A Treasury of Great Science Fiction 1

by Anthony Boucher (ed)

  Waldo felt a normal impulse to cut the man off, but it was overruled by a fascination as to what he would say next. Rambeau continued. “Do you know why? Do you? Riddle me that.”

  “Why?”

  Rambeau placed a finger beside his nose and smiled roguishly. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Wouldn’t you give a pretty to know? But I’ll tell you!”

  “Tell me, then.”

  Rambeau suddenly looked terrified. “Perhaps I shouldn’t. Perhaps they are listening. But I will, I will! Listen carefully: Nothing is certain.”

  “Is that all?” inquired Waldo, now definitely amused by the man’s antics.

  “ ‘Is that all?’ Isn’t that enough? Hens will crow and cocks will lay. You are here and I am there. Or maybe not. Nothing is certain. Nothing, nothing, NOTHING is certain! Around and around the little ball goes, and where it stops nobody knows. Only I’ve learned how to do it.”

  “How to do what?”

  “How to make the little ball stop where I want it to. Look.” He whipped out a penknife. “When you cut yourself, you bleed, don’t you? Or do you?” He sliced at the forefinger of his left hand. “See?” He held the finger close to the pickup; the cut, though deep, was barely discernible and it was bleeding not at all.

  Capital! thought Waldo. Hysteric vascular control—a perfect clinical case. “Anybody can do that,” he said aloud. “Show me a hard one.”

  “Anybody? Certainly anybody can—if they know how. Try this one.” He jabbed the point of the penknife straight into the palm of his left hand, so that it stuck out the back of his hand. He wiggled the blade in the wound, withdrew it, and displayed the palm. No blood, and the incision was closing rapidly. “Do you know why? The knife is only probably there, and I’ve found the improbability!”

  Amusing as it had been, Waldo was beginning to be bored by it. “Is that all?”

  “There is no end to it,” pronounced Rambeau, “for nothing is certain any more. Watch this.” He held the knife flat on his palm, then turned his hand over.

  The knife did not fall, but remained in contact with the underside of his hand.

  Waldo was suddenly attentive. It might be a trick; it probably was a trick—but it impressed him more, much more, than Rambeau’s failure to bleed when cut. One was common to certain types of psychosis; the other should not have happened. He cut in another viewphone circuit. “Get me Chief Engineer Stevens at North American Power-Air,” he said sharply. “At once!”

  Rambeau paid no attention, but continued to speak of the penknife. “It does not know which way is down,” he crooned, “for nothing is certain any more. Maybe it will fall—maybe not. I think it will. There—it has. Would you like to see me walk on the ceiling?”

  “You called me, Mr. Jones?” It was Stevens.

  Waldo cut his audio circuit to Rambeau. “Yes. That jumping jack, Rambeau. Catch him and bring him to me at once. I want to see him.”

  “But Mr. Jo—”

  “Move!” He cut Stevens off, and renewed the audio to Rambeau.

  “—uncertainty. Chaos is King, and Magic is loose in the world!” Rambeau looked vaguely at Waldo, brightened, and added, “Good day, Mr. Jones. Thank you for calling.”

  The screen went dead.

  Waldo waited impatiently. The whole thing had been a hoax, he told himself. Rambeau had played a gigantic practical joke. Waldo disliked practical jokes. He put in another call for Stevens and left it in.

  When Stevens did call back his hair was mussed and his face was red. “We had a bad time of it,” he said.

  “Did you get him?”

  “Rambeau? Yes, finally.”

  “Then bring him up.”

  “To Freehold? But that’s impossible. You don’t understand. He’s blown his top; he’s crazy. They’ve taken him away to a hospital.”

  “You assume too much,” Waldo said icily. “I know he’s crazy, but I meant what I said. Arrange it. Provide nurses. Sign affidavits. Use bribery. Bring him to me at once. It is necessary.”

  “You really mean that?”

  “I’m not in the habit of jesting.”

  “Something to do with your investigations? He’s in no shape to be useful to you, I can tell you that.”

  ‘That,” pronounced Waldo, “is for me to decide.”

  “Well,” said Stevens doubtfully, “I’ll try.”

  “See that you succeed.”

  Stevens called back thirty minutes later. “I can’t bring Rambeau.”

  “You clumsy incompetent.”

  Stevens turned red, but held his temper. “Never mind the personalities. He’s gone. He never got to the hospital.”

  “What?”

  “That’s the crazy part about it. They took him away in a confining stretcher, laced up like a corset. I saw them fasten him in myself. But when they got there he was gone. And the attendants claim the straps weren’t even unbuckled,”

  Waldo started to say, “Preposterous,” thought better of it. Stevens went on.

  “But that’s not the half of it. I’d sure like to talk to him myself. I’ve been looking around his lab. You know that set of deKalbs that went nuts—the ones that were hexed?”

  “I know to what you refer.”

  “Rambeau’s got a second set to doing the same thing!” Waldo remained silent for several seconds, then said quietly, “Dr. Stevens—”

  “Yes.”

  “I want to thank you for your efforts. And will you please have both sets of receptors, the two sets that are misbehaving, sent to Freehold at once?”

  There was no doubt about it. Once he had seen them with his own eyes, watched the inexplicable squirming of the antennae, applied such tests as suggested themselves to his mind, Waldo was forced to conclude that he was faced with new phenomena, phenomena for which he did not know the rules.

  If there were rules . . .

  For he was honest with himself. If he saw what he thought he saw, then rules were being broken by the new phenomena, rules which he had considered valid, rules to which he had never previously encountered exceptions. He admitted to himself that the original failures of the deKalbs should have been considered just as overwhelmingly upsetting to physical law as the unique behavior of these two; the difference lay in that one alien phenomenon was spectacular, the other was not.

  Quite evidently Dr. Rambeau had found it so; he had been informed that the doctor had been increasingly neurotic from the first instance of erratic performance of the deKalb receptors.

  He regretted the loss of Dr. Rambeau. Waldo was more impressed by Rambeau crazy than he had ever been by Rambeau sane. Apparently the man had had some modicum of ability after all; he had found out something—more, Waldo admitted, than he himself had been able to find out so far, even though it had driven Rambeau insane.

  Waldo had no fear that Rambeau’s experience, whatever it had been, could unhinge his own reason. His own self-confidence was, perhaps, fully justified. His own mild paranoid tendency was just sufficient to give him defenses against an unfriendly world. For him it was healthy, a necessary adjustment to an otherwise intolerable situation, no more pathological than a callus, or an acquired immunity.

  Otherwise he was probably more able to face disturbing facts with equanimity than 99 per cent of his contemporaries. He had been born to disaster; he had met it and had overcome it, time and again. The very house which surrounded him was testimony to the calm and fearless fashion in which he had defeated a world to which he was not adapted.

  He exhausted, temporarily, the obvious lines of direct research concerning the strangely twisting metal rods. Rambeau was not available for questioning. Very well, there remained one other man who knew more about it than Waldo did. He would seek him out. He called Stevens again.

  “Has there been any word of Dr. Rambeau?”

  “No word, and no sign. I’m beginning to think the poor old fellow is dead.”

  “Perhaps. That witch doctor friend of your assistant—was Schneider his name?”
/>   “Gramps Schneider.”

  “Yes indeed. Will you please arrange for him to speak with me?”

  “By phone, or do you want to see him in person?”

  “I would prefer for him to come here, but I understand that he is old and feeble; it may not be feasible for him to leave the ground. If he is knotted up with spacesickness, he will be no use to me.”

  “I’ll see what can be done.”

  “Very good. Please expedite the matter. And, Dr. Stevens—”

  “Well?”

  “If it should prove necessary to use the phone, arrange to have a portable full stereo taken to his home. I want the circumstances to be as favorable as possible.”

  “O.K.”

  “Imagine that,” Stevens added to McLeod when the circuit had been broken. “The Great-I-Am’s showing consideration for somebody else’s convenience.”

  “The fat boy must be sick,” McLeod decided.

  “Seems likely. This chore is more yours than mine, Mac. Come along with me; we’ll take a run over into Pennsylvania.”

  “How about the plant?”

  “Tell Carruthers he’s ‘It.’ If anything blows, we couldn’t help it anyway.”

  Stevens mugged back later in the day. “Mr. Jones—”

  “Yes, Doctor?”

  “What you suggest can’t be arranged.”

  “You mean that Schneider can’t come to Freehold?”

  “I mean that and I mean that you can’t talk with him on the viewphone.”

  “I presume that you mean he is dead.”

  “No, I do not. I mean that he will not talk over the viewphone under any circumstances whatsoever, to you or to anyone. He says that he is sorry not to accommodate you, but that he is opposed to everything of that nature—cameras, cinecams, television, and so forth. He considers them dangerous. I am afraid he is set in his superstition.”

  “As an ambassador, Dr. Stevens, you leave much to be desired.”

  Stevens counted up to ten, then said, “I assure you that I have done everything in my power to comply with your wishes. If you are dissatisfied with the quality of my co-operation, I suggest that you speak to Mr. Gleason.” He cleared the circuit.

  “How would you like to kick him in the teeth?” McLeod said dreamily.

  “Mac, you’re a mind reader.”

  Waldo tried again through his own agents, received the same answer. The situation was, to him, almost intolerable; it had been years since he had encountered a man whom he could not buy, bully, nor—in extremity—persuade. Buying had failed; he had realized instinctively that

  Schneider would be unlikely to be motivated by greed. And how can one bully, or wheedle, a man who cannot be seen to be talked with?

  It was a dead end—no way out. Forget it.

  Except, of course, for a means best classed as a Fate-Worse-Than-Death.

  No. No, not that. Don’t think about it. Better to drop the whole matter, admit that it had him licked, and tell Gleason so. It had been seventeen years since he had been at Earth surface; nothing could induce him to subject his body to the intolerable demands of that terrible field. Nothing!

  It might even kill him. He might choke to death, suffocate. No.

  He sailed gracefully across his shop, an overpadded Cupid. Give up this freedom, even for a time, for that torturous bondage? Ridiculous! It was not worth it.

  Better to ask an acrophobe to climb Half Dome, or demand that a claustrophobe interview a man in the world’s deepest mine.

  “Uncle Gus?”

  “Oh, hello, Waldo. Glad you called.”

  “Would it be safe for me to come down to Earth?”

  “Eh? How’s that? Speak up, man. I didn’t understand you.”

  “I said would it hurt me to make a trip down to Earth.”

  “This hookup,” said Grimes, “is terrible. It sounded just like you were saying you wanted to come down to Earth.”

  “That’s what I did say.”

  “What’s the matter, Waldo? Do you feel all right?”

  “I feel fine, but I have to see a man at Earth surface. There isn’t any other way for me to talk to him, and I’ve got to talk to him. Would the trip do me any harm?”

  “Ought not to, if you’re careful. After all, you were born there. Be careful of yourself, though. You’ve laid a lot of fat around your heart.”

  “Oh dear. Do you think it’s dangerous?”

  “No. You’re sound enough. Just don’t overstrain yourself. And be careful to keep your temper.”

  “I will. I most certainly will. Uncle Gus?”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you come along with me and help me see it through?”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary.”

  “Please, Uncle Gus. I don’t trust anybody else.”

  “Time you grew up, Waldo. However, I will, this once.”

  “Now remember,” Waldo told the pilot, “the absolute acceleration must never exceed one and one tenth gs, even in landing. I’ll be watching the accelograph the whole time.”

  “I’ve been driving ambulances,” said the pilot, “for twelve years, and I’ve never given a patient a rough ride yet.”

  “That’s no answer. Understand me? One and one tenth; and it should not even approach that figure until we are under the stratosphere. Quiet, Baldur! Quit snuffling.”

  “I get you.”

  “Be sure that you do. Your bonuses depend on it.”

  “Maybe you’d like to herd it yourself.”

  “I don’t like your attitude, my man. If I should die in the tank, you would never get another job.”

  The pilot muttered something.

  “What was that?” Waldo demanded sharply.

  “Well, I said it might be worth it.”

  Waldo started to turn red, opened his mouth.

  Grimes cut in, “Easy, Waldo! Remember your heart.”

  “Yes, Uncle Gus.”

  Grimes snaked his way forward, indicated to the pilot that he wanted him to join him there.

  “Don’t pay any attention to anything he says,” he advised the man quietly, “except what he said about acceleration. He really can’t stand much acceleration. He might die in the tank.”

  “I still don’t think it would be any loss. But I’ll be careful.”

  “Good.”

  “I’m ready to enter the tank,” Waldo called out. “Will you help me with the straps, Uncle Gus?”

  The tank was not a standard deceleration type, but a modification built for this one trip. The tank was roughly the shape of an oversized coffin and was swung in gimbals to keep it always normal to the axis of absolute acceleration. Waldo floated in water—the specific gravity of his fat hulk was low—from which he was separated by the usual flexible, gasketed tarpaulin. Supporting his head and shoulders was a pad shaped to his contour. A mechanical artificial resuscitator was built into the tank, the back pads being under water, the breast pads out of the water but retracted out of the way.

  Grimes stood by with neoadrenalin; a saddle had been provided for him on the left side of the tank. Baldur was strapped to a shelf on the right side of the tank; he acted as a counterweight to Grimes.

  Grimes assured himself that all was in readiness, then called out to the pilot, “Start when you’re ready.”

  “O.K.” He sealed the access port; the entry tube folded itself back against the threshold flat of Freehold, freeing the ship. Gently they got under way.

  Waldo closed his eyes; a look of seraphic suffering came over his face.

  “Uncle Gus, suppose the deKalbs fail?”

  “No matter. Ambulances store six times the normal reserve.”

  “You’re sure?”

  When Baldur began to feel weight, he started to whimper. Grimes spoke to him; he quieted down. But presently—days later, it seemed to Waldo—as the ship sank farther down into the Earth’s gravitational field, the absolute acceleration necessarily increased, although the speed of the ship had not cha
nged materially. The dog felt the weary heaviness creeping over his body. He did not understand it and he liked it even less; it terrified him. He began to howl.

  Waldo opened his eyes. “Merciful heavens!” he moaned. “Can’t you do something about that? He must be dying.”

  “I’ll see.” Grimes undid his safety belt and swung himself across the tank. The shift in weight changed the balance of the load in the gimbals; Waldo was rocked against the side of the tank.

  “Oh!” he panted. “Be careful.”

  “Take it easy.” Grimes caressed the dog’s head and spoke to him. When he had calmed down, Grimes grabbed a handful of hide between the dog’s shoulders, measured his spot, and jabbed in a hypo. He rubbed the area. “There, old fellow! That will make you feel better.”

  Getting back caused Waldo to be rocked again, but he bore it in martyred silence.

  The ambulance made just one jerky maneuver after it entered the atmosphere. Both Waldo and the dog yelped. “Private ship,” the pilot yelled back. “Didn’t heed my right-of-way lights.” He muttered something about women drivers.

  “It wasn’t his fault,” Grimes told Waldo. “I saw it.”

  The pilot set them down with exquisite gentleness in a clearing which had been prepared between the highway and Schneider’s house. A party of men was waiting for them there; under Grimes’s supervision they unslung the tank and carried Waldo out into the open air. The evolution was performed slowly and carefully, but necessarily involved some degree of bumping and uneven movement. Waldo stood it with silent fortitude, but tears leaked out from under his lowered lids.

  Once outside he opened his eyes and asked, “Where is Baldur?”

  “I unstrapped him,” Grimes informed him, “but he did not follow us out.”

  Waldo called out huskily, “Here, Baldur! Come to me, boy.”

  Inside the car the dog heard his boss’s voice, raised his head, and gave a low bark. He still felt that terrifying sickness, but he inched forward on his belly, attempting to comply. Grimes reached the door in time to see what happened.

  The dog reached the edge of his shelf and made a grotesque attempt to launch himself in the direction from which he had heard Waldo’s voice. He tried the only method of propulsion he knew; no doubt he expected to sail through the door and arrest his flight against the tank on the ground. Instead he fell several feet to the inner floor plates, giving one agonized yelp as he did so, and breaking his fall most clumsily with stiffened forelegs.