by Various
The first hood staggered. Something else fell from the shelf. It was a carton of electric-light bulbs. Despite the protecting carton, they went off with crackings like gunfire. Technically, they did not explode but implode, but the hood with the revolver did not notice the difference. He leaped--and also landed in the middle of the wide streak of detergent-over-oil which might have been arranged to receive him.
He remained erect, but he slid slowly along that shining path. His relatively low speed was not his fault, because he went through all the motions of frenzied flight. His legs twinkled as he ran. But his feet slid backward. He moved with a sort of dignified celerity, running fast enough for ten times the speed, upon a surface which had a frictional coefficient far below that of the smoothest possible ice.
Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald gaped, his mouth dropped open and his gun held laxly in a practically nerveless hand.
The thing developed splendidly. The prone gunman slid out of the wide double door, pushing a bow-wave of detergent before him. He slid across the cement just outside, into the open garage whose delivery-truck was absent, and slammed with a sort of deliberate violence into a stack of four cardboard drums of that bone-black which is used to filter cleaning-fluid so it can be used over again in the dry-cleaning machine. The garage was used for storage as well as shelter for the establishment's truck.
The four drums were not accurately piled. They were three and a half feet high and two feet in diameter. They toppled sedately, falling with a fine precision upon the now hatless, running, sliding hood. One of them burst upon him. A second burst upon the prone man--who had butted through the cardboard of the bottom one on his arrival. There was a dense black cloud which filled all the interior of the garage. It was bone-black, which cannot be told from lamp-black or soot by the uninitiated.
From the cloud came a despairing revolver shot. It was pure reflex action by a man who had been whammed over the head by a hundred-and-fifty-pound drum of yielding--in fact bursting--material. There was a metallic clang. Then silence.
In a very little while the dust-cloud cleared. One figure struggled insanely. Upon him descended--from an oil drum of cylinder-oil stored above the rafters--a tranquil, glistening rod of opalescent cylinder-oil. His last bullet had punctured the drum. Oil turned the bone-black upon him into a thick, sticky goo which instantly gathered more bone-black to become thicker, stickier, and gooier. He fought it, while his unconscious companion lay with his head in a crumpled cardboard container of more black stuff.
The despairing, struggling hood managed to get off one more shot, as if defying even fate and chance. This bullet likewise found a target. It burst a container of powdered dye-stuff, also stored overhead. The container practically exploded and its contents descended in a widespread shower which coated all the interior of the garage with a lovely layer of bright heliotrope.
Maybe the struggling hood saw it. If so, it broke him utterly. What had happened was starkly impossible. The only sane explanation was that he had died and was in hell. He accepted that explanation and broke into sobs.
* * * * *
Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald had witnessed every instant of the happening, but he did not believe it. Nevertheless, he said in a strange voice: "I'll phone for the paddy-wagon. It'll do for a ambulance, in case of need."
He put away his unused service revolver. Thinking strange, dizzy thoughts of twitching eyelids and plastic scraps and starkly incredible happenings, he managed to call for the police patrol. When he hung up, he gazed blankly at the wall. He gazed, in fact, at a spot where a peculiar small machine with no visible function reposed--somewhat dusty--on a shelf.
Brink stepped over briskly and closed the door between the scene of catastrophe and the immaculate shop. Somehow, none of the mess had spilled back through the doorway. Then he came in, frowning a little.
"The fight's out of them," he said cheerfully. "One's got a bad cut on his head. The other's completely unnerved. Tsk! Tsk! I hate to have such things happen!"
Sergeant Fitzgerald shook himself, as if trying to come back to a normal and a reasonable world.
"Look!" he said in a hoarse voice. "I saw it, an' I still don't believe it! Things like this don't happen! I thought you might be lucky. It ain't that. I thought I might be crazy. It ain't that! What has been goin' on?"
Brink sat down. His air was one of wry contemplation.
"I told you I had a special kind of luck you couldn't believe. Did your eyelids twitch any time today?"
Fitzgerald swallowed.
"They did. And I stopped short an' something that should've knocked my cranium down my windpipe missed me by inches. An' again--But no matter. Yes."
"Maybe you can believe it, then," said Brink. "Did you ever hear of a man named Hieronymus?"
"No," said Fitzgerald in a numbed voice. "Who's he?"
"He got a patent once," said Brink, matter-of-factly, "on a machine he believed detected something he called eloptic radiation. He thought it was a kind of radiation nobody had noticed before. He was wrong. It worked by something called psi."
Sergeant Fitzgerald shook his head. It still needed clearing.
"Psi still isn't fully understood," explained Brink, "but it will do a lot of things. For instance, it can change probability as magnetism can change temperature. You can establish a psi field in a suitable material, just as you can establish a magnetic field in steel or alnico. Now, if you spin a copper disk in a magnetic field, you get eddy currents. Keep it up, and the disk gets hot. If you're obstinate about it, you can melt the copper. It isn't the magnet, as such, that does the melting. It's the energy of the spinning disk that is changed into heat. The magnetic field simply sets up the conditions for the change of motion into heat. In the same way ... am I boring you?"
"Confusing me," said Fitzgerald, "maybe. But keep on. Maybe I'll catch a glimmer presently."
"In the same way," said Brink, "you can try to perform violent actions in a strong psi field--a field made especially to act on violence. When you first try it you get something like eddy currents. Warnings. It can be arranged that such psi eddy currents make your eyelids twitch. Keep it up, and probability changes to shift the most-likely consequences of the violence. This is like a spinning copper disk getting hot. Then, if you're obstinate about it, you get the equivalent of the copper disk melting. Probability gets so drastically changed that the violent thing you're trying to do becomes something that can't happen. Hm-m-m. ... You can't spin a copper disk in a magnetic field when it melts. You can't commit a murder in a certain kind of psi field when probability goes hog-wild. Any other thing can happen to anybody else--to you, for example--but no violence can happen to the thing or person you're trying to do something violent to. The psi field has melted down ordinary probabilities. The violence you intend has become the most improbable of all conceivable things. You see?"
"I'm beginnin'," said Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald dizzily, "I'm beginnin' to get a toehold on what you mean. I'd hate to have to testify about it in court, but I'm receptive."
"So my special kind of luck," said Brink, "comes from antiviolence psi fields, set up in psi units of suitable material. They don't use up energy any more than a magnet does. But they transfer it, like a magnet does. My brother-in-law thought he had to lose his business because Big Jake threatened violent things. I offered to take it over and protect it--with psi units. So far, I have. When four hoods intended to shoot up the place and moved to do it, they were warned. Psi 'eddy currents' made their eyelids twitch. They went ahead. Probability changed. Quite unlikely things became more likely than not. They were obstinate about it, and what they intended became perhaps the only thing in the world that simply couldn't happen. So they crashed into a telephone pole. That wasn't violence. That was accident."
The detective blinked, and then nodded, somehow painfully.
"I see," he said uncertainly.
* * * * *
"Somebody set a bomb in my delivery truck," added Brink. "I'm sure hi
s eyelids twitched, but he didn't stop. So probability changed. The explosion of that bomb in my truck became the most unlikely of all possible things. In fact, it became impossible. So some electric connection went bad, and it didn't go off. Again, when Jacaro intended to plant a time fire-bomb to set the plant on fire--why--his eyelids must have twitched but he didn't give up the intention. So the psi unit naturally made the burning of the plant impossible. For it to be impossible, the fire-bomb had to go off where it would do next to no harm. Jacaro lost his pants."
He stopped. Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald swallowed carefully.
"I don't question it," he said dizzily, "even if I don't believe it. Will you now tell me that what just happened was a psi something keepin' violent things from happening?"
"That's it," agreed Brink. "The psi unit made the dryer-door fly off and knock a pistol out of a man's hand. If they'd dropped the idea of violence, that would have ended the matter. They didn't."
"I accept it," said Fitzgerald. He gulped. "Because I saw it. A court wouldn't believe it, though, Mr. Brink!"
"Well?"
"I've been tryin' for months," said Fitzgerald in sudden desperation, "to find a way to stop what Big Jake's doin'. But he's tricky. He's organized. He's got smart lawyers. Mr. Brink, if the cops could use what you've got--" Then he stopped. "It'd never be authorized," he said bitterly. "They'd never let a cop try it."
"No," agreed Brink. "Until it's believed in it can only be used privately, for private purposes. Like I've used it. Or Hm-m-m. Do you fish, or bowl, or play golf, sergeant? I could give you a psi unit that'd help you quite a bit in such a private purpose."
Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald shook his head.
"Dry-fly fishin's my specialty," he said bitterly, "but no thank you! When I'm pittin' myself against a trout, it's my private purpose to be a better fisherman than he's a fish. Usin' what you've got would be like dynamitin' a stream. No sport in that! No! But this Big Jake, he doesn't act sporting with the public. I'd give a lot to stop him."
"You'd get no credit for it," said Brink. "No credit at all."
"I'd get the job done!" said Fitzgerald indignantly. "A man likes credit, but he likes a lot better to get a good job done!"
Brink grinned suddenly.
"Good man!" he said approvingly. "I'll buy your idea, sergeant. If you'll play fair with a trout, you'll play fair with a crook, and an Irishman, anyhow, has a sort of inheritance--I'll give you what help I can, and you'll do things your grandfather would swear was the work of the Little People. And for a first lesson--"
"What?"
"Big Jake discourages me," said Brink. "So I'll call him up and say I'm coming to see him. I'll say if he wants this business I'll sell it to him at a fair price. But I'll say otherwise I'll tell the newspapers about his threats and the four of his hoods in the hospital and the two others on the way there. Want to come along?"
Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald reached his hand to where his service revolver reposed in its holster. Then he drew it away.
"He's a very violent man," he said hopefully. "I wouldn't wonder he tried to get pretty rough--him and the characters he has on his payroll. If they have to be stopped from bein' violent by--what is it? Psi units? Sure I'll come along! It'd ought to be most edifyin' to watch!"
* * * * *
There was a clanging outside. Brink and Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald delayed while the two unnerved, helpless, and formerly immaculate gunmen were loaded into the paddy-wagon and carried away--to the hospital that already held four of their ilk. Then Brink called Big Jake on the telephone.
Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald listened with increasing appreciation as Brink made his proposition and explained matter-of-factly what had happened to Big Jake's minions who should have wrecked the Elite Cleaners and Dyers. When Brink hung up, Fitzgerald had a look of zestful anticipation on his face.
"He said to come right over," said Brink. "But he was grinding his teeth."
"Ah-h-h!" said Fitzgerald pleasurably. "I'm thinkin' of the cab-drivers an' truck drivers that've been beat up. I'm thinkin' of property smashed and honest people scared.... Do you know, I'm terrible afraid Big Jake's too much in the habit of violence to stop, even if his eyelids twitch? It's deplorable! But on a strictly personal basis I think I'll enjoy seein' Big Jake an' his hoods discouraged by ... what is it Psi units? Yes!"
And he did. Big Jake's eyelids undoubtedly did twitch while he was preparing a reception for Brink and Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald. But he did not heed the warning. He did not even think of the legal aspect of violent things attempted against his visitors. So he tried violence--he and his associates. They started out with fists and clubs, regardless of discretion. They tried to beat up Brink and Fitzgerald. From that they went on to sawed-off shotguns. Their efforts were still unsuccessful. Then they went to extremes.
Fitzgerald wore an expression of pious joy as Big Jake Connors and his aides, obstinately attempting violent actions, were prevented by psi units.
When it was all over, the ambulance had to make two trips.
THE END
* * *
Contents
THE LEADER
By Murray Leinster
The trouble with being a Superman, with Super powers, and knowing it, is it's so easy to overlook the unpleasant possibility of a super-superman!
... The career of The Leader remains one of the mysteries of history. This man, illegitimate and uneducated, hysterical and superstitious, gathered about him a crowded following of those who had been discontented, but whom he turned into fanatics. Apparently by pure force of personality he seized without resistance the government of one of the world's great nations. So much is unlikely enough. But as the ruler of a civilized country he imposed upon its people the absolute despotism of a primitive sultanate. He honeycombed its society with spies. He imprisoned, tortured, and executed without trial or check. And while all this went on he received the most impassioned loyalty of his subjects! Morality was abandoned at his command with as much alacrity as common sense. He himself was subject to the grossest superstitions. He listened to astrologers and fortunetellers--and executed them when they foretold disaster. But it is not enough to be amazed at the man himself. The great mystery is that people of the Twentieth Century, trained in science and technically advanced, should join in this orgy of what seems mere madness ...
Concise History of Europe. Blaisdell.
* * * * *
Letter from Professor Albrecht Aigen, University of Brunn, to the Herr General Johann von Steppberg, retired.
My dear General von Steppberg:
It is with reluctance that I intrude upon your retirement, but at the request of the Government I have undertaken a scientific examination of the causes which brought about The Leader's rise to power, the extraordinary popularity of his regime, the impassioned loyalty he was able to evoke, and the astounding final developments.
If you can communicate to me any memories of The Leader which may aid in understanding this most bewildering period of our history, I assure you that it will be appreciated by myself, by the authorities who wish the investigation made, and I dare to hope by posterity.
I am, my dear general, (Et cetera.)
* * * * *
Letter from General Johann von Steppberg (Retired) to Professor Albrecht Aigen, University of Brunn.
Herr Professor:
The official yearbooks of the army contain the record of my military career. I have nothing to add to that information. You say the authorities wish more. I refuse it. If they threaten my pension, I will renounce it. If they propose other pressures, I will leave the country. In short, I refuse to discuss in any manner the subject of your recent communication.
I am, Herr Professor, (Et cetera.)
* * * * *
Letter from Professor Albrecht Aigen to Dr. Karl Thurn, Professor of Psychology at University of Laibach.
My dear Karl:
I hope your psionic research goes better than my officia
l project! My business goes nowhere! I have written to generals, ministers, and all kinds of persons who held high office under The Leader. Each and every one refuses to discuss The Leader or his own experiences under him. Why? Surely no one would blame them now! We have had to agree to pretend that no one did anything improper under The Leader, or else that what anyone did was proper at the time. So why should the nabobs of that incredible period refuse to discuss what they should know better than anyone else? I am almost reduced to asking the aid of the astrologers and soothsayers The Leader listened to. Actually, I must make a note to do so in sober earnest. At least they had their own viewpoint of events.
Speaking of viewpoints, I have had some hope of clarifying The Leader's career by comparing it with that of Prime Minister Winston, in power in his country when The Leader ruled ours. His career is splendidly documented. There is astonishingly little documentation about The Leader as a person, however. That is one of the difficulties of my task. Even worse, those who should know him best lock their lips while those--
Here is an unsolicited letter from the janitor of a building in which a former Minister of Education now has his law offices. I have many letters equally preposterous....
* * * * *
Enclosure in letter to Dr. Karl Thurn, University of Laibach.
Herr Professor:
I am the janitor of the building in which Herr Former Minister of Education Werfen has his offices. In cleaning there I saw a letter crumpled into a ball and thrown into a corner. I learned in the time of The Leader that angry actions often mean evil intentions, so I read the letter to see if the police should be notified. It was a letter from you in which you asked Herr Former Minister of Education Werfen for his memories of The Leader.