The First Reginald Bretnor Megapack

by Reginald Bretnor

  “Come, come, Christopher,” protested Witherspoon, “I’ve seen the same sort of thing a dozen times in the Philosophy Department.”

  And I was forced to admit that he was right.

  Then Witherspoon pushed his chair back and rose. “We are grateful to you, gentlemen,” he asserted grimly, “for placing this monstrous swindler in our power. Now we can purge dear Bogwood of his presence, his mewing sycophants, and his nefarious works.” He showed his teeth. “It is 11 o’clock. In half an hour the Board of Regents meets—and you have earned the right to share our triumph, the triumph of true learning. Let us go! Let us grind vile Smithby in the dust!”

  Without another word, he turned and strode toward the door; and we followed him, Chester Yu urging his weeping nephew forward with an ungentle hand. My heart was high indeed as we left the restaurant and entered Hogan’s car.

  The Board of Regents was to meet, of course, in Cruett Hall, in the chamber dedicated by Ebenezer Bogwood to that purpose. It is a long room, panelled in ancient walnut, full of tradition’s gentle gloom. Upon its walls hang the stern portraits of those scholars who, through the generations, have filled our presidential chair—and, as our small procession strode down the hall toward it, there came to me the thought of how their noble spirits would rejoice when Witherspoon and I pricked the miasmic bubble which was Cat.

  My doubts were all dispelled. My fears had vanished. Like conquerors, we passed the bowing flunkey at the door—

  Imagine, if you can, the sight which met our gaze. At the head of the great table, gaunt and gray, sat Mr. Sylvester Furnwillie, Chairman of the Board. At his right hand was seated the President of Bogwood; at his left, the loathsome Gregory Morton puffed at an opulent cigar. The six remaining Regents were ranged on either side. Beyond them, Smithby stood. Across from him, his wife reposed. And, at the table’s very end, sat an enormous tomcat, staring at Mr. Furnwillie with cold, green eyes.

  Smithby, all unaware of our entrance, was speaking. “…therefore,” he was saying, “we observe that the hsss-s-s of Old Cat gradually changed to fsss-t-t in ordinary Modern Cat. That shows how simple the functioning of Grimalkin’s Law can be—”

  “Ha!” cried Witherspoon.

  Smithby suddenly was still; all eyes were on us.

  Mr. Furnwillie lifted his spectacles with a palsied hand. “Dear me, dear me!” he said uncertainly. “You are some minutes late, are you not? You really shouldn’t keep the Board of Regents waiting, gentlemen. No, indeed. Dr. Smithby has proffered some serious charges. Oh, very serious. He states that you have had him followed everywhere, and that you even hired a trollop to—er—seduce him. Tsk-tsk! We can’t approve such goings-on at Bogwood, gentlemen. Now can we? After all—”

  He broke off. He peered at Hogan and the Yus. His lofty forehead wrinkled with distaste. “Who are these people, Witherspoon? They cannot be alumni; they do not have the Bogwood look about them. Eh? Are they relatives of yours?”

  Witherspoon folded his arms across his chest, and, in an awful voice, he answered, “They are Smithby’s doom!”

  There was a frightened murmur from the Regents. Gregory Morton emitted a vulgar feline expletive. Mr. Furnwillie exclaimed distractedly.

  Witherspoon silenced them with one contemptuous glance. He pointed straight at Smithby. “Yes, his doom! We admit his charges, Flewkes and I! We hired Hogan to dog his wicked steps. We employed Marilynne. And we are proud of it—for by our humble efforts we have saved Bogwood from degradation and the world’s disdain!”

  Like Jove about to hurl his thunderbolt, he seemed to grow in stature standing there.

  “Smithby!” he cried. “Smithby, your hour has come! Resign. Go far away. Never again befoul this sacred air! Beowulf has confessed your villainy, and we know all. We, Smithby, know about the shrimps!”

  He paused. A dreadful silence reigned.

  “Yes, the shrimps—the shrimps which Smithby conceals about his person, gentlemen!” Like a shrill trumpet, his voice shook the room. “Cat is a sham, a mockery, and a hollow fraud! No one can speak a single word of Cat! The creatures mew for—Shrimp!”

  He stopped. We waited for the earth to open under Smithby’s feet, the heavens to fall. And—

  And nothing happened.

  I looked. Dumbfounded, I looked again. Several of the Regents were whispering to each other and casting the most peculiar glances in our direction. Mr. Sylvester Furnwillie was conferring with Gregory Morton. Smithby and Cynthia Smithby were exchanging smiles. The large, striped tomcat was pretending to stare unconcernedly out the window.

  “Wh-what does this mean?” demanded Witherspoon.

  Mr. Furnwillie ignored him. He looked around. His countenance assumed an aspect of extreme displeasure. To me he said, “Professor Flewkes, though I am deeply shocked by this vindictive and absurd denunciation, it does not surprise me. It is in keeping with the questionable associates, the reprehensible activities. Such things we might expect of Witherspoon, for he is not originally a Bogwood man. But not of you. Tsk-tsk. I am most gravely disappointed. Indeed I am. You—well, you should be ashamed.”

  Shocked to the core, I started to protest. He did not let me.

  “Professor Flewkes, we knowabout the shrimps. Of course Professor Smithby carries them, just as some men carry cigars to give their friends. Why shouldn’t he? I carry them myself. Surely you don’t expect a cat to smoke cigars?”

  “B-but—but Beowulf—?” I stammered.

  And it was Smithby who replied. “I think I can explain that,” he said, a little sadly. “Not long ago, and much against my will, I was forced to tell poor Beowulf that I was flunking him. He was emotionally upset. I fear that, faced with his inability to master Cat, he sought refuge in the pretense that no one could.”

  Mr. Furnwillie thanked him. “You make it amply clear, Dr. Smithby—and I am only sorry that this incident should have marred so bright a morning—”

  Behind me I heard the voice of Chester Yu snap out an angry phrase in Cantonese. I heard a squeal of pain from Beowulf as he received some corporal punishment.

  Mr. Furnwillie smiled. “When you have added such a glorious leaf to Bogwood’s laurels.” His smile disappeared. “Yes, Professor Flewkes—this morning Dr. and Mrs. Smithby proved the validity of Cat to our complete satisfaction. They showed us the result of Mrs. Smithby’s splendid project in education and research. Their proof is absolute, beyond cavil, and quite beyond the shadow of a doubt!”

  “You lie!” screamed Witherspoon, livid with rage, trembling in every limb. “Don’t try to tell me that this illiterate woman has taught each one of you to babble Cat! This is another fraud! And you are aiding and abetting it! I shall inform the Press! Hogan and I shall expose you for what you are!”

  “Tsk-tsk!” Mr. Furnwillie said reprovingly. “If you behave like that, Witherspoon, you’ll have to leave the room. I cannot babble Cat,as you so coarsely put it, but Mr. Morton can, and—”

  Witherspoon whirled. “Come, Hogan, Flewkes! Let us seek the society of honest men!” He marched toward the door; and at the door he turned. “Furnwille—” He roared defiance like a wounded lion. “Furnwillie, I resign!”

  Then he was gone, with Hogan closely behind. The only sound was Hogan’s foolish giggle in the corridor.

  I lacked the strength to follow. Mutely, I stood before the Board, all my high hopes for Bogwood in ashes at my feet.

  Mr. Furnwillie put on his spectacles and took them off again. “Dear me,” he said, “how violent the man is! Even though Dr. and Mrs. Smithby, in their complaint, did ask us not to punish him, I fear that we must accept his resignation.”

  “Certainly!” growled Gregory Morton; and the other members of the Board nodded solemnly.

  Mr. Furnwillie sighed. “Ah me, this leaves us with a painful duty, doesn’t it? We should do somet
hing, I suppose, about Professor Flewkes?”

  He looked at me, and so did all the rest. Even the tomcat favored me with a fixed regard.

  I summoned all my shredded dignity. “Gentlemen,” I answered, “I shall spare you this harsh necessity. I, too, shall seek a more congenial atmosphere.”

  And it was then that Cynthia Smithby, with a little cry, came to her feet and ran to me. “Dear Dr. Flewkes!” she pleaded, clinging to my arm. “Do not resign! Why, Emerson and I are both so fond of you—we could not bear the thought. I beg you, stay! Let us convince you—”

  As the impassioned words poured forth, she drew me willy-nilly toward the table’s end.

  “Let us open to you our brave new world, where cats can take at last their rightful place, contributing to science, culture, and the arts. Believe me—you will see the day when cats shall vote, hold public office, and instruct our youth. Perhaps there even may be peace on earth under a parliament of Man and Cat!”

  She pointed at the tomcat on his chair. “Look! Only look! This is Rabindranath. He’s the living proof!”

  Roughly, I shook her off. “Madam,” I exclaimed, “I am no fool. You may delude your students. You may deceive Mr. Furnwillie in his senility. But you can not persuade me that you can teach a language which does not exist!”

  “Oh please,” she implored, “I do assure you—you do not understand. I’ll introduce you to Rabindranath. His interests lie within your own domain. He’s starting to translate The Aspern Papers into Cat. Dear Dr. Flewkes, at least will you not speak with him? Will you not converse?”

  Two tears flowed like dewdrops down her cheeks. They did not move me. “Converse?” Contemptuously, I gestured at the cat. “No, never! Never will I demean myself to—mew!”

  And—ah, cruel gods!

  Cooly, Rabindranath looked me up and down. “Mew?” he said. “That will be scarcely necessary.”

  MAYBE JUST A LITTLE ONE

  Maximus Everett, who taught physics at Woodrow Wilson Union High School for nearly twenty years, was the first man to accomplish nuclear fission in his basement.

  It really wasn’t much of a basement either. Along one side was the workbench, littered with tools and wire and dusty old books. On the other side was an empty birdcage and a utility sink with a dripping faucet. A couple of shabby trunks stood in a corner next to a broken lawnmower, and some baled magazines the Red Cross people had forgotten to call for were piled up behind the cyclotron.

  The final result of his scientific labors pleased Everett. After observing it quietly for a while, he went upstairs to the kitchen, where his wife was making chopped-olive-and-egg sandwiches. He sat down on a stool, wiped his long bald forehead, and remarked that it certainly was hot in the basement. Without turning around, his wife assured him that this was not abnormal. “Here in Arizona,” she observed, “right near the border, it’s always hot in summer.”

  Everett did not dispute the point. “Oh, it’s not only that,” he told her. “I’ve just been working pretty hard. It’s been a tough job.” He leaned back with a little sigh of satisfaction. “I’ve invented atomic power, hon.”

  “So that’s what you’ve been doing,” said Mrs. Everett. “I thought you were still working on your perpetual motion machine.” She cut the last sandwich diagonally in half, put some sliced pickle on the platter, and turned around, smoothing her ample apron. Then suddenly she looked accusingly at her husband. “Why, that’s ridiculous!” she exclaimed. “What do you mean, you invented it? How about Hiroshima?”

  “That was different,” said Everett simply. “That was just a big bang. Anybody can invent that kind.”

  Mrs. Everett-a librarian, and rather dogmatic-showed signs of irritation. “All the authorities,” she declared, “say that you have to have uranium, and that it’s very rare. Then you have to make it into something else, and it costs millions and millions of dollars.”

  “That’s what they think,” replied Everett, shaking his head mildly. “Well, they ought to know, if anyone does!”

  “I have the utmost respect for them,” he conceded. “After all, their work did help to make mine possible. It’s just-well, you see, it’s just that I don’t need uranium. I discovered a new element about a week ago, and.…”

  Mrs. Everett was wearing the expression she usually reserved for people who tried to explain away overdue books. “Just how could you discover a new element when they’ve all been discovered?” she asked bleakly. “And what is it called?”

  “Frijolium,” Everett replied. “I discovered it a week ago Tuesday. And it hardly costs anything.”

  “Yes, but where did you get it?”

  “I made it. That is, I purified it. Pure frijolium, for the first time in history.” “Well, it sounds sort of familiar to me,” mused Mrs. Everett. “Frijolium—now wherever…?”

  “Sort of familiar?” Everett echoed. “Well, it should! Frijolium. You know, from frijoles.”

  Marriage and the public library had hardened Mrs. Everett; she took it all in her stride. “Maximus Everett!” she snapped. “Do you mean to sit there and tell me that you’ve found a new element in plain old Mexican beans?”

  Everett hooked his thumbs in his belt and tilted the stool back on its hind legs. “We-ell,” he said, obviously weighing the question carefully, “it would not be quite correct to say that frijoles contain a new element. As a matter of fact, they are the new element.”

  “But frijoles are just beans!” protested Mrs. Everett, rather loudly. “Anybody’ll tell you that. They contain proteins, fats, and carbohydrates.”

  “Those substances,” Everett said, “are impurities. Fresh frijoles are 92.733 per cent pure frijolium. I have isolated it. It has a relatively low atomic weight, but is adequately unstable. The nucleus may be split quite readily by…”

  “Oh, never mind!” Mrs. Everett cried, stamping her foot. “Do you really expect me to believe that? Why, there would have been an explosion.”

  “No, there wouldn’t. I didn’t want an explosion. I used the frijolium from one small frijole-that’s the minimum critical mass-and it’s really quite easy to control. You can turn it on and off just like a vacuum-cleaner.”

  “Well, I don’t believe a word of it! All the experts say atomic power can’t be controlled like that.”

  Everett shook his head, pityingly. “That’s what they think. I’ve had it running the washing-machine for three hours.… And,” he added, “if I didn’t turn it off, it would run for almost exactly seventy-two years. What do you think of that?”

  After this, of course, Mrs. Everett followed him back into the basement to see for herself. The washing-machine was busily churning away next to the cyclotron, quaking and rattling just as it always had. Mrs. Everett sniffed. Warily, she walked around it, peering at the chipped enamel of its framework. As far as she could determine, its appearance had not changed-and she said so rather acidly.

  “If this is your idea of a joke,” she said. “I don’t think it’s at all funny. Of course, if you haven’t broken my washer, there’s no real harm done, but.…”

  Everett interrupted her. He pointed to the back of the washer. “Look!” he said, with great dignity.

  Looking closely, she saw a small aluminum box, with a round hole in the top and an insulated cord leading to the motor. “Wasn’t it there before?” she asked.

  “It was not!” Everett said. “That is the generator. You drop the frijolium through the hole. That little switch on the box works a shield inside that turns the energy on and off.” He flipped the switch, and the washing-machine chugged twice and was silent. He flipped it again, and the machine came back to life.

  “See?” he said triumphantly.

  Mrs. Everett was still dubious. “Where do you plug it in?” she inquired. “You don’t,” her husband replied patiently. “That’s th
e whole idea. The generator converts atomic power from the smashing of the frijolium nuclei directly into 110 volts A.C., just like the house current.”

  “You-you mean we won’t have any bills to pay?” Mrs. Everett said, beginning to be impressed.

  “Not a penny. Not after I get the rest of the house wired.”

  “Why, Maxie! Why, that’s wonderful! And we could put it on the car too, couldn’t we?” Mrs. Everett patted the washing-machine with genuine affection. “Just wait until I tell Mrs. Myers,” she exulted. “Ever since they made Henry principal, she’s been acting as if we were below them socially or something. And it was she who told the grocer-boy that you were all thumbs, not handy around the house like Henry was.”

  “Oh, Henry’s all right,” Everett said. “I think he’ll be pleased when he hears about it. After all, it’ll be nice for the school, too; it’ll help to keep up interest in the physics classes.”

  “I should think he ought to be pleased,” snorted Mrs. Everett. “He couldn’t invent atomic power.”

  “Maybe,” Everett said wistfully, “maybe he’ll let me give up coaching basketball.”

  “I’ll phone her right after lunch,” Mrs. Everett said with a gleam in her eye.

  Mrs. Everett was as good as her word. She was sweetly condescending to Henry Myers’ wife, who responded with a gratifying display of irritation, awe, and envy-and this reaction encouraged her to call up quite a number of other people. It was Saturday, and she didn’t have to go back to the library, and so she was able to spend the rest of the afternoon on the telephone. She was still there at five o’clock, when the reporters started to arrive.

  The first journalist was a brash young man with an unhealthy complexion. “I’m from the Bulletin,” he announced, cleverly getting his foot in the door as Mrs. Everett opened it.

  “There must be some mistake,” Mrs. Everett said coldly. “We paid the boy two months in advance, and anyway we take the Tribune.”