The Quy Effect

by Arthur Sellings

“Not many people do. Ordinary people, that is. We’re on record. We’ve managed a few rockets, a couple of satellites. We decided several years ago that in orthodox techniques, rocketry, we couldn’t begin to match the big powers, so—”

  “Match?” Quy was beginning to get things into some kind of perspective.

  “Our researches are peaceful, if that’s what you mean, Mr. Quy.”

  “That’s what they say. What we say. What they all say.”

  “Do you want to go back?”

  “No, keep driving—for the time being, anyway. Wherever you’re driving to.”

  “Oh, to nowhere in particular. Not until you agree to our proposition, that is. But if you want straight answers to straight questions, that’s not so easy in this world. But I’ll ask you a question. Has the possession by the major powers of moonbases upset the balance of power? Has it made nuclear war any more likely?”

  Quy thought of Alan. He must have asked himself the same question before he had decided to join the Space Service.

  “No, I don’t think so. I never did think that control of space would give any advantage in that direction. If any side could get control. It’s a big place. Anyway, they’d reached the ultimate in destructive power right here on Earth without having any missile-launching platforms on the Moon or anywhere else in space.”

  “Very well. Then we come to the central question—do you think that your discovery, if perfected, could upset the… ah, apple cart?” The word was haloed by a foreigner’s pride in using the idiom.

  “There again, I don’t know. But how did you find out about me? What makes you think I’ve discovered anything? Anything practicable, that is. Nobody else seems to believe me.”

  “Nor do we—necessarily. But we’re ready to try to. We can’t go in for expensive programs, so we’ve looked elsewhere for our answers. Our people have felt that somewhere there might be a simpler—a less cumbersome—solution to the problem of space. We’ve had a world-wide intelligence service checking on any kind of lead. On our budget that’s a whole lot cheaper than the cost of just one rocket.

  “The lead to you came from a short cutting in one of your newspapers. We checked back and found that there had been something about it on television. That was all there was—and all we needed. And here we are.

  “And here you arc. We haven’t got all the time in the world. Although you are far more precious to us than to the other people seeking possession of you—and our reasons more worthy?—they will soon be taking steps to track you down. We want you to fly to our country and work with our people. Now—yes or no?”

  “But I don’t have my passport on me. It’s back at my place. It’s out-of-date, anyway.”

  The figure by his side chuckled.

  “Don’t worry your head about such small details, Mr. Quy. That’s all been taken care of.”

  Sixteen

  University of Tel-Aviv

  Israel

  2nd December 1974

  Dear Alan,

  How’s this for a turnup for the book? I’m sitting on a balcony, overlooking the purple-blue Mediterranean, dictating this letter to a very pretty Girl Friday called Rebekkah. I’m beginning to appreciate the benefits of a team. Rebekkah is smiling.

  Excuse me for not writing earlier. Things got pretty desperate, one way and another, back in England. I don’t know whether you heard anything from your father. But the least said about that the better. Except the next time you see him or write to him, tell him that I recognize that he was trying to do what he thought was right. Don’t worry about what that means, just pass on the message. Don’t tell him where I am, just that I’m well and happy and not to worry about me any more.

  I haven’t written sooner because I wanted to get everything straightened out—and to let you get things straightened out. I got your letter telling me that you had joined the Space Service. I hope you are finding that it’s your right path. I’m sure it is.

  Well, I never thought in my life that I’d ever get any closer to Israel than the Whitechapel Road on a Sunday morning. Least of all be working here and enjoying it. My work is state-supported. They’ve got their own bureaucracy out here. But it’s a different kind of bureaucracy. You’re never remote from the man who makes the decisions. There are committees, but small ones and informal. And I guess that I’m kind of an honored person around these parts. A patriarch yet! They respect old age here. You don’t have to holler your head off to get attention.

  I failed to produce any more of the molecule back in England. Though I nearly succeeded with a last surreptitious attempt. I produced it here—or my team did, with me breathing down their necks—three weeks after we got the equipment together. And while the lads were testing it I was tinkering about modifying it.

  This is the place for experimenting. Old men and new ideas—they’ve got plenty of time for both. They’ve still got a working model here of an organic engine they developed years ago. It was never a commercial proposition, but it’s a handy thing to keep in the locker against the time that the oil gushers in the states next door cease to gush. It’s basically a synthetic muscle, fed by alternately contracting and relaxant chemicals, to drive a piston. People who can dream up things like that don’t think there’s anything strange in using an organic molecule to achieve the Quy Effect.

  This project is not directly under any government office—except the Treasury. But you’ll appreciate that there’s a certain amount of security around it. And there are signs that it’s thickening up. And even I can appreciate the wisdom of that. But it lacks the flesh-creeping elements of the big bloody nations and blocs. This project is for pride, not power. Still, I can’t talk too much about it.

  I can tell you, though, that we’re licking the problem of controlling the Quy Effect. Oh yes, the name you gave it is the one used here—if nowhere else yet. No signs of Ivan or Wang-Fu over the horizon yet. But at least there’s proof here of precedence. So your old grand-dad has a good chance of making the history books yet. Not that I care a damn about that—but it’s a nice thought to have at the back of your mind. I’m too busy working on the Effect to worry about anything else. It’s getting to the engineering stage now—and I don’t mean angle iron and army surplus.

  Just taking a day off to write a few letters, then it’s down to the beach with Rebekkah.

  I’d better put ‘Read and Destroy’ on this. But, before you obey the second injunction, just let me say again that I hope you’re following your heart’s desire and—though I’ve never been a religious man, here in a country which is a place of pilgrimage for several… even the Muslims, did you know that?—I feel I can say, God bless you, son, and keep you.

  Your grandfather,

  Adolphe Quy.

  SIC 12467

  Craigmyle Depot

  West Lothian

  Scotland

  8th December 1974

  Dear AQ,

  Delighted to hear the news. All R & D; let me assure you. I can’t say a lot about my work either, though I’m still at ground-level yet—in more ways than one. But I’m happy here and passed my first year exams with what I think, with all due lack of modesty, I can call flying colors. If I tell you that they flunked out over half the lads, you’ll understand my feeling a bit cocky about it. And more than a bit sad at losing some good buddies.

  Soon I shall be moved on. Don’t know where yet—and if I did I couldn’t tell! But I’ll let you know as much as I can when I can.

  All best,

  Your loving grandson,

  Alan.

  P.S. I told dad your message—on the phone. He said sorry too for what he did. Don’t know what that means. Poor old dad! But he’s much more philosophical about things these days.

  University of Tel-Aviv

  Israel

  8th September 1975

  Dear Alan,

  Move heaven and earth to get here next month, 15th latest. Tell your C.O. or commandant or space patrol leader or whatever, any story you like. I’m
about to give birth—but you’d better not tell him that! I’ve informed El-Al, the Israeli airlines. So wherever you are you can pick up a ticket from their nearest office. But make it, whatever you do. You’ll have a story for your buddies.

  AQ

  University of Tel-Aviv

  Israel

  8th September 1975

  Dear Maggie,

  Hear an old man’s prayer and fly to Tel-Aviv just as soon as you can—by 15th October latest. I don’t want money this time. Only your presence, and I want that more than anything else in the world. I can’t say any more now. But remember I said once that I wouldn’t come to you without the prize in my hands. I broke that promise twice, but this time I’m making good on it. I’d come running with it, only this prize is a bit too big to carry. So Mahomet will have to come to the mountain. Please. And please let me know that you’ve received this letter. It’s very important to me, believe me.

  Yours ever,

  Ado.

  OCTOBER 8 75 9.00 M.T.

  WENTWORTH ENGINEERING WESTERN AVENUE PERIVALE MIDDLESEX ENGLAND. VITAL I CONTACT LADY WENTWORTH IMMEDIATELY. PLEASE INFORM. RETURN PAID. QUY. TEL-AVIV ISRAEL.

  OCTOBER 9 75 6.30

  CABLEGRAM M.V. AUGUSTA COMSATT AREA I. I WROTE YOU LETTER WITH MOST URGENT REQUEST YOU ARRIVE HERE FIFTEENTH LATEST. PLEASE COME. TURN SHIP AROUND IF NECESSARY. ADOLPHE QUY.

  OCTOBER 9 75 7.00

  COMMANDANT SPACE SERVICE ONTARIO CANADA. PLEASE RELEASE SC 12467 GRANDFATHER ADOLPHE QUY CRITICALLY ILL HERE AND ASKING FOR HIS ONLY GRANDSON. TICKET CREDIT MADE AND AVAILABLE ANY OFFICE EL-AL. KINDLY FORWARD THIS MESSAGE URGENT. FORWARD RETURN PAID. TEL-AVIV GENERAL HOSPITAL ISRAEL.

  Seventeen

  It was all over now.

  Now it was the turn of the mechanics, the mathematicians, the doctors and all the other specialists whose interests came to a focus a hundred miles away in the desert, thirty hours to zero.

  The rest of the research team were out there. Quy sat on his Tel-Aviv balcony looking over the sea, feeling alone in the universe.

  The telephone rang. He grabbed it.

  “Rebekkah, Mr. Quy. I’m all ready to leave. The car will be here in fifteen minutes.”

  “Catch it then, honey. Don’t wait for me.”

  “But, Mr. Quy. Aren’t you coming?”

  “Not yet. They can get along without me.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t bother me.” He slammed the receiver down.

  Shortly after, there came a knock on the door and Rebekkah came in, looking distressed.

  “What’s wrong, Mr. Quy? I can’t leave you sitting here like this. It’s the big day tomorrow. You’ve got quite a few formalities to get through.”

  “— the formalities.”

  “Mr. Quy! I don’t know what that word means, but I’m sure it’s nasty.”

  “Sorry, dear. Just reverting to type. I’ll be there for the important bit. I’m in no state to go through any formalities. I’m likely to forget my manners with the President himself, the mood I’m in.”

  “Your friends mean so much to you? The Lady and your grandson? Very well, I will wait for them with you.”

  “They won’t be coming. I would have heard by now. Anyway, the morning plane came in half an hour ago.”

  “Customs. Entry control, Mr. Quy. They’re bound to be more thorough with something like this on. Shall I ring the airport? They can—”

  The telephone rang. Rebekkah had a start of several yards and fifty years to it.

  “Mr. Quy’s apartment. Yes. Thank you. Yes, up here, please.”

  She turned to Quy, smiling happily.

  “Well, is it?” he asked impatiently.

  She nodded.

  “Which one? For heaven’s sake—”

  Rebekkah went to the door and leaned her back against it.

  “Blasted women!”

  Then there was a knock on the door and Rebekkah moved aside to open it.

  Quy was on his feet.

  “Maggie! I thought you’d never make it.” He took her in his arms.

  “Nor did I,” Maggie said breathlessly, disengaging herself to straighten her hat. “I was halfway to Bermuda. I was on a round-the-world cruise. Your letter wasn’t forwarded. I practically monopolized the ship’s radio for three hours, while the office back home got a messenger to my flat. They read the letter over to me. The captain was very understanding, but he couldn’t turn the ship back. But he sent off radio messages like mad and we hove to—or is it heaved to?—in the middle of the Atlantic while I got rowed across by lifeboat to an oil tanker. They dropped me off at Gibraltar. I flew on to Athens, and—well, I’m here. But don’t ask me to go through that again.”

  “You look as if you’ve just stepped out of Vogue, for all that,” Quy said admiringly. She was dressed in a pale blue linen dress and a wide straw hat.

  “And you look as if you’ve stepped out of—I don’t know what—Playboy, I should think. Tchk tchk. Flowered shirts at your—”

  She broke off, glancing at Rebekkah. Then she looked back at Quy.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Quy said quickly. “This is my secretary, Rebekkah. Rebekkah, this is Lady Wentworth.”

  The two women shook hands, rather warily.

  “Now, Ado,” Maggie said. “What is all this about?”

  “It’s a long story, Maggie. But I’d rather show you than tell you, now that you’re here. Becky, is there still time to catch that car?”

  Rebekkah looked at her watch. “Yes, just time.”

  “Right. Come on, both of you.”

  It was waiting in the driveway—a black Cadillac. Maggie raised her eyes appraisingly at it and at the uniformed chauffeur who opened the door to them.

  “I noticed it when my taxi pulled in,” she said to Quy. “I had no idea it was yours.”

  Quy chuckled. “It’s only at my service temporarily.”

  They swept out of the city, past gleaming white and glass towers and date palms, out into desert country. They passed a camel train before they had gone very far.

  “It’s a land of contrasts,” Maggie said. “Cadillacs, skyscrapers, and camels. And you, Ado. Two years ago you were on the floor. And now this. You look years younger.” Her eyes twinkled. “For all the lack of hair dye.”

  “I felt years older than I’ve ever felt,” Quy said softly. “This morning, before you turned up, Maggie.”

  She pressed his arm, then turned away to look at the miles of desert rolling by.

  Soon they came to low hills. Rebekkah reached in her briefcase and brought out identification tags, with photographs, handed one to Quy and pinned one on her own blouse.

  “You’ve got your passport on you?” Quy asked Maggie.

  “It’s here in my handbag.”

  “Good. You’ll probably have to show it. We’re getting near the security perimeter now.”

  They came through a gap in the hills, to a view of more desert beyond.

  On the horizon was something that looked like a large encampment. But even from this distance it was obvious that this was no nomad camp, but a nexus of modern technology. Vehicles were moving between buildings and erections of girder and lattice on the perimeter, and a central cluster. Just what that central cluster consisted of was hard to make out, for the throng of vehicles about it and the mounting heat haze in the air.

  They passed one armed guard point. The car stopped, but the guards waved them on immediately, without even querying Maggie’s presence. Obviously, the fact that she was with Quy was enough. But at the next, and last one, her passport was scrutinized closely, and a few words were exchanged between the guards and Quy before they were allowed through.

  And it was only beyond the second guardpoint that Maggie could get any clear view of the central object. She was none the wiser for it.

  “What is it?” she whispered to Quy.

  “Sh-h,” he said.

  The car pulled up and they got out. Quy took Maggie’s arm and led her towards
it, passing under the shadows of what were obviously radar installations.

  They came to within thirty yards of it. Maggie stared for a full minute, her eyes ranging over the strange shape.

  It was partly under covers.

  “Well?” she said at last. “That’s the craziest looking hunk of machinery I’ve seen for a long time.”

  It was about a hundred feet long, ovoid—and faceted. It gleamed silvery in the warm autumn sunlight, but certain of the facets were a dull blue. There was a port at one end of it, through which was visible a maze or machinery and dials and men working.

  “Is this the same idea you were working on?”

  He nodded.

  “You don’t tell me that’s expected to fly?”

  “I’m not sure that’s the right word, but—broadly—yes. Why, what have I missed out? Rockets? Nose cones? Are they what you’re looking for?”

  “No, I’m just thinking it’s pointing the wrong way—if something that shape can be said to be pointing anywhere.”

  “Ah—the persistence of an image! We’ve been brainwashed so long, haven’t we? The long slim shape pointed upwards, the gantries. That’s the flapping-wing equivalent of the jet plane. And dead as a dodo after tomorrow.”

  “The dodo didn’t have any wings.” She waved a hand. “Don’t mind me. I don’t know where I am at the moment. That five-thousand-mile dash has just caught up with me, I think.”

  “Do you want to sit down, dear?” asked Quy, suddenly solicitous. “I’m sorry, I should have thought. The heat and everything.”

  “I don’t faint that easily.” She smiled. “Not even at this. It’s just all so unbelievable, that’s all. But there seem to be a few hundred people around here who do believe it.” She wheeled on him. “Adolphe Quy, if this is your last and greatest confidence trick, I’ll—”

  Quy was roaring his head off. “That’s another persistent image. No, this is it, the prize. At least, by tomorrow we’ll—”

  But she was already moving towards the ship.

  “Hey, watch out for yourself!” Quy shouted, seeing a drab-clad guard reaching for his pistol. He moved quickly. “It’s all right, officer. The lady’s with me.”