The Golden Age of Science Fiction Novels Vol 03

by Anthology

  "I should like to reverse your question, Dr. Wily, and then let it rest," said Baker. "What would Oak Ridge, Hanford, and Los Alamos have done without Dr. Einstein?"

  * * * * *

  Senator Landrus floated up from his chair and raised his hands. "Let us be orderly, gentlemen. Dr. Baker has the floor. I should not like to have him interrupted again, please."

  Baker nodded his thanks to the senator. "It has been charged," Baker continued, "that the methods of NBSD in granting funds for research have changed in recent times. This is entirely correct, and I should first like to show the results of this change."

  He unrolled a chart and pinned it to the board behind him. "This chart shows what we have been paying and what we have been getting. The black line on the upper half of the chart shows the number of millions of dollars spent during the past five years. Our budget has had a moderately steady rise. The green line shows the value of laboratories constructed and equipment purchased. The red line shows the measure of new concepts developed by the scientists in these laboratories, the improvement on old concepts, and the invention of devices that are fundamentally new in purpose or function."

  The gallery leaned forward to stare at the chart. From press row came the popping of flash cameras. Then a surge of spontaneous comment rolled through the chamber as the audience observed the sharp rise of the red line during the last six months, and the dropping of the green line.

  Wily was on his feet again. "An imbecile should be able to see that the trend of the red line is the direct result of the previous satisfactory expenditures for facilities. One follows the other!"

  Landrus banged for order.

  "That's a very interesting point," said Baker. "I have another chart here"--he unrolled and pinned it--"that shows the output in terms of concepts and inventions, plotted against the size of the grants given to the institution."

  The curve went almost straight downhill.

  Wily was screaming. "Such data are absolutely meaningless! Who can say what constitutes a new idea, a new invention? The months of groundwork--"

  "It will be necessary to remove any further demonstrators from the hearing room," said Landrus. "This will be an orderly hearing if I have to evict everyone but Dr. Baker and myself. Please continue, doctor."

  "I am quite willing for my figures and premises to be examined in all detail," said Baker. "I will be glad to supply the necessary information to anyone who desires it at the close of this session. In the meantime, I should like to present a picture of the means which we have devised to determine whether a grant should be made to any given applicant.

  "I am sure you will agree, Senator Landrus and Committee members, that it would be criminal to make such choices on any but the most scientific basis. For this reason, we have chosen to eliminate all elements of bias, chance, or outright error. We have developed a highly advanced scientific tool which we know simply as The Index."

  * * * * *

  Baker posted another long chart on the wall, speaking as he went. "This chart represents the index of an institution which shall remain anonymous as Sample A. However, I would direct Dr. Wily's close attention to this exhibit. The black median line indicates the boundary of characteristics which have been determined as acceptable or nonacceptable for grants. The colored areas on either side of the median line show strength of the various factors represented in any one institution. The Index is very simple. All that is required is that fifty per cent of the area above the line be colored in order to be eligible for a grant. You will note that in the case of Sample A the requirement is not met."

  Fenwick couldn't believe his eyes. The chart was almost like the first one he had ever seen, the one prepared for Clearwater College months ago. He hadn't even known that Baker was still using the idiotic Index. Something was wrong, he told himself--all wrong.

  "The Index is a composite," Baker was saying; "the final resultant of many individual charts, and it is the individual charts that will show you the factors which are measured. These factors are determined by an analysis of information supplied directly by the institution.

  "The first of these factors is admissions. For a college, it is admission as a student. For a corporation, it is admission as an employee. In each case we present the qualifications of the following at college age: Thomas Edison, Michael Faraday, Nicholai Tesla, James Watt, Heinrich Hertz, Kepler, Copernicus, Galileo, and Henry Ford. The admissibility of this group of the world's scientific and the inventive leaders is shown here." Baker pointed to a minute dab of red on the chart.

  "Gentlemen of the Committee," he said, "would you advise me to support with a million-dollar grant an institution that would close its doors to minds like those of Edison and Faraday?"

  The roar of surf seemed to fill the committee room as Landrus banged in vain on the table. Photographers' flashes lit the scene with spurts of lightning. Wily was on his feet screaming, and Baker thought he heard the word, "Fraud!" repeated numerous times. Landrus was finally heard, "The room will be cleared at the next outburst!"

  Baker wondered if he ever did carry out such a threat.

  But Wily prevailed. "No such question was ever asked," he cried. "My organization was never asked the ridiculous question of whether or not it would admit these men. Of course we would admit them if they were known to us!"

  "I should like to answer the gentleman's objection," Baker said to Landrus.

  The senator nodded reluctantly.

  "We did not, of course, present these men by name. That would have been too obvious. We presented them in terms of their qualifications at the age of college entrance. You see how many would have been turned down. How many, therefore, who are the intellectual equals of these men are also being turned down? Dr. Wily says they would be admitted if they were known. But of course they could not be known at the start of their careers!"

  * * * * *

  Baker turned the chart and quickly substituted another. "The second standard is that of creativeness. We simply asked the applicants to describe ten or more new ideas of speculations entertained by each member of the staff during the past year. When we received this information, we did not even read the descriptions; we merely plotted the degree of response. As you see, the institution represented by Sample A does not consider itself long on speculative ideas."

  A titter rippled through the audience. Baker saw Wily poised, beet-red, to spring up once more; then apparently he thought better of it and slumped in his seat.

  "Is this a fair test?" Baker asked rhetorically. "I submit that it is. An institution that is in the business of fostering creativeness ought to be guilty of a few new ideas once in a while!"

  He changed charts once more and faced the listeners. "We have more than twenty such factors that go into the composition of the Index. I will not weary you with a recital of all of them, but I will present just one more. We call this the area of communication, and it is plotted here for Sample institution A."

  Again, a dismal red smudge showed up at the bottom of the sheet. Fenwick could hardly keep from chuckling aloud as he recalled the first time he had seen such a chart. He hoped Baker was putting it over. If the reaction of the gallery were any indication, he was doing so.

  "A major activity of scientists in all ages has been writing reports of their activities. If a man creates something new and talks only to himself about it, the value of the man and his discovery to the world is a big round zero. If a man creates something new and tells the whole world about it, the value is at a maximum. Somewhere in between these extremes lies the communicative activity of the modern scientist.

  "There was a time when the scientist was the most literate of men, and the writing of a scientific report was a work of literary art. The lectures of Michael Faraday, Darwin's account of his great research--these are literate reading still.

  "There are few such men among us today. The modern scientists seldom speak to you and me, but only to each other. To the extent their circle of communication is limited, s
o is their value. Shall we support the man who speaks to the world, or the man who speaks only in order to hear his own echo?"

  He had them now, Fenwick was convinced. He could quit any time and be ahead. The gallery was smiling approval. The press was nodding and whispering to each other. The senators wouldn't be human if they weren't moved.

  Baker swept aside all these charts now and placed another series before the audience. "This is the Index on an institution to whom we have given a sizable grant," he said. "Is there anyone here who would question our decision?

  "This institution would have accepted every one of the list of scientists I gave you a moment ago. They would have had their chance here. This institution has men in whom new ideas pop up like cherry blossoms in the spring. I don't know how many of them are good ideas. No one can tell at this stage, but, at least, these men are thinking--which is a basic requirement for producing scientific discovery.

  "Finally, this institution is staffed by men who can't be shut up. They don't communicate merely with each other. They talk about their ideas to anyone who comes along. They write articles for little publications and for big ones. They are in the home mechanics' journals and on publishers' book lists.

  "Most important of all, these are some of the men responsible for the red line on the first curve I showed you. These are the men who have produced the most new developments and inventions with the least amount of money.

  "I leave it to you, gentlemen. Has the National Bureau of Scientific Development chosen correctly, or should we return to our former course?"

  There were cheers and applause as Baker sat down. Landrus closed the hearing with the announcement that the evidence would be examined at length and a report issued. Wily hurried forward to buttonhole him as the crowd filed out.

  * * * * *

  "It was a good show," Fenwick said, "but I'm still puzzled by what you've done. This new Index is really just about as phony as your old one."

  They were seated in Baker's office once more. Baker smiled and glanced through the window beyond Fenwick. "I suppose so," Baker admitted finally, "but do you think Wily will be able to convince Landrus and his committee of that no matter how big a dinner he buys him tonight?"

  "No--I don't think he will."

  "Then we've accomplished our purpose. Besides, there's a good deal of truth buried in the Index. It's no lie that we can give them scientific research at a cheaper price than ever before."

  "But what was the purpose you were trying to accomplish?"

  Baker hesitated. "To establish myself as an Authority," he said, finally. "After today, I will be the recognized Authority on how to manage the nation's greatest research and development program."

  Fenwick stared, then gasped. "Authority--you? This is the thing you were trying to fight. This is the great Plague Sam Atkins taught you--"

  Baker was shaking his head and laughing. "No. Sam Atkins didn't tell me that one man could become immune and fight the Plague head on all by himself. He taught me something else that I didn't understand for a long time. He told me that he who ceases to fear Authority becomes Authority.

  "To become Authority was the last thing in the world I wanted. But finally I recognized what Sam meant; it was the only way I could ever accomplish anything in the face of this Plague. You can't tell men of this culture that it is wrong to put themselves in total agreement with Authority. If that's the program on which they've chosen to function, the destruction of the program would destroy them, just as it did me. There had to be another way.

  "If men are afraid of lions, you don't teach them it's wrong for men to be afraid of beasts; you teach them how to trap lions.

  "If men are afraid of new knowledge-experiences, you don't teach them that new knowledge is not to be feared. There was a time when men got burned at the stake for such efforts. The response today is not entirely different. No--when men are afraid of knowledge you teach them to trap knowledge, just as you might teach them to trap lions.

  "I can do this now because I have shown them that I am an Authority. I can lead them and it will not fracture their basic program tapes, which instruct them to be in accord with Authority. I can stop their battle against those who are not possessed of the Plague. It may even be that I can change the course of the Plague. Who knows?"

  Fenwick was silent for a long time. Then he spoke again. "I read somewhere about a caterpillar that's called the Processionary Caterpillar. Several of them hook up, nose to fanny, and travel through a forest wherever the whims of the front caterpillar take them.

  "A naturalist once took a train of Processionary Caterpillars and placed them on the rim of a flower pot in a continuous chain. They marched for days around the flower pot, each one supposing the caterpillar in front of him knew where he was going. Each was the Authority to the one behind. Food and water were placed nearby, but the caterpillars continued marching until they dropped off from exhaustion."

  Baker frowned. "And what's that got to do with--?"

  "You," said Fenwick. "You just led the way down off the flower pot. You just got promoted to head caterpillar."

  * * *

  Contents

  SENSE OF OBLIGATION

  By Harry Harrison

  It took a very special type of man for the job--and the job was onerous, dangerous, and the only really probable reward was disaster. But when a man who says he knows it's going to kill him asks you to join....

  I

  A man said to the universe: "Sir, I exist!" "However," replied the universe, "The fact has not created in me A sense of obligation."

  --Stephen Crane

  Sweat covered Brion's body, trickling into the tight loincloth that was the only garment he wore. The light fencing foil in his hand felt as heavy as a bar of lead to his exhausted muscles, worn out by a month of continual exercise. These things were of no importance. The cut on his chest, still dripping blood, the ache of his overstrained eyes--even the soaring arena around him with the thousands of spectators--were trivialities not worth thinking about. There was only one thing in his universe: the button-tipped length of shining steel that hovered before him, engaging his own weapon. He felt the quiver and scrape of its life, knew when it moved and moved himself to counteract it. And when he attacked, it was always there to beat him aside.

  A sudden motion. He reacted--but his blade just met air. His instant of panic was followed by a small sharp blow high on his chest.

  "Touch!" A world-shaking voice bellowed the word to a million waiting loud-speakers, and the applause of the audience echoed back in a wave of sound.

  "One minute," a voice said, and the time buzzer sounded.

  Brion had carefully conditioned the reflex in himself. A minute is not a very large measure of time and his body needed every fraction of it. The buzzer's whirr triggered his muscles into complete relaxation. Only his heart and lungs worked on at a strong, measured rate. His eyes closed and he was only distantly aware of his handlers catching him as he fell, carrying him to his bench. While they massaged his limp body and cleansed the wound, all of his attention was turned inward. He was in reverie, sliding along the borders of consciousness. The nagging memory of the previous night loomed up then, and he turned it over and over in his mind, examining it from all sides.

  It was the very unexpectedness of the event that had been so unusual. The contestants in the Twenties needed undisturbed rest, therefore nights in the dormitories were quiet as death. During the first few days, of course, the rule wasn't observed too closely. The men themselves were too keyed up and excited to rest easily. But as soon as the scores begin to mount and eliminations cut into their ranks, there is complete silence after dark. Particularly so on this last night, when only two of the little cubicles were occupied, the thousands of others standing with dark, empty doors.

  Angry words had dragged Brion from a deep and exhausted sleep. The words were whispered but clear, two voices, just outside the thin metal of his door. Someone spoke his name.

  "... Br
ion Brandd. Of course not. Whoever said you could was making a big mistake and there is going to be trouble--"

  "Don't talk like an idiot!" This other voice snapped with a harsh urgency, clearly used to command. "I'm here because the matter is of utmost importance, and Brandd is the one I must see. Now stand aside!"

  "The Twenties--"

  "I don't give a damn about your games, hearty cheers and physical exercises. This is important or I wouldn't be here!"

  The other didn't speak--he was surely one of the officials--and Brion could sense his outraged anger. He must have drawn his gun, because the other man said quickly, "Put that away. You're being a fool!"

  "Out!" was the single snarled word of the response. There was silence then and, still wondering, Brion was once more asleep.

  * * * * *

  "Ten seconds."

  The voice chopped away Brion's memories and he let awareness seep back into his body. He was unhappily conscious of his total exhaustion. The month of continuous mental and physical combat had taken its toll. It would be hard to stay on his feet, much less summon the strength and skill to fight and win a touch.

  "How do we stand?" he asked the handler who was kneading his aching muscles.

  "Four ... four. All you need is a touch to win!"

  "That's all he needs, too," Brion grunted, opening his eyes to look at the wiry length of the man at the other end of the long mat. No one who had reached the finals in the Twenties could possibly be a weak opponent, but this one, Irolg, was the pick of the lot. A red-haired, mountain of a man, with an apparently inexhaustible store of energy. That was really all that counted now. There could be little art in this last and final round of fencing. Just thrust and parry, and victory to the stronger.

  Brion closed his eyes again and knew the moment he had been hoping to avoid had arrived.

  Every man who entered the Twenties had his own training tricks. Brion had a few individual ones that had helped him so far. He was a moderately strong chess player, but he had moved to quick victory in the chess rounds by playing incredibly unorthodox games. This was no accident, but the result of years of work. He had a standing order with offplanet agents for archaic chess books, the older the better. He had memorized thousands of these ancient games and openings. This was allowed. Anything was allowed that didn't involve drugs or machines. Self-hypnosis was an accepted tool.