the burden stays below a certain limit."

  Morgan thought a moment, nodded, and spoke dryly.

  "Yes, the idea
doesn't work too well if the many hands are carrying a stock tank—open at the top and they have to pass under a waterfall while they're carrying it."

  "No. And that, in principle, is almost exactly what has happened. Someone hit lightly by a car used to be embarrassed. How clumsy to get in the way! A jury asked to award a verdict against an honest man who had accidentally bumped someone else was likely to award just enough to cover the actual real visible damage. But the existence of the insurance company has changed all that. Now the jury may well decide to wring a big award from the insurance company. And a person only lightly damaged, knowing the jury may so decide, sees the chance to get a big award, and acts accordingly. The same general principle holds to one degree or another in hospital insurance, fire insurance, malpractice insurance, and what-have-you. The many hands pick up the open-topped water tank, and, lo! the burden is light! Then they pass under the waterfall of public attitudes and stagger out on the other side scarcely able to bear the burden. Hospital insurance now costs, just for the premiums, what a considerable stay in the hospital used to cost. A year's car insurance can cost more now than the car itself once cost."