The Second Murray Leinster Megapack

by Murray Leinster

  He dreamed it three nights running, then it stopped, for a while.

  Then, a week later, he had the dream again, repeated in every detail. He had it a dozen times before he was twelve, and as many more before he was thirteen. It recurred at random intervals all through his teens, while he was in college, and after. When he grew up he found out that recurrent dreams are by no means unusual. But this was very far from a usual dream.

  From time to time, he observed new details in the dream. He knew that he was dreaming. His actions and his emotions did not vary, but he was able to survey them—like the way one can take note of items in a book one reads while quite absorbed in it. He came to notice the way the trees sent their roots out over the surface of the ground before dropping suckers down into it. He noticed a mass of masonry off to the left. He discovered that a hill in the distance was not a natural hill. He was able to remember markings on the large, stationary moon in the sky, and to realize that the smaller one was jagged and irregular in shape. The dream did not change, but his knowledge of the place of the dream increased.

  As he grew older, he was startled to realize that though the trees, for example, were not real, they were consistent with reality. The weapon he held in his hand was especially disturbing. Its grip and barrel were transparent plastic, and in the barrel there was a sequence of peculiarly-shaped forms, in and about which wire had been wound. As a grown man he’d made such shapes in metal, once. He’d tried them out as magnets in a job for American Tool. But they weren’t magnets. They were something specific and alarming instead. He also came to know exactly what the mass of masonry was, and it was a sober engineering feat. No boy of eleven could have imagined it.

  And always there were the flutelike musical sounds coming from behind him. When he was twenty-five, he’d memorized them. He’d heard them—dreamed them—hundreds of times. He tried to duplicate them on a flute and devised a special mute to get exactly the tone quality he remembered so well. He made a recording to study, but the study was futile.

  In a way, it was unwholesome to be so much obsessed by a dream. In a way, the dream was magnificently irrelevant to messages transmitted through millions of miles of emptiness. But the flutelike sounds linked it—now—to reality! He paced up and down in the empty, resonant building and muttered, “I ought to talk to the space-exploration people.”

  Then he laughed. That was ironical. All the crackpots in the world would be besieging all the authorities who might be concerned with the sounds from space, impassionedly informing them what Julius Caesar, or Chief Sitting Bull, or some other departed shade, had told them about the matter via automatic writing or Ouija boards. Those who did not claim ghostly authority would explain that they had special talents, or a marvelous invention, or that they were members of the race which had sent the messages the satellite-tracking stations received.

  No. It would serve no purpose to inform the Academy of Sciences that he’d been dreaming signals like the ones that now agitated humanity. It was too absurd. But it was unthinkable for a person of Burke’s temperament to do nothing. So he set to work in exactly the fashion of one of the crackpots he disliked.

  Actually, the job should have been undertaken in ponderous secrecy by committees from various learned societies, official bureaus, and all the armed forces. There should have been squabbles about how the task was to be divided up, bitter arguments about how much money was to be spent by whom, violent disagreements about research-and-development contracts. It should have been treated as a program of research, in which everybody could claim credit for all achievements and nobody was to blame for blunders.

  Burke could not command resources for so ambitious an undertaking. And he knew that as a private project it was preposterous. But he began the sort of preliminary labor that an engineer does before he really sets to work.

  He jotted down some items that he didn’t have to worry about. The wall-garden he’d made for Interiors, Inc., would fit neatly into whatever final result he got—if he got a final result. He had a manufacturing process available for glass-wool and plastics. If he could get hold of an inertia-controlled computer he’d be all set, but he doubted that he could. The crucial item was a memo he’d made from a memory of the dream weapon. It concerned certain oddly-shaped bits of metal, with fine wires wound eccentrically about them, which flew explosively to pieces when a current went through them. That was something to worry about right away.

  At three o’clock in the morning, then, Burke routed out the laboratory notes on the small-sized metal-stamping machine he had designed for American Tool. He’d tried to do the job with magnets, but they flew apart. He’d wound up with blank cartridges to provide the sudden, explosive stamping action required, but the notes on the quasi-magnets were complete.

  He went through them carefully. An electromagnet does not really attain its full power immediately after the current is turned on. There is an inductive resistance, inherent in a wound magnet, which means that the magnetism builds up gradually. From his memory of the elements in a transparent-plastic hand-weapon barrel, Burke had concluded that it was possible to make a magnet without inductive resistance. He tried it. When the current went on it went to full strength immediately. In fact, it seemed to have a negative-induction effect. But the trouble was that it wasn’t a magnet. It was something else. It wound up as scrap.

  Now, very reflectively, he plugged in a metal lathe and carefully turned out a very tiny specimen of the peculiarly-shaped magnetic core. He wound it by hand, very painstakingly. It was a tricky job. It was six o’clock Saturday morning when the specimen was finished. He connected the leads to a storage battery and threw the switch. The small object tore itself to bits, and the core landed fifteen feet from where it had been. Burke beamed.

  He wasn’t tired, but he wanted to think things over so he drove to a nearby diner and got coffee and a roll and reflected with satisfaction upon his accomplishment. At the cost of several hours’ work he’d made a thing like a magnet, which wasn’t a magnet, and which destroyed itself when turned on. As he drank his coffee, a radio news period came on. He listened.

  The signals still arrived from space, punctually, seventy-nine minutes apart. At this moment, 6:30 A.M., they were not heard an the Atlantic coast, but the Pacific coast still picked them up and they were heard in Hawaii and again on the South Pacific island of Kalua.

  Burke drove back to the plant. He was methodical, now. He reactivated the prototype wall-garden which he’d neglected while building the larger one for Interiors, Inc. The experimental one had been made in four sections so he could try different pumping systems and nutrient solutions. Now he set the pumps to work. The plants looked ragged, but they’d perk up with proper lighting and circulation of the hydroponic liquid.

  Then he went into the plant’s small office building and sat down with drawing instruments to modify the design of the magnetic core. At eleven he’d worked out a rough theory and refined the design, with curves and angles all complete. At four the next morning a second, modified magnet-core was formed and polished.

  He’d heard the first newscast on Friday night. It was now early Sunday morning, and although he was tired, he was still not sleepy. He worked on doggedly, winding fine magnet wire on a noticeably complicated metal form. Just before sunrise he tested it.

  When the current went on the wire windings seemed to swell. He’d held it in a small clamp while he tested it. The clamp overturned and broke the contact with the battery before the winding wire stretched to breaking-point. But it had not torn itself or anything else to bits.

  He was suddenly enormously weary and bleary-eyed. To anyone else in the world, the consequence of this second attempt to make what he thought of as a negative-induction magnet would seem an absolute failure. But Burke now knew why the first had failed and what was wrong with the second. The third would work, just as the unfired hand-weapon of his dream would have worked. Now he could justify to himself the association of a recurrent dream with a message f
rom outer space. The dream now had two points of contact with reality. One was the sounds from emptiness, which matched those in the dream. The other was the hand-weapon of the dream, whose essential working part now plainly did something unknown in a normal world.

  But it would be impossible to pass on his information to anybody else. Too many crackpots have claimed too many triumphs. His actual, unpredictable technical achievement would have little chance of winning official acceptance. Especially since he would be considered a non-accredited source. Burke had a small business of his own. He had an engineering degree. But he had no background of learned futility to gain a hearing for what he now knew.

  “Crackpots of the world, unite!” he muttered to himself.

  He dragged himself out-of-doors to a cool, invigorating morning and drove somnolently to the diner he’d patronized before. The coffee he ordered was atrocious, but it waked him. He heard two truck drivers at the counter.

  “It’s baloney!” said one of them scornfully. “There ain’t no people out there! We’d’a heard from them before if there was. Them scientists are crazy!”

  “Nuts!” said the other earnestly. “One of their idle thoughts would crack your brain wide open, mac! They know what’s up, and they’re scared! If you wanna know, I’m scared too!”

  “Of what?”

  “Hell! Did you ever drive at night, and have all the stars come in pairs like snake-eyes—like little mean eyes, lookin’ down at you an’ despisin’ you? You’ve seen that, ain’t you? Whoever’s signalin’ could be lookin’ down at us just like the stars do.”

  The first man grunted.

  “I don’t like it!” said the second man, fretfully. “If it was a man headin’ out to go huntin’ among the stars for somethin’ he wanted, that’s all right. That’s like a man goin’ huntin’ in the woods with a gun. But I don’t like somebody comin’ our way from somewhere else. Maybe he’s huntin’ us!”

  The two drivers paid for their coffee and went out. And Burke reflected wryly that the second man had, after all, expressed a universal truth. We humans do not like to be hunted. The passion with which a man-killing wild beast is pursued comes from human vanity. We do not like the idea that any other creature can be better than we are. It is highly probable that if we ever have to face a superior race, we will die of it.

  So Burke went back to the plant and began to make yet another of the peculiarly wound magnets-which-were-not-magnets. This was to have three of the odd-shaped cores, formed in line, of a single piece of Swedish iron. As the windings were put on they’d be imbedded in plastic. Over that would go a casing to keep them from expanding or stretching. It ought to be distinctively different from a magnet.

  It was an extremely long and utterly tedious job. He knew what he was doing, but he had doubts about the why. As he worked, though, he wrestled out a detailed theory. Discoverers often work like that. It was said that Columbus didn’t know where he was going when he started out, didn’t know where he was when he got there, and didn’t know where he’d been when he got back. The history of the discovery of the triode tube has points of similarity. Burke had begun with a device which destroyed itself when turned on, developed the idea into a device which swelled to uselessness when energized, and now hoped that it would turn out at the third try to be something the textbooks said was impossible.

  Outside the construction shed, the world went about its business. While Burke worked on through the Sunday noon hour, a Japanese radar telescope aimed at the night sky and made six successive position-findings on the source of the space signals. When sunset found him laboring doggedly at a metal lathe, Croydon made eight. American radar telescopes had made others. Carefully computed, the observations added up to the discovery of an independent motion of the signal source. It moved against the stars as if it were a solar-system body with an orbit in the asteroid belt some three hundred sixty million miles from the sun—as compared to Earth’s ninety-two million.

  At midnight on Sunday, while Burke painstakingly made micrometric examination of the triple magnet-core, Harvard Observatory reported that there should be a very minor asteroid at the spot in space from which the signals came.

  The coincidental asteroid was known as Schull’s object. It was listed as M-387 in the catalogs. It had been discovered in 1913, was a very minor celestial body, had an estimated greatest diameter of less than two miles, and its brightness had been noticed to vary, suggesting that it was of irregular shape. It was too insignificant to have been kept under constant observation, but the signals from space appeared definitely to originate from its position.

  An hour after midnight, Eastern Standard time, Palomar detected the infinitesimal speck of light which was Schull’s object at exactly the place the radar telescopes insisted was the signal source. Satellite-watching stations now monitored the cryptic signals around the clock, and radar telescopes began to sweep space for possible answers to the space broadcast. There was an uncomfortable possibility that the transmitter might not be signaling Earth, after all, but a fellow mystery of space—an associate or a sister-ship.

  More data turned up. M.I.T. made examination of the signals themselves. Timed, the intervals between notes varied as if keyed by something alive. But successive broadcasts were identical to microseconds. The conclusion was that the original broadcast had been set up by hand, as it were, but that all were now transmitted mechanically—automatically—by a robot transmitter.

  It was Monday morning when Burke completed the last turn of the last winding of his three-element pseudo-magnet. There are many things which become something else when they change in degree. Electromagnetic radiation may be long radio waves or radiant heat or yellow light or ultraviolet or X-rays, or who knows what, according to its frequency. It is different things with different properties at different wavelengths. Burke believed that his cores and windings were something other than magnets because the “flux” they produced was of a different intensity. He did not believe it to be magnetism.

  At nine o’clock Monday morning, he was clumsy from pure weariness when he began to fit the outer case on the thing he’d worked so long to complete. The hand-weapon in his dream undoubtedly flung bullets through a rifled bore penetrating the very center of the multiple core. The design of the hand-weapon ruled out any possibility of a considerable recoil. It wasn’t built to allow the hand to take a recoil. So there must be no recoil. On that basis, Burke had made what finally amounted to a thick rod some six inches long and two in diameter. With the casing in place, it was absolutely solid. There was no play for the windings to expand into. He blinked at it. Common sense said he ought to put it aside and test it when his mind was not nearly numb from fatigue.

  Then Sandy came into the constructions shed, looking for him. She’d arrived for work and seen his car outside the shed. Her expression indicated several things: a certain uneasiness, and some embarrassment, and more than a little indignation. When she saw him unshaven and wobbly with weariness, she protested.

  “Joe! You’ve been working since Heaven knows when!”

  “Since I left you,” he admitted. “I got interested.”

  “You look dreadful!”

  “Maybe I’ll look worse after I try out this thing I’ve made, I’m not sure.”

  “When did you eat last?” she demanded. “And when did you sleep?”

  He shrugged tiredly, regarding the thing in his hands. He’d had enough experience contriving new things to know that no theory is right until something that depends on it has been made and works. He tended to be pessimistic. But this time he thought he had it.

  “Is this working night and day a part of your reaction to those signals?” asked Sandy unhappily. “If it is—”

  “Let’s try it,” Burke interrupted. “It’s something I worked out from the dream. Now I’ll find out whether I’m crazy or not—maybe.” He drew a deep breath. He had a sodden, deep and corrosive doubt of things which didn’t make sense, like space signals and magnets which weren�
��t magnets because they were capable of negative self-induction. “If this shows no sign of working, Sandy…”

  “What?”

  He didn’t answer. He went heavily over to the table where he had storage-battery current available. He plucked a momentary-contact switch out of a drawer and connected it to the wires from the small thing he’d made. Then he hooked on the storage battery.

  “Stand back, Sandy,” he said tiredly. “We’ll see what happens.”

  He flipped the momentary-contact switch. There was a crash and a roar. The six-inch thing leaped. It grazed Burke’s head and drew blood. It flashed across the room, a full thirty feet, and then smashed a water-cooler and imbedded itself in the brick wall beyond. A tool cabinet tottered and crashed to the floor. The storage battery spouted steam, swelled. Burke grabbed Sandy and plunged outside with her as the building filled with vaporized battery acid.

  Outside, he put her down and rubbed his nose with his finger.

  “That was a surprise,” he said with some animation. “Are you all right?”

  “You—could have been killed!” she said in a whisper.

  “I wasn’t,” said Burke. “If you’re not hurt there’s no harm done. It looks like the thing worked! Lucky that was only a millisecond contact! Negative self-induction… I’ll break some windows and come to the office.”

  He did break windows, from the outside, so air could flow through the building and clear away the battery-acid steam. Sandy watched him anxiously.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll come quietly.”