“I know what your dirty-minded friends said. They told you about the fulfillment of desire. Is that what you want to hear about?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Wayne. “They told me that whatever I wished for—whatever I wanted—”
“Exactly,” Tompkins said. “The thing could work in no other way. There are the infinite worlds to choose among. Your mind chooses, and is guided only by desire. Your deepest desire is the only thing that counts. If you have been harboring a secret dream of murder—”
“Oh hardly, hardly!” cried Mr. Wayne.
“—then you will go to a world where you can murder, where you can roll in blood, where you can outdo Sade or Caesar, or whoever your idol may be. Suppose it’s power you want’ Then you’ll choose a world where you are a god, literally and actually. A bloodthirsty Juggernaut, perhaps, or an all-wise Buddha.”
“I doubt very much if I—”
“There are other desires, too,” Tompkins said. “All heavens and all hells. Unbridled sexuality. Gluttony, drunkenness, love, fame—anything you want.”
“Amazing!” said Mr. Wayne.
“Yes,” Tompkins agreed. “Of course, my little list doesn’t exhaust all the possibilities, all the combinations and permutations of desire. For all I know you might want a simple, placid, pastoral existence on a South Seas island among idealized natives.”
“That sounds more like me,” Mr. Wayne said, with a shy laugh.
“But who knows?” Tompkins asked. “Even you might not know what your true desires are. They might involve your own death.”
“Does that happen often?” Mr. Wayne asked anxiously.
“Occasionally.”
“I wouldn’t want to die,” Mr. Wayne said.
“It hardly ever happens,” Tompkins said, looking at the parcel in Mr. Wayne’s hands.
“If you say so…But how do I know all this is real? Your fee is extremely high, it’ll take everything I own. And for all I know, you’ll give me a drug and I’ll just dream! Everything I own just for a—a shot of heroin and a lot of fancy words!”
Tompkins smiled reassuringly. “The experience has no drug-like quality about it. And no sensation of a dream, either.”
“If it’s true, “Mr. Wayne said, a little petulantly, “why can’t I stay in the world of my desire for good?”
“I’m working on that,” Tompkins said. “That’s why I charge so high a fee; to get materials, to experiment. I’m trying to find a way of making the transition permanent. So far I haven’t been able to loosen the cord that binds a man to his own Earth—and pulls him back to it. Not even the great mystics could cut that cord, except with death. But I still have my hopes.”
“It would be a great thing if you succeeded,” Mr. Wayne said politely.
“Yes it would!” Tompkins cried, with a surprising burst of passion. “For then I’d turn my wretched shop into an escape hatch! My process would be free then, free for everyone! Everyone would go to the Earth of their desires, the Earth that really suited them, and leave this damned place to the rats and worms—”
Tompkins cut himself off in mid-sentence, and became icy calm. “But I fear my prejudices are showing. I can’t offer a permanent escape from the Earth yet; not one that doesn’t involve death. Perhaps I never will be able to. For now, all I can offer you is a vacation, a change, a taste of another world and a look at your own desires. You know my fee. I’ll refund it if the experience isn’t satisfactory.”
“That’s good of you,” Mr. Wayne said, quite earnestly. “But there’s that other matter my friends told me about. The ten years off my life.”
“That can’t be helped,” Tompkins said, “and can’t be refunded. My process is a tremendous strain on the nervous system, and life-expectancy is shortened accordingly. That’s one of the reasons why our so-called government has declared my process illegal.”
“But they don’t enforce the ban very firmly,” Mr. Wayne said.
“No. Officially the process is banned as a harmful fraud. But officials are men, too. They’d like to leave this Earth, just like everyone else.”
“The cost,” Mr. Wayne mused, gripping his parcel tightly. “And ten years off my life! For the fulfillment of my secret desires…Really, I must give this some thought.”
“Think away,” Tompkins said indifferently.
All the way home Mr. Wayne thought about it. When his train reached Port Washington, Long Island, he was still thinking. And driving his car from the station to his home he was still thinking about Tompkins’ crafty old face, and worlds of probability, and the fulfillment of desire.
But when he stepped inside his house, those thoughts had to stop. Janet, his wife, wanted him to speak sharply to the maid, who had been drinking again. His son Tommy wanted help with the sloop, which was to be launched tomorrow. And his baby daughter wanted to tell about her day in kindergarten.
Mr. Wayne spoke pleasantly but firmly to the maid. He helped Tommy put the final coat of copper paint on the sloop’s bottom, and he listened to Peggy tell about her adventures in the playground.
Later, when the children were in bed and he and Janet were alone in their living room, she asked him if something were wrong.
“Wrong?”
“You seem to be worried about something,” Janet said. “Did you have a bad day at the office?”
“Oh, just the usual sort of thing…”
He certainly was not going to tell Janet, or anyone else, that he had taken the day off and gone to see Tompkins in his crazy old Store of the Worlds. Nor was he going to speak about the right every man should have, once in his lifetime, to fulfill his most secret desires. Janet, with her good common sense, would never understand that.
The next days at the office were extremely hectic. All of Wall Street was in a mild panic over events in the Middle East and in Asia, and stocks were reacting accordingly. Mr. Wayne settled down to work. He tried not to think of the fulfillment of desire at the cost of everything he possessed, with ten years of his life thrown in for good measure. It was crazy! Old Tompkins must be insane!
On weekends he went sailing with Tommy. The old sloop was behaving very well, taking practically no water through her bottom seams. Tommy wanted a new suit of racing sails, but Mr. Wayne sternly rejected that. Perhaps next year, if the market looked better. For now, the old sails would have to do.
Sometimes at night, after the children were asleep, he and Janet would go sailing. Long Island Sound was quiet then, and cool. Their boat glided past the blinking buoys, sailing toward the swollen yellow moon,
“I know something’s on your mind,” Janet said.
“Darling, please!”
“Is there something you’re keeping from me?”
“Nothing!”
“Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?”
“Absolutely sure.”
“Then put your arms around me. That’s right…”
And the sloop sailed itself for a while.
Desire and fulfillment…But autumn came, and the sloop had to be hauled. The stock market regained some stability, but Peggy caught the measles. Tommy wanted to know the differences between ordinary bombs, atom bombs, hydrogen bombs, cobalt bombs, and all the other kinds of bombs that were in the news. Mr. Wayne explained to the best of his ability. And the maid quit unexpectedly.
Secret desires were all very well. Perhaps he did want to kill someone, or live on a South Seas Island. But there were responsibilities to consider. He had two growing children, and a better wife than he deserved.
Perhaps around Christmas time…
But in midwinter there was a fire in the unoccupied guest bedroom due to defective wiring. The firemen put out the blaze without much damage, and no one was hurt. But it put any thought of Tompkins out of his mind for a while. First the bedroom had to be repaired, for Mr. Wayne was very proud of his gracious old home.
Business was still frantic and uncertain due to the international situation. Those Russians, those Arabs, those Gree
ks, those Chinese. The intercontinental missiles, the atom bombs, the sputniks…Mr. Wayne spent long days at the office, and sometimes evenings, too. Tommy caught the mumps. A part of the roof had to be reshingled. And then already it was time to consider the spring launching of the sloop.
A year had passed, and he’d had very little time to think of secret desires. But perhaps next year. In the meantime—
“Well?” said Tompkins. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, quite all right,” Mr. Wayne said. He got up from the chair and rubbed his forehead.
“Do you want a refund?” Tompkins asked.
“No. The experience was quite satisfactory.”
“They always are,” Tompkins said, winking lewdly at the parrot. “Well, what was yours?”
“A world of the recent past,” Mr. Wayne said.
“A lot of them are. Did you find out about your secret desire? Was it murder? Or a South Seas Island?”
“I’d rather not discuss it,” Mr. Wayne said, pleasantly but firmly.
“A lot of people won’t discuss it with me,” Tompkins said sulkily. “I’ll be damned if I know why.”
“Because—well, I think the world of one’s secret desire feels sacred, somehow. No offense…Do you think you’ll ever be able to make it permanent? The world of one’s choice, I mean?”
The old man shrugged his shoulders. “I’m trying. If I succeed, you’ll hear about it. Everyone will.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” Mr. Wayne undid his parcel and laid its contents on the table. The parcel contained a pair of army boots, a knife, two coils of copper wire, and three small cans of corned beef.
Tompkins’ eyes glittered for a moment. “Quite satisfactory,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Goodbye,” said Mr. Wayne. “And thank you.”
Mr. Wayne left the ship and hurried down to the end of the lane of gray rubble. Beyond it, as far as he could see, lay flat fields of rubble, brown and gray and black. Those fields, stretching to every horizon, were made of the twisted corpses of cities, the shattered remnants of trees, and the fine white ash that once was human flesh and bone.
“Well,” Mr. Wayne said to himself, “at least we gave as good as we got.”
That year in the past had cost him everything he owned, and ten years of his life thrown in for good measure. Had it been a dream? It was still worth it! But now he had to put away all thought of Janet and the children. That was finished, unless Tompkins perfected his process. Now he had to think about his own survival.
With the aid of his wrist geiger he found a deactivated lane through the rubble. He’d better get back to the shelter before dark, before the rats came out. If he didn’t hurry he’d miss the evening potato ration.
THE GUN WITHOUT A BANG
Did a twig snap? Dixon looked back and thought he saw a dark shape melt into the underbrush. Instantly he froze, staring back through the green-boled trees. There was a complete and expectant silence. Far overhead, a carrion bird balanced on an updraft, surveying the sunburned landscape, waiting, hoping.
Then Dixon heard a low, impatient cough from the underbrush.
Now he knew he was being followed. Before, it had only been an assumption. But those vague, half-seen shapes had been real. They had left him alone on his trek to the signal station, watching, deciding. Now they were ready to try something.
He removed the Weapon from its holster, checked the safeties, reholstered it and continued walking.
He heard another cough. Something was patiently trailing him, probably waiting until he left the bush and entered the forest. Dixon grinned to himself.
Nothing could hurt him. He had the Weapon.
Without it, he would never have ventured so far from his spaceship. One simply didn’t wander around on an alien planet. But Dixon could. On his hip was the weapon to end all weapons, absolute insurance against anything that walked or crawled or flew or swam.
It was the last word in handguns, the ultimate in personal armament.
It was the Weapon.
He looked back again. There were three beasts, less than fifty yards behind him. From that distance, they resembled dogs or hyenas. They coughed at him and moved slowly forward.
He touched the Weapon, but decided against using it immediately. There would be plenty of time when they came closer.
Alfred Dixon was a short man, very broad in the chest and shoulders. His hair was streaky blond, and he had a blond mustache which curled up at the ends. This mustache gave his tanned face a frank, ferocious appearance.
His natural habitat was Terra’s bars and taverns. There, dressed in stained khakis, he would order drinks in a loud, belligerent voice, and pierce his fellow drinkers with narrow gunmetal-blue eyes. He enjoyed explaining to the drinkers, in a somewhat contemptuous tone, the difference between a Sykes needier and a Colt three-point, between the Martian horned adleper and the Venusian scom, and just what to do when a Rannarean horntank is charging you in thick brush, and how to beat off an attack of winged glitterflits.
Some men considered Dixon all bluff, but they were careful not to call it. Others thought he was a good man in spite of his inflated opinion of himself. He was just overconfident, they explained. Death or mutilation would correct this flaw.
Dixon was a great believer in personal armament. To his way of thinking, the winning of the American West was simply a contest between bow and arrow and Colt .44. Africa? The spear against the rifle. Mars? The Colt three-point against the spinknife. H-bombs smeared cities, but individual men with small arms took the territory. Why look for fuzzy economic, philosophical or political reasons when everything was so simple?
He had, of course, utter confidence in the Weapon.
Glancing back, he saw that half a dozen doglike creatures had joined the original three. They were walking in the open now, tongues lolling out, slowly closing the distance.
Dixon decided to hold fire just a little longer. The shock effect would be that much greater.
He had held many jobs in his time—explorer, hunter, prospector, asteroider. Fortune seemed to elude him. The other man always stumbled across the lost city, shot the rare beast, found the ore-bearing stream. He accepted his fate cheerfully. Damned poor luck, but what can you do? Now he was a radioman, checking the automatic signal stations on a dozen unoccupied worlds.
But more important, he was giving the ultimate handgun its first test in the field. The gun’s inventors hoped the Weapon would become standard. Dixon hoped he would become standard with it.
He had reached the edge of the rain forest. His ship lay about two miles ahead in a little clearing. As he entered the forest’s gloomy shade, he heard the excited squeaking of arboreals. They were colored orange and blue, and they watched him intently from the treetops.
It was definitely an African sort of place, Dixon decided. He hoped he would encounter some big game, get a decent trophy head or two. Behind him, the wild dogs had approached to twenty yards. They were gray and brown, the size of terriers, with a hyena’s jaws. Some of them had moved into the underbrush, racing ahead to cut him off.
It was time to show the Weapon.
Dixon unholstered it. The Weapon was pistol-shaped and quite heavy. It also balanced poorly. The inventors had promised to reduce the weight and improve the heft in subsequent models. But Dixon liked it just the way it was. He admired it for a moment, then clicked off the safeties and adjusted for single shot.
The pack came loping toward him, coughing and snarling. Dixon took casual aim and fired.
The Weapon hummed faintly. Ahead, for a distance of a hundred yards, a section of forest simply vanished.
Dixon had fired the first disintegrator.
From a muzzle aperture of less than an inch, the beam had fanned out to a maximum diameter of twelve feet. A conic section, waist-high and a hundred yards long, appeared in the forest. Within it, nothing remained. Trees, insects, plants, shrubs, wild dogs, butterflies, all were gone. Overhanging boughs caught in the bla
st area looked as though they had been sheared by a giant razor.
Dixon estimated he had caught at least seven of the wild dogs in the blast. Seven beasts with a half-second burst! No problems of deflection or trajectory, as with a missile gun. No need to reload, for the Weapon had a power span of eighteen duty-hours.
The perfect weapon!
He turned and walked on, reholstering the heavy gun.
There was silence. The forest creatures were considering the new experience. In a few moments, they recovered from their surprise. Blue and orange arboreals swung through the trees above him. Overhead, the carrion bird soared low, and other black-winged birds came out of the distant sky to join it. And the wild dogs coughed in the underbrush.
They hadn’t given up yet. Dixon could hear them in the deep foliage on either side of him, moving rapidly, staying out of sight.
He drew the Weapon, wondering if they would dare try again. They dared.
A spotted gray hound burst from a shrub just behind him. The gun hummed. The dog vanished in mid-leap, and the trees shivered slightly as air clapped into the sudden vacuum.
Another dog charged and Dixon disintegrated it, frowning slightly. These beasts couldn’t be considered stupid. Why didn’t they learn the obvious lesson—that it was impossible to come against him and his Weapon? Creatures all over the Galaxy had quickly learned to be wary of an armed man. Why not these?
Without warning, three dogs leaped from different directions. Dixon clicked to automatic and mowed them down like a man swinging a scythe. Dust whirled and sparkled, filling the vacuum.
He listened intently. The forest seemed filled with low coughing sounds. Other packs were coming to join in the kill.
Why didn’t they learn?
It suddenly burst upon him. They didn’t learn, he thought, because the lesson was too subtle!
The Weapon—disintegrating silently, quickly, cleanly. Most of the dogs he hit simply vanished. There were no yelps of agony, no roars or howls or screams.
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