by Ayn Rand
A clerk approached. “Can I help you?”
“I want to talk to Mr. Norton himself.”
The clerk spoke into a wrist transmitter. “Mr. Norton, a man to see you.”
In a few moments a bulbous man came heavily down the aisle, peering through dark tinted glasses at Philon. “Yes?”
“I have a very rare first edition of Smyth’s Atomic Energy,” said Philon, showing the book.
Norton adjusted his glasses, then took the book. He carefully handled it, looking over the outside of the covers, then thumbed the pages. After a long frowning moment, he said, “Publication date is nineteen forty-six but the book’s fairly new. Must have been kept hermetically sealed in helium for a good many years.”
“Yeah, yeah, it was,” Philon said matter-of-factly. “Came from my paternal grandfather’s side of the family. A book like this ought to be worth at the very least seventy-five thousand.”
But the bulbous Mr. Norton was not impressed. He shrugged vaguely. “Well—it’s just possible—” He looked up at Philon suddenly. “Before I make any offer to you I shall have to radiocarbon date the book. Are you willing to sacrifice a back flyleaf in the process?”
“Why a flyleaf?”
“We have to convert a sample of the book into carbon dioxide to geigercount the radioactivity in the carbon. You see, all living things like the cotton in the rags the paper is made of absorb the radioactive carbon fourteen that is formed in the upper atmosphere by cosmic radiation. Then it begins to decay and we can measure very accurately the amount, which gives us an absolute time span.”
With a frustrated feeling Philon agreed. “Well okay then. It’s a waste of time I think. The book is obviously a first edition.”
“It will take the technician about two hours to complete the analysis. We’ll have an answer for you—say after lunch.”
The two hours dragged by and Philon eagerly hastened to the store.
When Mr. Norton appeared he wore the grim look of a righteously angry man. He thrust the book at Philon. “Here, sir, is your book. The next time you try to foist one over on a book trader remember science is a shrewd detective and you’ll have to be cleverer than you’ve been this time. This book is, I’ll admit, a clever job, but nevertheless a forgery. It was not printed in nineteen forty-six. The radiocarbon analysis fixes its age at a mere five or six years. Good day, sir!”
Philon’s mouth fell open. “But—but the MacDonalds have had it for....” He caught himself, and stammered, “There must be some mistake because I....”
Norton said firmly, “I bid you good day, sir!”
With a sense of the sky falling in on him, Philon found himself out on the street. No one could be trusted nowadays and he shouldn’t have been surprised at the MacDonalds. Everyone had a little sideline, a gimmick, to put one over on whoever was gullible enough to swallow it.
Why should he assume a hillbilly family from way out in Oregon was any different? This was probably Bill MacDonald’s little racket and it was just Philon’s bad luck to stumble on it. MacDonald probably peddled his spurious first editions down on Front Street for a few hundred dollars to old bookstores unable to afford radiocarbon dating.
For awhile he stared out his office window, brooding. The fifty grand just wasn’t to be had—legally or illegally. And when he recalled Feisel’s little gem about the man falling out his office window Philon was definitely ill.
Then the cunning that comes to the rescue of all scheming gentry who depend on their wits emerged from perverse hiding. An ingenious idea to solve the nagging problem of the fifty thousand arrived full-blown. Grinning secretively to himself, he walked into the telecommunications room.
He got the Technical Reference Room at the Public Library and asked for the detailed plans of the big electronic National Vote Tabulating machine in Washington. At the other end a microfilm reel clicked into place, ready to obey his finger-tip control.
For two hours he read and read, making notes and studying the circuits of the complicated machine. Then, satisfied with his information, he returned the microfilm.
Leaving the office he descended to the streets and set out for the party headquarters. Now if only he could sell the neat little idea to the hierarchy....
At the luxurious marbled headquarters he asked to be let into the general chairman’s office. The receptionist announced him and Philon walked in to find Rakoff awaiting him behind his beautiful carved desk.
Rakoff’s dead-white cheeks never stirred and his stiff blond hair stood up in a rigid crew cut. He rolled his cigar in his big mouth. “Hello, Miller. What’s on your mind?”
Philon took a breath and it seemed to him now that this idea was a crazy one. “I came to tell you I’m unable to raise my fifty grand quota, Rakoff.”
The man’s brows moved slightly and his eyes narrowed significantly. With a rasp in his voice he said deliberately, “That’s too bad, Mr. Miller—for you.”
The rasping tongue put a faint quaver in Philon’s voice but he went on. “However, I’ve brought you an idea that’s worth more than fifty grand. It’s worth millions.”
Rakoff’s eyes hardly blinked. “I’m listening—you’re talking.”
And Philon talked, talked rapidly and convincingly. When he finished Rakoff slapped his fat thigh in excitement.
That evening Philon dropped in on Bill MacDonald, who was sitting in his slippers smoking an old fashioned wood pipe.
“Come in, come in.” MacDonald greeted him with a friendly smile. “I was just doing a little reading.”
Philon held out the book. “I’m returning your masterpiece,” he said with a sardonic smile.
MacDonald received it, glancing at the title. “Oh, Smyth’s Atomic Energy. Good book—did you find it interesting?”
* * *
Philon began to laugh. “Well, I’ll tell you, Bill, your little racket of having spurious first editions printed some place and then peddling them sure caught up with me.”
The good-natured smile on MacDonald’s face faded in a look of incredulity. He took the pipe from his mouth. “Spurious first editions?”
“Yeah, I sure took a beating today but I couldn’t help laughing over it afterwards. Here I’ve been thinking of you folks as simon-pure numbers. But I got to hand it to you. You sure took me in with Smyth’s Atomic Energy as being a genuine first edition.” Philon went on to explain the radiocarbon dating of the book.
MacDonald finally broke in to protest, “But that book really is over a hundred years old.” Then he looked up at his wife. “Of course, Carol, that’s the explanation. The radiocarbon wouldn’t decay a full hundred years any more than we....” Suddenly, he seemed to catch himself, as his wife raised a hand in apparent agitation.
“But why did you want to sell my book to a dealer?” MacDonald continued.
Philon went on to explain the system of the poll quota. He told him a lot of other things too about the election of a President and the organized political machines that levied upon all registered voters what amounted to a checkoff of their incomes.
Carol MacDonald said, “You mean that not everyone can vote?”
Philon looked at her in surprise. “Well, of course not. Only people of means vote—and why shouldn’t they? They take the most interest in the elections and all the candidates come from the higher-middle-class of income. Anyway why should the people squawk? They took less and less interest in the elections.
“When the proportion of voters turning out for elections got down to thirty percent those that did turn out passed laws disenfranchising those who hadn’t voted for two Presidential elections. So if things aren’t being run to suit those who lost their rights to vote they’ve got no one to thank but themselves.”
Bill MacDonald looked at his wife and said in a voice filled with incredulity, “My lord, Carol, if the people back there only knew what their careless and negligent disinterest would one day do to their country!”
Philon looked from one to the other, s
aying, “You sound as if you were talking about the past.”
MacDonald said hurriedly, “I—er—was referring to the history books.”
That night Philon did not sleep well for the morrow would be a day he’d never forget. Even to his calloused mind the dangers involved in the exploit were considerable.
In the morning he went into John’s room and stood looking down at the boy, who sleepily opened his eyes.
Philon said, “I’m going to be gone from my office all day. And if anyone calls or comes to see me here at the house tell him I’m sick. If necessary I’m ordering you to swear in court that I was here all day and night. Ursula’s gone for the weekend to the seashore, so I’m depending on you. Do you understand?”
John frowned in confusion. “You say you’re sick and staying home all day?”
Impatience edging his words Philon went over the explanation again.
“What d’you mean ‘swear in court?’ What are you planning to do, Phil?” John’s eyes were wide open now and full of apprehension.
“Never mind what I’m doing. Just tell anybody inquiring that I’m sick at home.”
“You mean lie, eh?”
Phil lifted his hand, then swung, leaving the imprint of his four fingers on the boy’s left cheek. “Now do you understand?”
The boy blinked back a tear and nodded wordlessly.
* * *
In the late afternoon Philon landed at Washington and under an assumed name made his way to the government building housing the big Election Tabulator. At the technical maintenance offices Philon asked, “Is Al Brant around?”
“Nope. He doesn’t come on duty until tomorrow.”
At Brant’s address Philon knocked on an apartment door. Footsteps approached inside and the door was opened by a medium-sized man with black tousled hair. He appeared less than happy to see Philon.
“Hello, Phil. What’s on your mind?”
Philon stuck out his hand. “Al, glad to see you again. I know you’re not pleased to see me but let’s let bygones be bygones. Can we talk?”
Al Brant stepped back reluctantly. “Well, I guess so. I thought we’d said everything we had to say the last time.”
Philon walked in and settled himself on the davenport. “Yeah, I know, Al, we had some pretty harsh words. But at least I got you out of the mess.”
Brant said bitterly, “Yeah, got me out of a mess I got into helping you on one of your shady deals when I worked for you. Well, as I said before, what’s on your mind?”
Philon patted his right chest saying, “Got a hundred thousand here for you, Al.”
Brant’s brows lifted in amazement. “A hundred thousand! What’s the catch, Phil?”
Philon’s voice dropped to a confidential tone. “You always were a clever man with electronics, Al, and I’ve got something here that’s just your meat. I’ve been studying the design of the Election Tabulator, and I’ve discovered a wonderful opportunity for you and me.
“Now listen—it’s possible to replace two transmitters on the main teletype trunk so that a winning percentage of the incoming votes will be totaled up for my party. Simple little job, isn’t it? Worth a hundred thousand!”
For a long moment Al Brant sat and stared at Philon in cold silence. Finally, he said, “Do you know what the penalty is for jimmying the Tabulator to influence voting?”
“No.”
“It’s life imprisonment!” Brant got up slowly and started across the room to Philon. “I fell for your line once and got burned—and here you come again. You must think I’m a born sucker. This time I’m doing the talking. Give me the hundred grand or I’ll kill you with my bare hands!”
Philon watched him coming as if he were witness to a nightmare. He was trapped. And in this moment of snowballing fear he ceased to think. The gun in his pocket went off without conscious effort. Brant stopped, then collapsed to the floor. Panic took over Philon’s mind and he fled the apartment building as rapidly as was safe.
He was almost back in the city when he tuned in a news broadcast As he listened, he sat in stunned silence. Brant had roused himself enough before he died to talk to the man who found him in his apartment. Brant had named his killer as Philon Miller. Miller felt as if he had turned to ice.
Then his mind thawed out with a rush of reassuring words. After all, why should he be worrying? He had John’s word in court as a perfect alibi. Yes, everything would be all right. Everything had to be all right.
In the late evening Philon arrived at his house with a consuming sense of great relief, as if the very act of entering his home would protect him from anything. There was a sense of safety in the mere familiarity of the environment.
On the mail table he found a note from Ursula saying she had gone for the weekend. Philon shrugged indifferently. He was glad to have her out of the way anyhow. But John—there was the best ten thousand dollars he had ever spent. A sound investment, about to pay its first real dividend.
“John!“ His voice echoed in the house with a disturbing hollow sound. He wet his dry lips and shouted again, “John—where are you?”
Only his echoing voice answered him. In growing fright he pounded up the escalator and rushed into John’s room. It was empty. On a desk he found a message in John’s neat hand—
Phil and Ursula,
For a long time I have been very unhappy living with you. I’m grateful for the food and shelter and education you’ve provided. But you have never given me the love and warmth that I seem to crave. The funny part of it is that I never understood my craving and what it meant until I saw how love and affection bound the MacDonald kids and their folks.
This afternoon Jimmie and Jean came over to say good-by because they said their father told them they didn’t belong here—that he was taking his family back where they belonged, atomic bomb threat and all—whatever he meant by that. After they left I got to thinking how much I’d like to go with them. So I’m leaving. Somehow I’m going to talk them into taking me with them wherever they are going. So this will have to be good-by.
John.
Philon lifted his eyes from the note and his glance strayed to the window. Dreading to look he took two slow steps and peered down the street. The sight of the empty lot on the corner paralyzed him in his tracks.
John gone! The MacDonald house gone! Gone was his perfect alibi! In Washington a dying man’s words had spelled out his own death sentence.
A step at the door roused him from his horror-stricken trance. He looked up to see a detective and a policeman regarding him with cold calculation.
“What’s the matter, Miller?” asked the detective. “We’ve punched your announcer button half a dozen times. You deaf? You better come along to Headquarters to answer some questions about your movements today.”
THE PLANET SAVERS
~
By
MARION ZIMMER BRADLEY
BY the time I got myself all the way awake I thought I was alone. I was lying on a leather couch in a bare white room with huge windows, alternate glass-brick and clear glass. Beyond the clear windows was a view of snow-peaked mountains which turned to pale shadows in the glass-brick.
Habit and memory fitted names to all these; the bare office, the orange flare of the great sun, the names of the dimming mountains. But beyond a polished glass desk, a man sat watching me. And I had never seen the man before.
He was chubby, and not young, and had ginger-colored eyebrows and a fringe of ginger-colored hair around the edges of a forehead which was otherwise quite pink and bald. He was wearing a white uniform coat, and the intertwined caduceus on the pocket and on the sleeve proclaimed him a member of the Medical Service attached to the Civilian HQ of the Terran Trade City.
I didn’t stop to make all these evaluations consciously, of course. They were just part of my world when I woke up and found it taking shape around me. The familiar mountains, the familiar sun, the strange man. But he spoke to me in a friendly way, as if it were an ordinary thing to
find a perfect stranger sprawled out taking a siesta in here.
“Could I trouble you to tell me your name?”
The man in the mirror was a stranger.
That was reasonable enough. If I found somebody making himself at home in my office—if I had an office—I’d ask him his name, too. I started to swing my legs to the floor, and had to stop and steady myself with one hand while the room drifted in giddy circles around me.
“I wouldn’t try to sit up just yet,” he remarked, while the floor calmed down again. Then he repeated, politely but insistently, “Your name?”
“Oh, yes. My name.” It was—I fumbled through layers of what felt like gray fuzz, trying to lay my tongue on the most familiar of all sounds, my own name. It was—why, it was—I said, on a high rising note, “This is damn silly,” and swallowed. And swallowed again. Hard.
“Calm down,” the chubby man said soothingly. That was easier said than done. I stared at him in growing panic and demanded, “But, but, have I had amnesia or something?”
“Or something.”
“What’s my name?”
“Now, now, take it easy! I’m sure you’ll remember it soon enough. You can answer other questions, I’m sure. How old are you?”
I answered eagerly and quickly, “Twenty-two.”
* * *
The chubby man scribbled something on a card. “Interesting. In-ter-est-ing. Do you know where we are?”
I looked around the office. “In the Terran Headquarters. From your uniform, I’d say we were on Floor 8—Medical.”
He nodded and scribbled again, pursing his lips. “Can you—uh—tell me what planet we are on?”
I had to laugh. “Darkover,” I chuckled, “I hope! And if you want the names of the moons, or the date of the founding of the Trade City, or something—”
He gave in, laughing with me. “Remember where you were born?”