by Jerry
And so it was with considerable perturbment that in the vast archive-offices of the Greater State of New Statia, Controller Seven, a grim-faced, diligent conscientious public servant, heard his flat-chested, secretary announce with something like awe in her voice that a worker, one “Z-Four-Oh”, from the production Section wished an audience with him. Never in all his thirty years of experience had any such thing happened. Workers never had cause to see anyone. They were too well taken care of.
As the timid figure of Z-Four-Oh entered the strictly functional offices, Controller Seven’s mind raced furiously anticipating the cause for this impossible visit. It couldn’t be the food, or the amusement, or the housing. No they were too perfect. What then, might be Z-Four-Oh’s concern? Sickness? No, there was New Statia’s Medicine to care for that.
Z-Four-Oh was unimpressive by any standards. Clad in his crude but comfortable work-clothing, baggy and shapeless, the mousy little man stepped nervously to the Controller’s desk.
“Sir,” he said in a squeaky voice, tensed by hesitant fear, “I wish to change my work-job. I am now a machine-operator.”
Controller Seven’s mouth dropped open. He snapped it shut like a steel trap when he recovered his aplomb. He pointed to the sheaf of papers on his desk.
“You must be ill,” he said, still astonished at this temerity, “the records show you are most eminently suited for your position.”
“I do not like my position, sir,” the nervous little man said forcing his heart to still its wild-beating. “The machines made an error. I am not a good machinist.”
“Your record is perfect,” stated the Controller. “Surely the Machine cannot be wrong. I will send you back to work—say,—what did you think you were suited for?” Even as he asked the question the Controller felt abashed that he’d been carried away by such idle curiosity. Z-Four-Oh was a machine operator, had been a machine-operator and so far as he, Controller Seven, was concerned, would always be a machine-operator.
But Z-Four-Oh replied, and this time not at all quaveringly.
“I am a poet,” he announced.
“A what?” the Controller demanded, racing his mind for the definition.
“I write poetry,” said Z-Four-Oh, “The stars are bright, and in the night . . .”
“—Stop!” thundered the Controller.
“You are mouthing gibberish. Report at once to the Mediks. They’ll—”
Shrieking furiously, the mousy little man in complete revolt, hurled himself angrily at the Controller. “You fool, fool, fool!” He mouthed imprecations and attempted to assault the majestic person of the Controller. But the staff-workers in the office tore Sim away.
They dragged the shouting rebel away to the Euthan chambers, while Controller Seven sat stock still at his desk and contemplated the weird state of affairs. “A poet,” he said half to himself, turning the words over in his mouth, “a poet, a man who puts words together.” His brow wrinkled: Of what use is that to the State. He tried to understand. He shook his head.
And the words drummed constantly through his mind, “The stars are bright, and in the night . . . the stars are bright and . . . bright . . . night . . . bright . . . night.”
When Controller Seven was also consigned a few days later to the Euthan chambers, the vast and mighty structure of New Statia suffered the first crack in its impregnable armor.
The guards heard the Controller shouting the strange but pleasing words, and . . .
“The stars are bright, and in the night . . .”
Dr. Farrell’s Frankenstein
Lynn Standish
“I’M SORRY, honey,” Bill Cronin said to the young girl on the church steps. “I hate this Sunday work, but you know Dr. Farrell.”
“Yes.” Gloria said, frowning, but resignedly, “he’s always wanting you to work. I think sometimes he’s taking advantage of you, Bill. He thinks he’s a God with that nasty old calculating machine of his.”
“Differential analyser, Gloria, remember?” Bill smiled. “I’ll see you tonight about eight. O.K.?”
He kissed her lightly and then jumped into his car. He hadn’t let Gloria see how angry he really was. Dr. Farrell was really taking advantage of him. Why the hell did he have to work seven days a week? Just because he’d selected computing machines for his doctoral thesis didn’t mean he wanted to dedicate his life to them!
Bill went from the bright clear sunlight of the beautiful Sunday morning into the cavernous gloom of Lab II, harshly lighted by the pendant fluorescents.
“Good morning, Dr. Farrell,” he said trying to keep the pique out of his voice.
“Oh there you are,” the resonant tones came from Farrell, a tall heavy man, an authority on calculating machines and a proud science-dedicated man. “It’s about time,” he said brusquely. “I want to set up this Xi integral and get the machine rolling, I promised Fleming I’d have the results to him late this evening.”
The next hour was spent in setting up the problem to the giant electro-mechanical brain. Bill looked at the machine, lying there so quiescent, yet so suggestive. It was only a maze of wires and relays, vacuum tubes and motors, but it seemed almost ominous.
The problem was soon set-up and the two scientists watched it go into action, a matter of clicking, buzzing sounds, almost overwhelmed by the roar of the cooling blowers.
Dr. Farrell lit a cigarette. “You don’t have to go to church on Sunday when you’re working on something like this, Cronin,” he said abruptly.
Bill looked up surprised. “I don’t follow you, Doctor,” he said puzzled. Boy, Farrell is really feeling unusual today, he thought.
“When we are able to construct a thinking machine like this, Cronin, I think we’ve almost become gods!”
“I wouldn’t go as far as to say that, sir,” Bill disagreed. “It’s a great machine, but it’s a far cry from the human mind.”
“True. True. But it is a step in the right direction—and it won’t be many years before there are going to be some astounding developments in this field.”
“I agree, sir, but that still doesn’t make us gods.”
Farrell turned and faced him. There was an intense frown on his face.
“Listen Cronin,” he said fiercely, “I’ve built this machine. And as far as I’m concerned, it’s as good as alive!” He fumbled with his cigarette, “Do you understand that?” he demanded.
You are cracking up, Bill said to himself. Brother, you better stop work on this monster before you lose your marbles.
Aloud he said, “Well, it’s all the way you look at it sir. To me—well—sometimes, I think that Man is making a Frankenstein monster which will someday destroy him.”
Farrell didn’t say anything and the rest of the day passed with little conversation and much work.
A red light winked on and off. “Shall I get it, Doctor?” Bill asked, “It’s trouble in the input.”
“No,” Farrell said savagely, for no no reason at all. “I’ll take it.”
He started for the maze of small motors that drove the input shafts.
“Aren’t you going to cut the switch, Doctor?” Bill asked, alarmed now.
For an answer, Farrell wont into the power cubicle.
Suddenly there came an agonized scream from behind the thin sheet-metal wall. Like a flash, Bill cut the switches and the brain ground to a stop, with only the cooling blowers keeping up their hideous whine.
When Bill entered the cubicle he saw Farrell. The professor’s arm was caught in a gear train. The sight sickened him for the flesh and bone were ground horribly. Bill’s quick cutting off of the power saved the man, but the arm was gone forever.
Weakly Farrell rose to consciousness as Bill managed to free his mangled arm. “I’m sorry, Cronin,” he said in a whisper, “I think you tagged it right. I swear the machine caught me.” His face went white and he fainted again.
Frankenstein’s monster, Bill thought; that’s just what the thinking machines will be, Frankenstein’s
monster . . .
The Time-Shopper
Lynn Standish
THE MAN the secretary ushered into Mel Blanding’s office was not impressive—but he was unusual. He was oddly dressed, Mel noted instantly, archaically, as if he shopped for his clothes in a museum. His obviously false teeth fitted poorly and his bald head was grotesquely large for his small body.
He spoke in a high-pitched voice:
“Mr. Blanding?” he extended his hand with a little bow.
Mel extended his own. “Sit down, sir,” he said. “Just how can we help you?”
“I should like to give you an order,” the man said, “an order for what you call servomechanisms and electronic equipment.”
“Fine,” Mel said, the salesman in him coming to the fore. “If you’ll present us with your specifications and some sample prints, we’ll get into production for you within three weeks.”
“Oh no!” the strange man objected, “you must start at once. I have the sketches here.” He withdrew a sheaf of papers from an inside pocket. He smiled grimly. “My name is Shennon.”
Mel frowned, “Well, Mr. Shennon, I don’t know how we can possibly give your order precedence. We have certain commitments you know.”
In the next twenty minutes Mel found out how he was going to give Mr. Shennon’s order preference. First the man showed him the sketches which were of an electronic nature employing small electric motors and servomechanisms with outlandish requirements. Despite Mel and his chief engineer’s study of the sketches, they made no logical sense.
It was not difficult for Mel and his men to quickly present a cost analysis to Mr. Shennon. The figures came astoundingly high since, despite the simplicity of the device it employed very expensive components.
When the analysis had been made, Mr. Shennon calmly sat down and wrote a check for three quarters of the figure. “Here,” he said “is a token of my good faith. I must have these equipments within three days. I will pay you the remainder at the end of that time. You will truck the apparatus to—” he named an obscure warehouse on the edge of the city.
When he had, giving no further explanations, Mel had a quick count taken on the check. “Yes, sir,” the bank official said, “Mr. Shennon’s account is more than adequate. We will immediately transfer the draft.”
While the plant went into action and started high-speed production, Mel poured over the sketches, fascinated by their crudeness and mystery. No electrical device can be completely unintelligible, but this one was. Neither Mel nor his engineers could make sense of it. But since it had been payed for, they would produce it.
The order was completed and delivery was to be made that afternoon. An impossible impulse drove Mel to accompany the truckers to their destination. And when the goods had been stacked in the warehouse Mel crouched behind one of the pillars of the building and waited.
He waited an hour and then two. No one came. Just as he was dozing off, a high pitched voice at. his side said:
“Curiosity, eh Mr. Blanding?” It was the strange Mr. Shennon. “I’ve deposited the remainder of the money,” he added. “Isn’t that sufficient?”
“Of course,” Mel said sheepishly, “but frankly, my curiosity wouldn’t let me alone. What is that—that—thing—for?”
The strange little Mr. Shennon seemed to take on stature. He didn’t appear meek or odd. There was a cold dignity in his voice.
“I’m going to tell you the truth,” he said, “though you won’t believe it. You have supplied an essential part for a weapon. I am from the thirty-first century.”
Mel’s start of astonishment ended before it began.
Everything seemed to fog into a haze, a shimmer of unreality, and Mr. Shennon’s features quivered, then dissolved into nothingness like the Cheshire cat’s grin.
Mel Blanding, two minutes later, was standing in an empty warehouse . . .
Into Exile . . .
Salem Lane
THE COMMANDER of the transport and freighter Starlight made a mark on the astro-chart. He puffed meditatively on his pipe. He put down the stylus and turned toward the pilot-officer.
“By the way,” he asked, “has Carson been acting up?”
The young officer grinned: “Not a peep out of him, sir. He just sits and thinks. Doesn’t even want to read. He’s got a lot to think about, too.”
Commander Olsen removed the pipe from his mouth. “Any three-time murderer deserves worse. If I’d have been the judge I would have insisted on the lethal room.” He shrugged. “Oh well, they’re all soft nowadays.”
Pilot-Officer Merrill whistled. “I don’t call perpetual exile on Ganymede soft, sir. Why, you know what life is like in the ice-colonies. I’d sooner die than face that. Carson isn’t lucky.”
“. . . I wouldn’t say that,” a soft voice interrupted them. Abruptly they turned toward the door. Facing them was Carson. He was leaning against the closed door. He appeared perfectly relaxed, changed only by his incipient prison-pallor. In his right hand was a small flame pistol.
“I couldn’t help overhearing,” he went on coolly. “I think you’re right Merrill. Death is preferable to Ganymede. I saw the stereos of the ice-colonies.” He grinned “But I’m not going there—nor am I going to die.”
Captain Olsen half-arose as if to touch an alarm stud.
“Stop!” Carson said sharply. “I’m not playing now. I’ve killed three men—one more won’t make a difference. Stay where you are.”
The helpless spacemen watched the archcriminal gingerly climb into a space-suit, all the while keeping them covered with the gun, despite the awkwardness of the job. Finally he was suited.
“I didn’t dare try elsewhere,” he laughed, “there are too many crewmen running around.”
“What do you expect to do?” the whitefaced captain asked.
“The program is simple,” Carson answered. “Beginning right now, sound the ‘abandon-ship’ warning. Move!”
Enraged, the captain pressed the buzzer and in the control room the echo of gongs and the flash of colored, coded lights appeared as in the rest of the ship.
On the section videos the crew could be seen scurrying into the small life-boats according to the standard system. In five minutes the ship was empty of personnel save for Carson, the captain and the pilot-officer.
“You two are last,” Carson finally observed. “I’m taking you to the number seven boat. Start walking.” The two grimfaced officers plodded silently toward the number seven airlock.
Under Carson’s hawk-face they board the small craft. The clang of doors, the whish of atmosphere and the boat was in space.
Disconsolately the two men surveyed the silver cylinder that was the Starlight now manned by a ruthless criminal.
Commander Olsen’s anger escaped in a furious tirade of profanity, which served only to relieve his feelings. Merrill was silent.
Finally he spoke: “Well, the poor devil chose death after all.” He shook his head.
“What do you mean?” Commander Olsen demanded. “He’s got a perfectly good ship which he certainly can handle. He’s been around. He’ll make a port somewhere, somewhere where the police won’t be.”
“No he won’t,” Merrill said cryptically.
“For God’s sake, spit it out, if you know something,” Olsen insisted.
There was a grin on Merrill’s face.
“I destroyed his navigating and communicating equipment.” He said. “Unless he’s a better astronomer than I think he is, he’s piloting nothing but a wandering powered hulk. McFane was working on the power lines to all the equipment when Carson ordered abandon ship. I didn’t want to mention it to you because I figured you’d give me hell. We were actually navigating for the past three hours on dead reckoning.”
Olsen grinned, the strain leaving his face.
“Carson will commit suicide, I predict, before he surrenders. The police are sure to pick him up.”
He looked at Merrill: “I should discipline you for this, you whippe
rsnapper—but I won’t. I don’t want to see that man go free.”
“He won’t,” Merrill reiterated. “Now he’s a real exile. He belongs to nothing but a ship.” Outside the port the stars twinkled a little brighter . . .
Without Incident
Leslie Phelps
Jerry dropped the slide-rule to his desk top. He leaned back and stretched, his mouth forming a cavernous yawn. Even electronic engineers become bored. He shook himself. What I wouldn’t, give for a month’s vacation, he thought, I’d lay around for a week, just relaxing . . .
“Jerry!” J.B. rolled his ponderous bulk through the office door.
Jerry snapped erect. “What’s up J.B.?” he asked, already knowing that work was in store.
The executive glanced at the wall clock. “Listen Jerry. You’ve got twenty-five minutes to grab a traveling bag and jump the Paris rocket. We’ve got that gas-turbine power plant on the Seine, you know, the one Clinton’s been having trouble with. Well, I want you to do some supervising on the controls. They’re having a hell of a time with LeClair. He’s too damned inconsistent. Get going boy. I just videod them. The office in Paris will be waiting. They’ll see you in five hours.”
Jerry was out of the office like a shot. Fifteen minutes later, his small traveling bag in hand, a couple of books, his inevitable slide-rule, he was on a heli-cab heading for the Los Angeles rocket port.
The port was swarm of activity as Jerry picked up his reserved ticket and headed for the boarding ramps. The long slim snout of the Paris-rocket, the Notre-Dame towered a hundred feet into the air.
Stewardesses were bustling about, assisting passengers into the accelo-seats, distributing clarimine to those who became ill from acceleration or to the novices. Jerry brushed away the proffered drug. He was an old-timer at this.
He felt the rocket quiver a few minutes later as the igniters were fired. The speaker blared: “Prepare for ascent . . . Prepare for ascent.”