A Treasury of Great Science Fiction 1

by Anthony Boucher (ed)

  “Here.” The village constable elbowed his way through a little crowd of men. “Any plans,” he said.

  “There’s only one plan,” said Fara boldly. “Go in and arrest them.”

  The two men looked at each other, then at the ground. It was the big constable who answered shortly, “Door’s locked. And nobody answers our pounding. I was just going to suggest we let the matter ride until morning.”

  “Nonsense!” Astonishment made Fara impatient. “Get an axe and well break down the door. Delay will only encourage such riffraff to resist. We don’t want their kind in our village for a single night. Isn’t that so?”

  There was a hasty nod of agreement from everybody in his immediate vicinity. Too hasty. Fara looked around puzzled at eyes that lowered before his level gaze. He thought: “They are all scared. And unwilling.” Before he could speak, Constable Jor said:

  “I guess you haven’t heard about those doors or these shops. From all accounts you can’t break into them.”

  It struck Fara with a sudden pang that it was he who would have to act here. He said, “I’ll get my atomic cutting machine from my shop. That’ll fix them. Have I your permission to do that, Mr. Mayor?”

  In the glow of the weapon shop window, the plump map was sweating visibly. He pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped his forehead. He said: “Maybe I’d better call the commander of the Imperial garrison at Ferd, and ask them.”

  “No!” Fara recognized evasion when he saw it. Suddenly, the conviction came that all the strength in this village was in him. “We must act ourselves. Other communities have let these people get in because they took no decisive action. We’ve got to resist to the limit. Beginning this minute. Well?”

  The mayor’s “All right!” was scarcely more than a sigh of sound. But it was all Fara needed. He called out his intention to the crowd, and then, as he pushed his way out of the mob, he saw his son standing with some other young men staring at the window display.

  Fara called: “Cayle, come and help me with the machine.”

  Cayle neither stirred nor turned. Fara paused, half inclined to make an issue of it, then hurried on, seething. That wretched boy! One of these days he’d have to take firm action there. Or he’d have a no-good on his hands.

  The energy was soundless and smooth. There was no sputter, no fireworks. It glowed with a soft, pure white light, almost caressing the metal panels of the door. But after a minute it had still not affected the material. Fara refused to believe the failure, and played the boundlessly potent energy on that resisting wall. When he finally shut off his machine, he was perspiring freely. “I don’t understand it,” he gasped. “Why—no metal is supposed to stand up against a steady flood of atomic force. Even the hard metal plates used inside the blast chamber of a motor take the explosions in what is called infinite series, so that each one has unlimited rest. That’s the theory, but actually steady running crystallizes the whole plate after a few months.”

  “It’s as Jor told you,” said the mayor. “These weapon shops are—big. They spread right through the empire, and they don’t recognize the empress.”

  Fara shifted his feet on the hard grass, disturbed. He didn’t like this kind of talk. It sounded sacrilegious. And besides it was nonsense. It must be. Before he could speak, a man in the crowd said, “I’ve heard it said that that door will open only to those who cannot harm the people inside.”

  The words shocked Fara out of his daze. His failure had had a bad psychological effect. He said sharply, “That’s ridiculous I If there were doors like that, we’d all have them. We—”

  What stopped his words was the sudden realization that he had not seen anybody try to open the door; and with all this reluctance around him it was quite possible that no one had tried. He stepped forward, grasped at the doorknob, and pulled. The door opened with an unnatural weightlessness that gave him the fleeting impression that the knob had come loose into his hand. With a gasp, Fara jerked the door wide open.

  “Jor,” he yelled, “get in!”

  The constable made a distorted movement—distorted by what must have been a will to caution, followed by the instant realization that he could not hold back before so many. He leaped awkwardly toward the open door. And it closed in his face.

  Fara stared stupidly at his hand, which was still clenched. And then, slowly, a thrill coursed along his nerves. The knob had withdrawn. It had twisted, become viscous, and slipped amorphously from his straining fingers. Even the memory of the sensation gave him a feeling of unnormal things. He grew aware that the crowd was watching with silent intentness. Fara reached angrily for the knob, but this time the handle neither turned nor yielded in any way. The obstacle brought his determination back in force. He motioned to the constable.

  “Go back, Jor, while I pull.”

  The man retreated, but it did no good. And tugging did not help. The door would not open. Somewhere in the crowd, a man said darkly, “It decided to let you in, then it changed its mind.”

  “What foolishness are you talking!” Fara spoke violently. “It changed its mind. Are you crazy? A door has no sense.”

  Fear put a quaver into his voice. Shame at his alarm made him bold beyond his normal caution. Fara faced the shop grimly. The building loomed there under the night sky, in itself bright as day, alien and menacing, and no longer easily conquerable. He wondered what the soldiers of the empress would do if they were invited to act. And, suddenly, he foresaw flashingly that even they would be able to do nothing. Fara was conscious of horror that such an idea could enter his mind. He shut his brain tight.

  “The door opened for me once,” he said wildly. “It will open again.”

  It did. Gently, without resistance, with that same sensation of weightlessness, the strange, sensitive door followed tie tug of his fingers. Beyond the threshold was dimness, a wide, darkened alcove. Behind him, Mayor Dale said:

  “Fara, don’t be a fool. What will you do inside?”

  Fara was amazed to realize that he had stepped across the threshold. He turned, startled, and stared at the blur of faces. “Why—” he began blankly; then he brightened—“Why, I’ll buy a gun, of course.”

  The brilliance of his reply, the cunning implicit in it, dazzled him for half a minute longer. The mood yielded slowly as he found himself in the dimly lighted interior of the weapon shop.

  CHAPTER TWO

  IT WAS PRETERNATURALY quiet inside. No sound penetrated from the night out of which he had come. Fara walked forward gingerly on a carpeted floor that deadened his footsteps. His eyes accustomed themselves to the soft lighting, which came like a reflection from the walls and ceiling. He had expected ultra-normalness. The ordinariness of the atomic lighting acted like a tonic to his tensed nerves. He glanced around with gathering confidence. The place looked normal enough. It was a shop, scantily furnished. There were showcases on the walls and on the floor, lovely things, but nothing unusual, and not many of them—a dozen. There was in addition a double door leading to a back room.

  Fara tried to keep one eye on that door as he examined several showcases, each with three or four weapons either mounted or arranged in boxes or holsters. With narrowed eyes, he estimated his chances of grabbing one of the weapons from a case, and then, the moment someone came, force him outside where Jor would perform the arrest. Behind him, a man said quietly, “You wish to buy a gun?”

  Fara turned with a jump. Brief rage flooded him at the way his plan had been wrecked by the arrival of the clerk. The anger died as he saw that the clerk was a fine looking, silver-haired man, older than himself. That was disconcerting. Fara had an immense and almost automatic respect for age. He said at last, lamely, “Yes, yes, a gun.”

  “For what purpose?” said the man in his quiet voice. Fara could only look at him. He wanted to get mad. He wanted to tell these people what he thought of them.

  But the age of this representative locked his tongue. He managed speech with an effort of will. “For hunting.” The plausible w
ords stiffened his mind. “Yes, definitely for hunting. There is a lake to the north of here,” he went on more fulsomely, “and—”

  He stopped, scowling at the extent of his dishonesty. He was not prepared to go so deeply into prevarication. He said curtly, “For hunting.”

  Fara was himself again. He hated the man for having put him so completely at a disadvantage. With smoldering eyes he watched the old fellow click open a showcase and take out a green-shining rifle. As the man faced him, weapon in hand, Fara was thinking: “Pretty clever, having an old man as a front.” It was the same kind of cunning that had made them choose the property of Miser Harris. He reached for the gun; but the man held it out of his reach.

  “Before I can even let you test this,” he said, “I am compelled by the by-laws of the weapon shops to inform you under what circumstances you may purchase a gun.”

  So they had private regulations. What a system of psychological tricks to impress the gullible.

  “We weapon makers,” the clerk was saying mildly, “have evolved guns that can, in their particular range destroy any machine or object made of what is called matter. Thus whoever possesses one of our weapons is more than a match for any soldier of the empress. I say more because each gun is the center of a field of force which acts as a perfect screen against immaterial destructive forces. That screen offers no resistance to clubs or spears or bullets, or other material substances, but it would require a small atomic cannon to penetrate the superb barrier it creates around its owner.

  “You will readily comprehend,” the man went on, “that such a potent weapon could not be allowed to fall, unmodified, into irresponsible hands. Accordingly, no gun purchased from us may be used for aggression or murder. In the case of the hunting rifle, only such specified game birds and animals as we may from time to time list in our display windows may be shot. Finally, no weapon can be resold without our approval. Is that clear?”

  Fara nodded. For the moment, speech was impossible to him. He wondered if he ought to laugh out loud, or curse the man for daring to insult his intelligence. So the gun mustn’t be used for murder or robbery. So only certain birds and animals could be shot. And as for reselling it, suppose—suppose he bought this thing, took a trip of a thousand miles, and offered it to some wealthy stranger for two credits—who would ever know? Or suppose he held up a stranger. Or shot him. How would the weapon shop ever find out? He grew aware that the gun was being held out to him stock first. He took it, and had to fight the impulse to turn the muzzle directly on the old man.

  “How does it work?” he asked.

  “You simply aim it, and pull the trigger. Perhaps you would like to try it on a target we have.”

  Fara swung the gun up. “Yes,” he said triumphantly, “and you’re it. Now, just get over there to the front door, and then outside.” He raised his voice, “And if anybody’s thinking of coming through the back door, I’ve got that covered, too.” He motioned jerkily at the clerk. “Quick now, move! I’ll shoot! I swear I will.”

  The man was cool, unflustered. “I have no doubt you would. When we decided to attune the door so that you could enter despite your hostility, we assumed the capacity for homicide. However, this is our party. You had better adjust yourself accordingly, and look behind you.”

  There was silence. Finger on trigger, Fara stood moveless. Dim thoughts came of all the half-things he had heard in his days about the weapon shops; that they had secret supporters in every district, that they had a private and ruthless hidden government, and that once you got into their clutches, the only way out was death. But what finally came clear was a mind picture of himself, Fara Clark, family man, faithful subject of the empress, standing here in this dimly-lighted store, deliberately fighting so vast and menacing an organization. He forced courage into his sagging muscles. He said, “You can’t fool me by pretending there’s someone behind me. Now, get to that door.”

  The firm eyes of the old man were looking past him.

  The man said quietly, “Well, Rad, have you all the data?”

  “Enough for a primary,” said a young man’s voice behind Fara. “Type A-7 conservative. Good average intelligence, but a Monaric development peculiar to small towns. One-sided outlook fostered by the Imperial schools present in exaggerated form. Extremely honest. Reason would be useless. Emotional approach would require extended treatment. I see no reason why we should bother. Let him live his life as it suits him.”

  “If you think,” Fara said shakily, “that that trick voice is going to make me turn, you’re crazy. That’s the left wall of the building. I know there’s no one there.”

  “I’m all in favor, Rad,” said the old man, “of letting him live his life. But he was the prime mover of the crowd outside. I think he should be discouraged.”

  “We’ll advertise his presence,” said Rad. “He’ll spend the rest of his life denying the charge.”

  Fara’s confidence in the gun had faded so far that, as he listened in puzzled uneasiness to the incomprehensible conversation, he forgot it completely.

  The old man said persistently: “I think a little emotion might have a long-run effect. Show him the palace.”

  Palace! The word tore Fara out of his paralysis. “See here,” he began, “I can see now that you lied to me. This gun isn’t loaded at all. It’s—”

  His voice failed him. His body went rigid. There was no gun in his hand.

  “Why, you—” he began wildly. And stopped again. His mind heaved with imbalance. He fought off the spinning sensation, thought finally, tremblingly: Somebody must have sneaked the gun from him. That meant there was someone behind him. The voice was no mechanical thing. He started to turn. And couldn’t. He struggled, pushing with his muscles. And couldn’t turn, couldn’t move, couldn’t budge. The room was growing curiously dark. He had difficulty seeing the old man. He would have shrieked then if he could. Because the weapon shop was gone.

  He was standing in the sky above an immense city. Standing in the sky, and nothing around him but air, and blue summer heaven, and the city a mile, two miles below.

  His breath seemed solidly embedded in his lungs. Sanity came back as the remote awareness impinged on his mind that he was actually standing on a hard floor, and that the city must be a picture somehow focused directly into his eyes.

  For the first time, with a start, Fara recognized the metropolis below. It was the city of dreams, Imperial City, Capital of the glorious Empress Isher. From his great height he could see the grounds of the silver palace, the Imperial residence itself. The last tendrils of his fear were fading now before a gathering fascination and wonder. The fear vanished as he recognized with a thrill that the palace was drawing nearer at tremendous speed. “Show him the palace!” they had said. The glittering roof flashed straight at his face. The solid metal of it passed through him.

  His first sense of imminent and mind shaking desecration came as the picture paused in a huge room, where a score of men sat around a table at the head of which sat a young woman. The inexorable, sacrilegious, limitlessly powered cameras that were doing the photographing swung across the table and caught the woman full face.

  It was a handsome face, but there was passion twisting it now, as she leaned forward and said in a voice at once familiar—how often Fara had heard its calm, measured tones on the telestats—and distorted. Distorted by anger and an insolent certainty of command. That caricature of a beloved voice slashed across the silence as clearly as if he were there in the great room:

  “I want that traitor killed, do you understand? I don’t care how you do it, but I want to hear by tomorrow night that he is dead.”

  The picture snapped off and instantly Fara was back in the weapon shop. He stood for a moment, swaying, fighting to accustom his eyes to the dimness. His first emotion was contempt at the simpleness of the trickery. A motion picture. What kind of a fool did they think he was, to swallow something as transparently unreal as that? Abruptly, the appalling depravity of the scheme, the
indescribable wickedness of what was being attempted here brought red rage.

  “Why, you scum!” he flared. “So you’ve got somebody to act the part of the empress, trying to pretend that—Why, you—”

  “That will do,” said the voice of Rad. Fara shook as a big young man walked into his line of vision. The alarmed thought came that people who would besmirch so vilely the character of her imperial majesty would not hesitate to do physical damage to Fara Clark. The young man went on in a steely tone, “We do not pretend that what you saw was taking place this instant in the palace. That would be too much of a coincidence. But it was taken two days ago. The woman is the empress. The man whose death she ordered is a former adviser whom she considered a weakling. He was found dead in his apartment last night. His name, if you care to look it up in the news files, was Banton Vickers. However, let that pass. We’re finished with you.”

  “But I’m not finished,” Fara said in a thick voice. “I’ve never heard or seen so much infamy in all my life. If you think this town is through with you, you’re crazy. We’ll have a guard on this place day and night, and nobody will get in or out.”

  “That will do.” It was the silver-haired man. “The examination has been most interesting. As an honest man, you may call on us if you are ever in trouble. That is all. Leave through the side door.”

  It was all. Impalpable forces grabbed him, and he was shoved at a door that appeared miraculously in the wall, where seconds before had been the palace. He found himself standing in a flower garden, and there was a crowd to his left. He recognized his fellow townsmen, and that he was outside.