The Astounding Science Fiction Anthology

by John W. Campbell Jr.

  Bronson snapped, “Stop!”

  A couple, young. Long skirts, high-buttoned army collar, dragging army overcoat, facing, arms about each other. Mike’s sleeve rustled in the darkness and they moved. She was sobbing and the soldier was smiling. She turned away her head, and he turned it back. Another couple seized them gayly, and they twirled breathlessly.

  Bronson’s voice was harsh. “That’s enough!” The view blurred for seconds.

  Washington. The White House. The President. Someone coughed like a small explosion. The President was watching a television screen. He jerked erect suddenly, startled. Mike spoke for the first time in court.

  “That is the President of the United States. He is watching the trial that is being broadcast and televised from this courtroom. He is listening to what I am saying right now, and he is watching, in his television screen, as I use my machine to show him what he was doing one second ago.”

  The President heard those fateful words. Stiffly he threw an unconscious glance around his room at nothing and looked back at his screen in time to see himself do what he just had done, one second ago. Slowly, as if against his will, his hand started toward the switch of his set.

  “Mr. President, don’t turn off that set.” Mike’s voice was curt, almost rude. “You must hear this, you of all people in the world. You must understand!

  “This is not what we wanted to do, but we have no recourse left but to appeal to you, and to the people of this twisted world.” The President might have been cast in iron. “You must see, you must understand that you have in your hands the power to make it impossible for greed-born war to be bred in secrecy and rob man of his youth or his old age or whatever he prizes.” His voice softened, pleaded. “That is all we have to say. That is all we want. That is all anyone could want, ever.” The President, unmoving, faded into blackness. “The lights, please,” and almost immediately the Court adjourned. That was over a month ago.

  Mike’s machine has been taken from us, and we are under military guard. Probably it’s just as well we’re guarded. We understand there have been lynching parties, broken up only as far as a block or two away. Last week we watched a white-haired fanatic scream about us, on the street below. We couldn’t catch what he was shrieking, but we did catch a few air-borne epithets.

  “Devils! Anti-Christs! Violation of the Bible! Violations of this and that!” Some, right here in the city, I suppose, would be glad to build a bonfire to cook us right back to the flames from which we’ve sprung. I wonder what the various religious groups are going to do now that the truth can be seen. Who can read lips in Aramaic, or Latin, or Coptic? And is a mechanical miracle a miracle?

  This changes everything. We’ve been moved. Where, I don’t know, except that the weather is warm, and we’re on some type of military reservation, by the lack of civilians. Now we know what we’re up against. What started out to be just a time-killing occupation, Joe, has turned out to be a necessary preface to what I’m going to ask you to do. Finish this, and then move fast! We won’t be able to get this to you for a while yet, so I’ll go on for a bit the way I started, to kill time. Like our clippings:

  TABLOID:

  … Such a weapon cannot, must not be loosed in unscrupulous hands. The last professional production of the infamous pair proves what distortions can be wrested from isolated and misunderstood events. In the hands of perpetrators of hereticalisms, no property, no business deal, no personal life could be sacrosanct, no foreign policy could be…

  TIMES:

  … colonies stand with us firmly… liquidation of the Empire… white man’s burden…

  LE MATIN:

  … rightful place… restore proud France…

  PRAVDA:

  … democratic imperialist plot… our glorious scientists ready to announce…

  NICHI-NICHI:

  … incontrovertibly prove divine descent…

  LAPRENSA:

  … oil concessions… dollar diplomacy…

  DETROIT JOURNAL:

  … under our noses in a sinister fortress on East Warren… under close Federal supervision… perfection by our production-trained technicians a mighty aid to law-enforcement agencies… tirades against politicians and business common-sense carried too far… tomorrow revelations by…

  L’OSSERVATORE ROMANO:

  Council of Cardinals… announcement expected hourly…

  JACKSON STAR-CLARION:

  … proper handling will prove the fallacy of race equality…

  Almost unanimously the press screamed; Pegler frothed, Winchell leered. We got the surface side of the situation from the press. But a military guard is composed of individuals, hotel rooms must be swept by maids, waiters must serve food, and a chain is as strong—We got what we think the truth from those who work for a living.

  There are meetings on street corners and homes, two great veterans’ groups have arbitrarily fired their officials, seven governors have resigned, three senators and over a dozen representatives have retired with “ill health,” and the general temper is ugly. International travelers report the same of Europe, Asia is bubbling, and transport planes with motors running stud the airports of South America. A general whisper is that a Constitutional Amendment is being rammed through to forbid the use of any similar instrument by any individual, with the manufacture and leasing by the Federal government to law-enforcement agencies or financially-responsible corporations suggested; it is whispered that motor caravans are forming throughout the country for a Washington march to demand a decision by the Court on the truth of our charges; it is generally suspected that all news disseminating services are under direct Federal—Army—control; wires are supposed to be sizzling with petitions and demands to Congress, which are seldom delivered.

  One day the chambermaid said: “And the whole hotel might as well close up shop. The whole floor is blocked off, there’re MP’s at every door, and they’re clearing out all the other guests as fast as they can be moved. The whole place wouldn’t be big enough to hold the letters and wires addressed to you, or the ones that are trying to get in to see you. Fat chance they have,” she added grimly. “The joint is lousy with brass.”

  Mike glanced at me and I cleared my throat. “What’s your idea of the whole thing?”

  Expertly she spanked and reversed a pillow. “I saw your last picture before they shut it down. I saw all your pictures. When I wasn’t working I listened to your trial. I heard you tell them off. I never got married because my boy friend never came back from Burma. Ask him what he thinks,” and she jerked her head at the young private that was supposed to keep her from talking. “Ask him if he wants some bunch of stinkers to start him shooting at some other poor chump. See what he says, and then ask me if I want an atom bomb dropped down my neck just because some chiselers want more than they got.” She left suddenly, and the soldier left with her. Mike and I had a beer and went to bed. Next week the papers had headlines a mile high.

  U. S. KEEPS MIRACLE RAY

  CONSTITUTION AMENDMENT

  AWAITS STATES OKAY

  LAVIADA-LEFKO FREED

  We were freed all right, Bronson and the President being responsible for that. But the President and Bronson don’t know, I’m sure, that we were rearrested immediately. We were told that we’ll be held in “protective custody” until enough states have ratified the proposed constitutional amendment. The Man Without a Country was in what you might call “protective custody,” too. We’ll likely be released the same way he was.

  We’re allowed no newspapers, no radio, allowed no communication coming or going, and we’re given no reason, as if that were necessary. They’ll never, never let us go, and they’d be fools if they did. They think that if we can’t communicate, or if we can’t build another machine, our fangs are drawn, and when the excitement dies, we fall into oblivion, six feet of it. Well, we can’t build another machine. But, communicate?

  Look at it this way. A soldier is a soldier because he wants to serve his country.
A soldier doesn’t want to die unless his country is at war. Even then death is only a last resort. And war isn’t necessary any more, not with our machine. In the dark? Try to plan or plot in absolute darkness, which is what would be needed. Try to plot or carry on a war without putting things in writing. O.K. Now—

  The Army has Mike’s machine. The Army has Mike. They call it military expediency, I suppose. Bosh! Anyone beyond the grade of moron can see that to keep that machine, to hide it, is to invite the world to attack, and attack in self-defense. If every nation, or if every man, had a machine, each would be equally open, or equally protected. But if only one nation, or only one man can see, the rest will not long be blind. Maybe we did this all wrong. God knows that we thought about it often. God knows we did our best to make an effort at keeping man out of his own trap.

  There isn’t much time left. One of the soldiers guarding us will get this to you, I hope, in time.

  A long time ago we gave you a key, and hoped we would never have to ask you to use it. But now is the time. That key fits a box at the Detroit Savings Bank. In that box are letters. Mail them, not all at once, or in the same place. They’ll go all over the world, to men we know, and have watched well; clever, honest, and capable of following the plans we’ve enclosed.

  But you’ve got to hurry! One of these bright days someone is going to wonder if we’ve made more than one machine. We haven’t, of course. That would have been foolish. But if some smart young lieutenant gets hold of that machine long enough to start tracing back our movements they’ll find that safety deposit box, with the plans and letters ready to be scattered broadside. You can see the need for haste—if the rest of the world, or any particular nation, wants that machine bad enough, they’ll fight for it. And they will! They must! Later on, when the Army gets used to the machine and its capabilities, it will become obvious to everyone, as it already has to Mike and me, that, with every plan open to inspection as soon as it’s made, no nation or group of nations would have a chance in open warfare. So if there is to be an attack, it will have to be deadly, and fast, and sure. Please God that we haven’t shoved the world into a war we tried to make impossible. With all the atom bombs and rockets that have been made in the past few years—Joe, you’ve got to hurry!

  GHQ TO 9TH ATTK GRP

  Report report report report report report report report report report

  CMDR 9TH ATTK GRP TO GHQ

  BEGINS: No other manuscript found. Searched body of Lefko immediately upon landing. According to plan Building Three untouched. Survivors insist both were moved from Building Seven previous day defective plumbing. Body of Laviada identified definitely through fingerprints. Request further instructions. ENDS

  GHQ TO CMDR 3 2ND SHIELDED RGT

  BEGINS: Seal area Detroit Savings Bank. Advise immediately condition safety deposit boxes. Afford coming technical unit complete co-operation. ends

  LT. COL. TEMP. ATT. 32ND SHIELDED RGT

  BEGINS: Area Detroit Savings Bank vaporized direct hit. Radioactivity lethal. Impossible boxes or any contents survive. Repeat, direct hit. Request permission proceed Washington Area. ENDS

  GHQ. TO LT. COL. TEMP. ATT. 32.ND SHIELDED RGT

  BEGINS: Request denied. Sift ashes if necessary regardless cost. Repeat, regardless cost. ENDS

  GHQ. TO ALL UNITS REPEAT ALL UNITS

  BEGINS: Lack of enemy resistance explained misdirected atom rocket seventeen miles SSE Washington. Lone survivor completely destroyed special train claims all top officials left enemy capital two hours preceding attack. Notify local governments where found necessary and obvious cessation hostilities. Occupy present areas Plan Two. Further orders follow. ENDS

  CHILD’S PLAY

  by William Tenn

  AFTER THE MAN FROM THE EXPRESS COMPANY HAD GIVEN THE DOOR AN untipped slam, Sam Weber decided to move the huge crate under the one light bulb in his room. It was all very well for the messenger to drawl, “I dunno. We don’t send ‘em; we just deliver ‘em, mister”—but there must be some mildly lucid explanation.

  With a grunt that began as an anticipatory reflex and ended on a note of surprised annoyance, Sam shoved the box forward the few feet necessary. It was heavy enough; he wondered how the messenger had carried it up the three flights of stairs.

  He straightened and frowned down at the garish card which contained his name and address as well as the legend—“Merry Christmas, 2153.”

  A joke? He didn’t know anyone who’d think it funny to send a card dated over two hundred years in the future. Unless one of the comedians in his law school graduating class meant to record his opinion as to when Weber would be trying his first case. Even so—

  The letters were shaped strangely, come to think of it, sort of green streaks instead of lines. And the card was a sheet of gold!

  Sam decided he was really interested. He ripped the card aside, tore off the flimsy wrapping material—and stopped. He whistled. Then he gulped.

  “Well clip my ears and call me streamlined!”

  There was no top to the box, no slit in its side, no handle anywhere in sight. It seemed to be a solid, cubical mass of brown stuff. Yet he was positive something had rattled inside when it was moved.

  He seized the corners and strained and grunted till it lifted. The underside was as smooth and innocent of opening as the rest. He let it thump back to the floor.

  “Ah, well,” he said, philosophically, “it’s not the gift; it’s the principle involved.”

  Many of his gifts still required appreciative notes. He’d have to work up something special for Aunt Maggie. Her neckties were things of cubistic horror, but he hadn’t even sent her a lone handkerchief this Christmas. Every cent had gone into buying that brooch for Tina. Not quite a ring, but maybe she’d consider that under the circumstances—

  He turned to walk to his bed which he had drafted into the additional service of desk and chair. He kicked at the great box disconsolately. “Well, if you won’t open, you won’t open.”

  As if smarting under the kick, the box opened. A cut appeared on the upper surface, widened rapidly and folded the top hack and down on either side like a valise. Sam clapped his forehead and addressed a rapid prayer to every god from Set to Father Divine. Then he remembered what he’d said.

  “Close,” he suggested.

  The box closed, once more as smooth as a baby’s anatomy.

  “Open.”

  The box opened.

  So much for the sideshow, Sam decided. He bent down and peered into the container.

  The interior was a crazy mass of shelving on which rested vials filled with blue liquids, jars filled with red solids, transparent tubes showing yellow and green and orange and mauve and other colors which Sam’s eyes didn’t quite remember. There were seven pieces of intricate apparatus on the bottom which looked as if tube-happy radio hams had assembled them. There was also a book.

  Sam picked the book off the bottom and noted numbly that while all its pages were metallic, it was lighter than any paper book he’d ever held.

  He carried the book over to the bed and sat down. Then he took a long, deep breath and turned to the first page. “Gug,” he said, exhaling his long, deep breath.

  In mad, green streaks of letters:

  Bild-A-Man Set #3. This set is intended solely for the uses of children between the ages of eleven and thirteen. The equipment, much more advanced than Bild-A-Man Sets 1 and 2, will enable the child of this age-group to build and assemble complete adult humans in perfect working order. The retarded child may also construct the babies and mannikins of the earlier kits. Two disassembleators are provided so that the set can be used again and again with profit. As with Sets 1 and 2, the aid of a Census Keeper in all disassembling is advised. Refills and additional parts may be acquired from The Bild-A-Man Company, Diagonal Level, Glunt City, Ohio. Remember—only with a Bild-A-Man can you build a man!

  Weber slammed his eyes shut. What was that gag in the movie he’d seen last night? Terrific gag. Te
rrific picture, too. Nice technicolor. Wonder how much the director made a week? The cameraman? Five hundred? A thousand?

  He opened his eyes warily. The box was still a squat cube in the center of his room. The book was still in his shaking hand. And the page read the same.

  “Only with a Bild-A-Man can you build a man!” Heaven help a neurotic young lawyer at a time like this!

  There was a price list on the next page for “refills and additional parts.” Things like one liter of hemoglobin and three grams of assorted enzymes were offered for sale in terms of one slunk fifty and three slunks forty-five. A note on the bottom advertised Set #4: “The thrill of building your first live Martian!”

  Fine print announced pat. pending 2148.

  The third page was a table of contents. Sam gripped the edge of the mattress with one sweating hand and read:

  Chapter I—A child’s garden of biochemistry.

  “ II—Making simple living things indoors and out.

  “ III—Mannikins and what makes them do the world’s work.

  “ IV—Babies and other small humans.

  “ V—Twins for every purpose, twinning yourself and your friends.

  “ VI—What you need to build a man.

  “ VII—Completing the man.

  “ VIII—Disassembling the man.

  “ IX—New kinds of life for your leisure moments.

  Sam dropped the book back into the box and ran for the mirror. His face was still the same, somewhat like bleached chalk, but fundamentally the same. He hadn’t twinned or grown himself a mannikin or devised a new kind of life for his leisure moments. Everything was snug as a bug in a bughouse.

  Very carefully he pushed his eyes back into their proper position in their sockets.