Rule of the Brains

by John Russell Fearn

  “Listen. There is an unused annex to Number Seven Machine Room to which, as Overseer, I have access. It is used occasionally, but only to store spare electrical equipment and machinery in case of a breakdown in the Machine Room itself. There is power there that can be tapped, too. Few people outside myself know where this annex is. I suggest we take your apparatus there—tonight—where a degree of safety is assured.”

  “All right, if you think it’s necessary,” Braxton agreed. “It does sound as if you expect trouble, though. Surely the President would never stoop to such—”

  “Not the President,” Clarke interrupted. “He is one of the straightest men on earth—but I have never trusted Carfax, and the Arbiter was his idea. Yet you must reveal your process, otherwise it becomes useless. So, do we take the precaution?”

  Braxton agreed, then glanced at Boyd Turner. “What about Boyd’s brain surgery idea? He’ll have to see the President too, you know.”

  “That can wait until we see how your interview goes, since his idea is only practicable with your apparatus.” Clarke looked at the surgeon. “You don’t mind holding back for the moment?”

  “Suits me. But how do we transfer Cliff’s machinery?”

  “That’s easy. We’ll get over to his place and I’ll order a large air-taxi. We’ll do it in one trip. No one will suspect a thing at the Machine Rooms when I tell them I’m merely moving in some auxiliary equipment....”

  CHAPTER 7

  The job was done shortly before midnight, and Clifford Braxton was still somewhat dazed by events. He took home with him the memory of Clarke’s tremendous sincerity. In his mind’s eye, as he retired, he saw again the large, deserted expanse of the annex to Machine Room 7, with its untapped power-points embedded in the wall. He saw again the flood of light from the arcs Clarke had provided, operating from their own batteries....

  For a reason he could not quite understand, Braxton was glad of the interest Clarke was taking, in addition to that of Boyd Turner. It made his discovery seem doubly worthwhile. Even now he did not fully realise the terrific significance of his work.

  The following morning, acting on Clarke’s advice, he received permission for an interview with the President—and after the usual searching routine found himself before Luther Nolan.

  “Well, young man?” Nolan asked, smiling. “What can I do for you? And sit down, won’t you?”

  “Yes, sir—thank you.” Braxton sat down with a nervous eagerness and inwardly wished the eyes of the President were not quite so searching. But the powerful mouth had an encouraging smile, so—Braxton plunged. He told the whole story of his research into suspended animation, as he had told it to Clarke, but with more technical detail. Not once did the President interrupt him, even though a variety of expressions crossed his face. At the end of it all Braxton sat in breathless silence and dabbed at his forehead.

  “This, my young friend, is amazing—particularly so in a world dangerously close to intellectual sterility.” Though the President spoke carefully, there was little doubt that he believed—with Sherman Clarke—that initiative was fast dying. Then he went on, “For my part I will be only too glad to authorise a State grant if the idea is all you claim. I must have expert opinion, though. Pardon me a moment....”

  Braxton decided that the greatness of the man lay in his easy courtesy towards others.

  “Send Dr. Carfax in to me,” Nolan ordered into his desk-phone.

  There was a brief silence afterwards as each pursued his own reflections—then the wall slide moved back and the bald-headed scientist appeared. He moved to the desk and waited expectantly.

  “A matter needing your expert opinion has come up, Carfax,” Nolan said. “Please sit down and listen to this....”

  Carfax drew up a chair, seated himself, then as usual closed his eyes as he concentrated on the playback machine’s recording. As the interview ended Carfax reopened his eyes.

  “Impossible!” he stated flatly. “Excellent in theory, I admit, but impossible in practice. The subject would be dead when dealing with such low temperatures. lf it were otherwise, it would have been done long ago.”

  “If science had not drowsed to a standstill, it would have been done long ago,” Braxton retorted, and wondered where he got his sudden courage from.

  “To me,” the President said quietly, “the theory sounds very feasible.”

  “It is,” Braxton insisted. “I can restore a frozen person to life!”

  Carfax left his seat and stood pondering for a while, hands in his overall pockets. Then he glanced sharply at the President.

  “I suggest this matter be put before the Arbiter. Twelve brains, six of them highly scientific, cannot possibly be wrong.”

  Nolan nodded and got to his feet, led the way into the adjoining room where the machine stood. Clifford Braxton looked at it dubiously, then turned to Carfax as the scientist made the position clear to the Arbiter by switching on the recorded interview through a relay speaker.

  When it was over there was a long, and for Braxton, an uneasy silence. Then the mechanical bass voice spoke.

  “The verdict of Dr. Carfax is correct. Suspended animation—at least in respect of human beings—cannot operate safely.”

  “But it can!” Braxton protested desperately.

  “The Arbiter has spoken.”

  “But surely, Dr. Carfax, if you were to witness a demonstration?” Braxton swung round to him. “This is simply condemnation without a shred of reason! I must be permitted to prove my statements!”

  “Where is your experimental apparatus?” the scientist asked.

  Braxton hesitated, an unbidden fear crossing his mind.

  “It is to be found in the unused Annex of Machine Room Seven,” the Arbiter stated. “I have read that from Clifford Braxton’s mind. But you are forbidden to have any dealings with it, Dr. Carfax.”

  A surprised expression crossed Carfax’s face as he looked at the machine. Then the bass voice went on, “And you, Clifford Braxton, will discontinue your experiments and destroy your apparatus forthwith!”

  “Destroy it?” A grim obstinacy crept into the young man’s face. “I refuse to. do that! I am not going to smash a masterpiece just because twelve tinned brains order me to do it!”

  “You have been warned,” the Arbiter said impartially.

  Braxton strode angrily to the door, then he swung round.

  “Thank you both, gentlemen, for listening to me,” he muttered—then with a final glance of contempt at the Arbiter he went out.

  * * * *

  Sherman Clarke and Boyd Turner were both waiting at Braxton’s home for him to return with the verdict. When midday passed they grew worried—then they had to split up and return to their duties. It was not until well into the afternoon before they heard the verdict—and so did every other Worker, through the public address system.

  “A Worker—Forty-Six Stroke Nine by number—Clifford Braxton by name—today openly rejected the verdict of the Arbiter. Half an hour ago his body was found crushed to pulp on the Seventh Intersection. He had apparently jumped from the Sixth Pedestrian Walk.”

  The announcement ended. White-faced, his jaw set, Clarke sat scowling at his desk in his little private office.

  “Mind force!” he whispered. “Christ! That damned twelve-brained contraption killed him! Hypnotic suicide! By God, I should never have let the boy go....”

  Clarke was not alone in his perturbation. The Workers looked at each other with bitter wonder, dawning anger in their faces. In his own office the President reflected indecisively.... In the Physical Laboratories Dr. Carfax looked passingly astonished, then he too frowned in doubt.

  Only the Arbiter, sinister and impartial, remained undisturbed.

  * * * *

  Amongst the Workers the mysterious death of Clifford Braxton precipitated something of a crisis. Clarke found himself with quite a number of incensed people to deal with. Backing their angry protests were those who had supported him originally�
�the would-be nurse, writer, architect, and the surgeon, Boyd Turner.

  Rather than deal with the trouble in the Machine Rooms or in an automat—where they might be overheard—Clarke convened instead a meeting the following evening in the annex, where lay the revolutionary machinery of the late Clifford Braxton.

  “Why do we have to meet here?” demanded Brenda Charteris. “We aren’t fugitive!”

  “Don’t be too sure of that,” Clarke warned her—then at their looks of surprise he gazed round on the set, angry faces of the others. All the same, he felt he could trust them.

  “I called this meeting here for one good reason,” he went on. “In fact, for the same reason that led me to have Cliff Braxton’s apparatus brought here. This annex is sheathed in lead walls, floor, and ceiling. Because of that thought waves cannot penetrate it.”

  “You mean the Arbiter can read our thoughts at this distance?” asked Iris Weigh, the writer, incredulously.

  “I regard it as possible—therefore, it’s best to take precautions. If that Thing gets one hint of how we feel towards it, it is liable to do anything. Here, in this annex, we have a measure of protection.”

  “Then you knew, since you took these precautions, that Cliff was going to be killed?” Boyd Turner demanded.

  “No, I did not. I would never have let him go if I’d thought that. But I did realise that the Arbiter might read his mind and find out where his invention was hidden. At his home it could have been very easily reached and destroyed—but here it is safer. Nothing short of blast rays can break into this place. Whether the Arbiter will strike here I don’t know: but we must be ready for it. Probably, though, it will regard Cliff’s death as sufficient if it does not know his invention has been preserved.”

  “Just what is the matter with this Arbiter?” someone asked. “I thought it was brought into being to dispense justice. What kind of justice is it that kills a man because he has made a marvellous discovery?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Clarke said slowly. “That there is something very much wrong with it I’m reasonably certain. Only one man could possibly explain it—Vincent Carfax. I believe he’s grinding an axe of his own. It’s pretty common knowledge that he would do almost anything to get the Presidency.”

  “Then let’s go and ask him what he’s driving at!” shouted a man at the back. “What the hell are we waiting for?”

  “Proof,” Clarke answered laconically. “We can’t take action against a man as powerful as Carfax without being dead sure of what we’re doing. Remember that he has the President behind him, even if they do dislike each other personally.... No, I asked you here to tell you that we must be careful, but at the same time we must keep our eyes open. We’ll wait and see if the Arbiter continues to behave as it has, and if it does, we can bring forth Braxton’s apparatus and demonstrate it. When we have proved that the Arbiter can be wrong, then the President will have no course but to order the use of the thing stopped!”

  There was a grim silence for a while, then Thomas Lannon spoke.

  “All right—you are our leader. We’ll do as you advise—but if anything like the Braxton tragedy happens again we’ll take action, whether you agree or not—even if we have to destroy the Arbiter ourselves!”

  “You can’t destroy it,” Clarke reminded him. “It’s made of interlocking atoms, which no power we know of can tear apart.”

  The quiet fell again, an uneasy one this time—then Boyd Turner spoke hesitantly.

  “All this makes me feel mighty uncomfortable! I’m still waiting to put my brain surgery idea forward, for which I’ll need Cliff’s apparatus. Suppose I’m referred to the Arbiter? I could meet the same fate as he did!”

  “I know,” Clarke answered him. “That’s why I say we should wait. Other Workers and scientists in other parts of the city are bound to come forward with their own ideas in due course. We’ll soon know whether or not their inventions have been sanctioned or thrown out.”

  Again that uneasy silence, but Clarke sensed an undercurrent of approval for his council.

  “That’s all we have to discuss now,” he added, glancing round on the people. “Everything depends now on what sort of reception the next inventor receives from the Arbiter.”

  Three days later the President again granted audience to a young man who claimed to have made a discovery of immense importance. As indeed he had. Robert Craymond had stumbled upon a wavelength that could produce cold light. It could be accomplished, he claimed, by rearranging the molecules of a copper cube so that it transmitted cosmic radiation instead of absorbing it. The result being pretty much the same as a mirror reflecting a beam of sunlight.

  The copper, once treated by his process, would never need recharging. Just as a mirror never needs attention to reflect a beam of sunlight. The lamps would be eternal, since cosmic radiation poured down upon the earth night and day from space. What Craymond had discovered, albeit accidentally, was a wavelength which changed the atomic make-up of any inorganic object so as to make it reflect cosmic radiation as a white luminosity, instead of absorbing it. Such a light would work anywhere, except perhaps in deep mines or heavily insulated vaults.

  The light, Craymond claimed, had a magical quality—a pearly lustre of snow-white brilliance. Yet it did not hurt the eye. It penetrated into the darkest corners; it made conventional lamps look dirty yellow by comparison.

  The industrial and domestic implications of the discovery were immense. Electrical energy such as normally gave light could be converted to something else—or else dispensed with altogether.

  Once again the President called in Vincent Carfax to listen to the playback of Craymond’s exposition. This time the scientist did not pass an opinion, but called in the Arbiter.

  The discovery was rejected as fallacious. A bewildered Robert Craymond found himself escorted from the building. The blazing injustice of the decision incensed him. He would construct a working model, and force the President to witness it....

  His resolve was cut short as an overwhelming impulse swept through his mind.

  The Arbiter had struck—again.

  CHAPTER 8

  At noon the following day the President himself broadcast the news of the latest death—in almost exactly the same terms as those explaining the fate of Clifford Braxton. Death through a fall from a pedestrian walk, following an interview in which he had received an unfavourable decision by the Arbiter....

  This time, however, Luther Nolan did not let the incident pass and wonder at the murderous injustice of it. Instead he deliberated, then, his mind made up, he went into the adjoining room where the Arbiter stood in solitary, inhuman state.

  For a moment Nolan studied the machine, then he spoke levelly.

  “Arbiter, your dispensation of so-called justice does not please me! In the past three days two men have brought what could have been great advancements to science. In a world frozen of new ideas those discoveries would have been priceless, despite the fact that Dr. Carfax was not impressed. And what did you do? Not content with merely rejecting their ideas, you killed the men! Murdered, without mercy or purpose! You were created to be of benefit to Mankind, and instead this is what happens! I demand an explanation!”

  “I give you no explanations,” the Arbiter answered. “Both the theories submitted were too fantastic to be entertained—”

  “That’s damned nonsense!” Nolan interrupted angrily. “If there is any explanation at all, it is that you are too infernally conservative to know a good idea when you hear one—why, I can’t imagine. It’s as though you’re not thinking of the future at all, but are living in the past!”

  “You are the President, Luther Nolan, but I have the last word,” the Arbiter said. “Both of those men fully intended to go on with their experiments in spite of my decision. My only course was to destroy them, because in defying me they threaten the State.”

  Nolan’s fists tightened in sudden decision.

  “This state of affairs can’t go on! I refu
se to stand by and see innocent lives snuffed out just because you don’t approve of progress. I—”

  Nolan stopped, aware for the first time in his experience of the Arbiter of the full, baleful power the thing possessed. That aura of mental power, which had always surrounded it seemed suddenly to expand into a flooding tide. Even as he stood there Nolan felt the impact of fiendish mental force bite deep to the roots of his brain....

  He staggered helplessly in his agony, the room seeming to swirl about him. He went down into darkness with the dim impression that the attention buzzer on his desk was sounding noisily.... Dr. Carfax was ringing the President from his own apartment. Eventually Carfax desisted, reflecting on the disturbing fact that the President was not at his desk. A vague doubt stirred him, and at length it became so insistent that he went along to investigate.

  The moment he drew aside the slide leading into the President’s office, he sensed something was wrong. Instruments on the desk were either buzzing or flashing for attention: the door leading to the Arbiter’s domain was wide open.

  Carfax paused only long enough to cut the main contact, which killed the desk instruments, then he hurried across to the open doorway.... It took him only a few seconds to discover that Luther Nolan was dead. Slowly he straightened up, then going over to the door he closed it, turned back and faced the Arbiter.

  “This, Arbiter, was not in the bargain!” he said grimly. “It may even cause serious trouble, coming on the heels of those other two deaths....”

  “He was planning to raise help to encompass my destruction. I had to stop him.”

  Carfax reflected, his eyes on the contorted face of the dead President. Then he shrugged.

  “Well, as things have worked out I suppose it simply means that I shall become President a little prematurely.”

  “You may become President, Carfax, but you will never rule,” the Arbiter stated. “Neither you nor anybody else!”

  Carfax started forward, alarm on his usually calm face. He halted within a yard of the mechanical brains.

  “Have you forgotten the bargain we made before you became the Arbiter?” he demanded. “With you six scientists—for of course your superior minds swamp those of the Workers to whom you are linked—I arranged that when you became part of the Arbiter you would learn all the scientific secrets you could from those placing their problems before you. Then you would give the verdict against them. That you have done, destroying those who owned the secrets.... But it was also agreed that you would share those secrets with me when I took Luther Nolan’s place! Between us—I moving about where you cannot—there are no limits to what we cannot do—”