Nova 2

by Anthology

  If Pidge screwed up now, they would be mad. Probably. They’d make an example of him.

  He shivered. His shoes clacked on the sidewalk.

  The doorbell of his target sounded faintly in his ears. He tried to wet his lips, but his tongue was too dry. The door swung noiselessly open. A maid said, “Yes, can I help you?”

  Pidge pressed the clasp of his briefcase the way he’d been taught. “I have an appointment with Mr. Ames,” he said.

  For an instant she hesitated. His heart stumbled. He knew the reason for her surprise; he’d studied this layout plenty close. The industrialist always spent Wednesdays at home, seeing no one except people he liked. He could afford to.

  The maid’s brow cleared. “Please come in, sir.”

  After that, it was a piece of cake. Ames got on the phone and managed to arrange the withdrawal of almost two million in bills, certified checks, and bearer bonds without causing suspicion. He thought Pidge was giving him a chance to make a killing. His wife and staff made no fuss about waiting in an offside room, when Pidge whispered to them that national security was involved.

  Naturally, the Brink’s truck took a couple of hours to arrive. Pidge had himself a bonus meanwhile. Ames’ daughter came back from high school, and she was a looker. Not expert in bed, you couldn’t expect that of a virgin, but he sure made her anxious to please him. Pidge had never had a looker before. He was tempted to bring her along. But no, too risky. With his kind of money he’d be able to have whatever he wanted. He would.

  After the armored truck was gone and the haul had been transferred in suitcases to Pidge’s car, he told the people of the house that life was worthless and an hour from now they should let Ames shoot them. Then the man should do himself in. Pidge drove off to his rendezvous with Their representative, who held his ticket and passport.

  “Oh, you can raise assorted horrors,” Fenner argued, “but to be alive is to take chances, and I don’t see any risks here that can’t be handled. I mean, the United States Government isn’t a bloc, it’s composed of people, mostly intelligent and well-meaning. Their viewpoints vary. They’re quite able to anticipate a possible monolith and take precautions.”

  “Tell me, what is a monolith?” Sigerist retorted. “Where does rehabilitation leave off and brainwashing begin? What are the constitutional rights of Birchers and militants? Of criminals, for that matter?”

  “You’re right,” Mottice said. The sweat was running heavily down his face; they caught the reek of it. “This must never be used on humans without their prior consent and full understanding.”

  “Not even on those who’re killing American boys and Thai peasants?” Sigerist asked. “Not even to head off nuclear war? Given such an opportunity to help, can you do nothing and live with yourself afterward? And once you’ve started, where do you stop?”

  “You can’t keep the secret forever,” Duarte said. “Believe me, we’ve tried to think of ways. Every plausible consequence of the inducer’s existence that we’ve talked about involves the destruction of democracy. And none of the safety measures can work for the rest of eternity. The world has more governments, more societies than ours. Maybe you can convert their present leaders. But the fact of conversion will be noticed, the leaders will have successors, the successors could take precautions of their own and quietly instigate research.”

  In his last years George Rainsdon always had a headache. He was old when the mesh was planted beneath his scalp, and the technique was new. The results were therefore none too good in his case; and the doctors said that doing the job over would likely cause further nerve damage. As a rule the pain was no worse than a background, never completely outside his awareness. Today it was bad, and he knew it would increase till he lay blind and vomiting.

  “I’m going home early,” he told his secretary, and rose from the desk.

  Penelope Gorman’s impeccable fagade opened to reveal sympathy. “Another sick spell?” she murmured.

  Rainsdon nodded, and wished he hadn’t when the pain sloshed around his skull. “I’ll recover. The pills really do help.” He attempted to smile. “The cause is good, remember.”

  Her lips tightened. “Good? Only in a way, sir. Only because of the Asians, the radicals, the criminals. Without them, we wouldn’t need protection.”

  “Certainly not,” Rainsdon agreed. The indoctrination lecture, required of every citizen before implantation was performed, had made that clear. (A beautiful ceremony had evolved, too, for the younger generation: the eighteen-year-old candidates solemn in their new clothes, families and friends present, wreaths of flowers on the inducer, religious and patriotic exhortations that stirred the soul.) To be sure, crime and political deviancy were virtually extinct. Yet they could rise again. Without preventive measures, they would, and this time the inducer would let them wreck America. Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty.

  Tragic, that indoctrination of the whole world had not been possible. But in the chaos that followed the Treaty of Peking, the breakup of the Communist empires after Communism was renounced . . . a Turkoman adventurer somehow welding together a kingdom in Central Asia, somehow obtaining the inducer, probably from a criminal . . . the United States too preoccupied with Latin America, with inculcating those necessary bourgeois virtues that the pseudointellectuals used to sneer at . . . and suddenly the Asians had produced nuclear weapons, insulating the helmets for everybody, their domain expanded with nightmare speed, soon they too were in space and could cover the Western Hemisphere with inducer signals, turning all men into robots unless defenses were erected, civilian as well as military—Rainsdon forced his mind out of that channel. Truth was truth; still, people did tend to get obsessed with their righteous indignation.

  “You knock off too, Mrs. Gorman,” he said. “I’ve no chores for you till I recover.” The small advisory service—international investments—that he had founded after leaving a diplomatic corps that no longer needed many personnel used public data and computer lines. His office was thus essentially a one-man show.

  “Thank you, sir. I appreciate your kindness. I’m snowed under by work in the Edcorps.”

  “The what?” he asked, having scarcely heard through a fresh surge of migraine.

  “Educational Corps. You know. Volunteers, helping poor children. The regular schools teach them to honor their country and obey the law, of course. But schooling can’t overcome the harm from generations of neglect, can’t teach them skills to make them useful and productive citizens, without extra coaching.” Mrs. Gorman rattled her speech off so fast that it must be one she often gave. Repetition didn’t seem to lessen her earnestness. Sexual sublimation? Rainsdon wondered. He’d had occasion to visit her apartment. Aside from photographs of her late husband, it might almost have been a cell in a convent.

  They left together. She matched her pace to his shuffle. The elevator took them down and they emerged on Fifth Avenue. Sunlight spilled through the crisp autumn air that could blow nowhere but in New York. Pedestrians strode briskly along the sidewalks. How wise the government had been to phase out private automobiles! How wise the government was!

  “Shall I see you home, Mr. Rainsdon? You look quite ill.”

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Gorman. I’ll catch a bus here and—”

  The words thundered forth.

  PEOPLE OF AMERICA! CLAIM YOUR FREEDOM! YOUR DIABOLICAL RULERS HAVE ENSLAVED YOU WITH LIES AND SHUT YOU AWAY FROM THE TRUTH BY WIRES IN YOUR VERY BODIES. EVERYTHING YOU HAVE BEEN FORCED TO BELIEVE IS FALSE. BUT THE HOUR OF YOUR DELIVERANCE IS AT HAND. THE SCIENTISTS OF THE ASIAN UNION HAVE FOUND THE MEANS TO BREAK OPEN YOUR MENTAL PRISON. NOW HEAR THE TRUTH, AND THE TRUTH SHALL MAKE YOU FREE! HELP YOUR FRIENDS, YOUR LIBERATORS, THE FREE PEOPLE OF THE ASIAN UNION, TO DESTROY YOUR OPPRESSORS AND EXPLOITERS! RISE AGAINST THE AMERICAN DICTATORSHIP. DESTROY ITS FACTORIES, OFFICES, MILITARY FACILITIES, DESTROY THE BASIS OF ITS POWER. KILL THOSE WHO RESIST. DIE IF YOU MUST, THAT YOUR CHILDREN MAY BE FREE!

  Down and down the skyscrape
r walls, from building after building, from end to end of the megalopolis, the voices roared. Rainsdon knew an instant when there flashed through him, Megaphone-taper units, radio triggered, my God, they must’ve planted them over the whole country, a million in New York alone, but they’re small and cheap, and somewhere beyond that bright blue sky a spacecraft is beaming— Then he knew how he had been betrayed, chained, vampirized by monsters of cynicism whose single concern was to grind down forever the aspirations of mankind, until the Great Khan had been forced to draw his flaming sword of justice.

  Penny ripped apart her careful hairdo. Graying blonde tresses spilled, Medusa locks, over her breasts while she discarded gown, shoes, stockings, corset, the stifling convict uniform put on her by a gaoler civilization. Her shriek cut through the howl of the crowd in the only words of protest she knew, remembered from distant childhood. “Fuck the establishment! Freedom now!”

  Rainsdon grabbed her arm. “Follow me,” he said into her ear. His headache was nearly gone in a glandular rush of excitement, his thoughts leaped, it was like being young again and leading a charge in Korea, save that today his cause was holy. “Come on.” He dragged her back inside.

  She struggled. “What you at, man? Lemme go! I got pigs to kill.”

  “Listen.” He gestured at the human mass which seethed and bawled outside. “You’d be trampled. That’s no army, that’s a mob. Think. If the Asians can develop an inducer pattern that gets past our mesh, be sure the kept American technicians have imagined the possibility. Maybe they’ve developed a shield against it. They’d have sat on that, hoping to keep secret—Anyway, they’ll have made preparations against our learning the truth. They’ll send in police, the Guard, tanks, helicopters, the works. And these buildings, they probably screen out radiation, they must be full of persons who haven’t had the slave conditioning broken. Penelope, our best service is to find that voice machine and guard it with our lives. Give more people a chance to come out where the truth can reach them.”

  They located the device in an office and waited, deafened, tormented, stunned by its magnitude of sound. Hand in hand, they stood their prideful watch.

  But no one disturbed them for the hour or two that remained, and they never felt the blast that killed them.

  The Asians knew that American missile sites were insulated against any radio impulses that might be directed at the controllers. They counted on those missiles staying put. For what would be the point of an American launch, when Washington could no longer govern its own subjects? At the agreed-upon moment, their special envoy was offering the President the help of the Great Khan in restoring order; at a price to be sure.

  The Great Khan’s advisors were wily men. However, being themselves conditioned, they did not realize they were fanatics; and being fanatics, they did not have the empathy to see that their opponents would necessarily resemble them.

  In strike and counterstrike, the big birds flew.

  “Well, that’s certainly a hairy bunch of scenarios,” Fenner admitted after a long discussion. “Are you sure things would turn out so bad?”

  “The point is,” Sigerist replied, “do we dare assume they wouldn’t?”

  “What do you propose, then?” Mottice asked.

  “That’s what we’ve invited you here to help decide,” Duarte said.

  Ginsberg shifted his bulky body. “I suspect you mean you want us to ratify a decision you’ve already made,” he said, “and its nature is obvious.”

  “Suppression—No, damn it!” Fenner protested. “I admit we need to exercise caution, but suppressing data—”

  “Worse than that,” Sigerist said most softly. “As the recognized authorities in your different fields, you’ll have to steer your colleagues away from this area altogether.”

  “How will we do that?” Yuang demanded. “Suppose I cook an experiment. Somebody is bound to repeat it.”

  “We’re big game, you know,” Mottice put in. “A new-made Ph.D. who found us out would make a name for himself. Which would reinforce him in pursuing that line of work.”

  “The ways needn’t be crude,” Sigerist said. “If you simply, without any fuss, drop various projects as ‘unpromising,’ well, you’re able men who’ll get results elsewhere; you’re leaders, who set the fashion. If you scoff a bit at the concept of neuroinduction, raise an eyebrow when Rocard is mentioned . . . it can be done.”

  He paused. Drawing a breath, rising to his feet, he said, “It must be done.”

  Ginsberg realized what was intended and scrabbled frantically across the table at the device. Sigerist pinioned his arms. Duarte pulled an automatic from his pocket. “Stand back!” the younger man shouted. “I’m a good target shooter. Back!”

  They stumbled into a comer. Ginsberg panted, Fenner cursed; Mottice glared; Yuang, after a moment, nodded. Duarte held the gun steady. Sigerist began crying. “This was our work too, you know,” he said through the tears. He pressed a button. A vacuum tube glowed and words come out of a tape recorder.

  Five years afterward, Sigerist and his family tuned in a program. Most educated persons did, around the world. The Premier of the Chinese People’s Republic had announced a major speech on policy, using and celebrating the three synchronous relay satellites which his country had lately put into orbit. Simultaneous translation into many languages would be provided.

  Considering the belligerence of previous statements, Sigerist joined the rest of the human race in worrying about what would be said. He, his wife, the children who were the purpose of their lives, gathered in a solemn little group before the screen. The hour in Peking was well before dawn, which assured that India was the sole major foreign country where live listening would be inconvenient. Well, the eastern Soviet Union too, not to mention China itself; but there would be rebroadcasts, printed texts, commentaries for weeks to come.

  When the talk was over, Sigerist’s wife sought his arms and gasped with relief. He held her close and grinned shakily across her shoulder at the kids. The Premier’s words had been so reasonable, so unar-guably right. They had opened his eyes to any number of things which had not occurred to him before. For a moment during those revelations he’d wondered, been afraid . . . and then, actually quite early in the speech, the Premier had smiled with his unmatched kindliness and said: “The enemies of progress have accused us of brainwashing, including by electronic methods. I tell you, and you will believe me, nothing of the sort has ever happened.”

  And I Have Come Upon

  This Place By Lost Ways

  by James Tiptree, Jr.

  It is with some pride that I say I printed this author’s first story just a few years ago. He reluctantly admits that he spent most of World War II in a Pentagon sub-basement, and wonders what war it was he watched go by in Shanghai when he was ten years old. Other facts about him are hard to come by, other than the vital fact that he can write stories such as this one—that purports to be about the far future, but is about all science at the same time.

  It was so beautiful.

  Evan’s too-muscular stomach tightened as he came into the Senior Commons and saw them around the great view port. Forgetting his mountain, forgetting even his ghastly vest he stared like a layman at the white-clad Scientists in the high evening sanctum of their ship. He still could not believe.

  A Star Research Ship, he marveled. A Star Science Mission and I am on it. Saved from a Technician’s mean life, privileged to be a Scientist and search the stars for knowledge—

  “What’ll it be, Evan?”

  Young Doctor Sunny Isham was at the bevbar. Evan mumbled amenities, accepted a glass. Sunny was the other junior Scientist and in theory Evan’s equal. But Sunny’s parents were famous Research Chiefs and the tissue of his plain white labcoat came from god knew where across the galaxy.

  Evan pulled his own coarse whites across his horrible vest and wandered toward the group around the port. Why had he squandered his dress credit on Aldebaranian brocade when all these Star Scientists came
from Aldebtech? Much better to have been simple Evan Dilwyn the general issue Galtech nobody—and an anthrosyke to boot.

  To his relief the others ignored his approach. Evan skirted the silence around the lean tower of the Mission Chief and found a niche behind a starched ruff belonging to the Deputy, Doctor Pontreve. Pontreve was murmuring to the Astrophysics Chief. Beyond them was a blonde dazzle—little Cyberdoctor Ava Ling. The girl was joking with the Sirian colleague. Evan listened to them giggle, wondering why the Sirian’s scaly blue snout seemed more at home here than his own broad face. Then he looked out the port and his stomach knotted in a different way.

  On the far side of the bay where the ship had landed a vast presence rose into the sunset clouds. The many-shouldered Clivorn, playing with its unending cloud-veils, oblivious of the alien ship at its feet. Aridruinn, the Mountain of Leaving, the natives called it. Why “leaving,” Evan wondered for the hundredth time, his eyes seeking for the thing he thought he had glimpsed. No use, the clouds streamed forever. And the routine survey scans could not—

  The Deputy had said something important.

  “The ship is always on status go,” rumbled the Captain’s voice from the bevbar. “What does the Chief say?”

  Evan’s gasp went unnoticed; their attention was on the Research Chief. For a moment the high Scientist was silent, smoke of his THC cheroot drifting from his ebony nostrils. Evan gazed up at the hooded eyes, willing him to say no. Then the smoke quivered faintly: Affirmative.