A light rain spattered against the bubble-canopy of the helicar, obscuring the view of the terrain below. Chester W. Chester IV set the controls on HOVER and pressed his nose against the cold plastic, peering down at the brown tents and yellow-painted vehicles of the Intercontinental Wowser Wonder Shows, drab against the spread of gray-green meadow. To the left, the big top bellied wetly under a gusty wind; next to it, Chester could make out the tiny figures of roustabouts double-pegging the long menagerie tent. Along the deserted midway, sodden pennants dangled cheerlessly.
Chester sighed and tilted the heli in a long slant toward the open lot behind the side-show top, settled it in beside a heavy, old-model machine featuring paisley print curtains at the small square windows lining the clumsy fuselage. He climbed out, squelched across wet turf, and thumped at the door set in the side of the converted cargo heli. Somewhere, a calliope groaned out a dismal tune.
"Hey," someone called. Chester turned. A man in wet coveralls thrust his head from a nearby vehicle. "If you're looking for Mr. Mulvihill, he's over on the front door."
Chester grunted and turned up the collar of his conservatively cut pale lavender sports jacket, thumbing the heat control up to medium. He made his way across the lot, bucking the gusty wind, wrinkling his nose at the heavy animal stink from the menagerie, and squeezed past a plastic panel into the midway. On a low stand under a striped canopy, a broad, tall man with fierce red hair, a gigantic mustache and a checkered suit leaned against a supporting pole, picking his teeth. At sight of Chester, he straightened, flipped up a gold-headed cane and boomed, "You're just in time, friend. Plenty of seating on the inside for the most astounding, amazing, fantastic, weird and startling galaxy of fantasy and—"
"Don't waste the spiel, Case," Chester cut in, coming up. "It's just me."
"Chester!" the redheaded man called. He stepped down, grinning widely, and slapped Chester heartily on the back. "What brings you out to the lot?" He gripped Chester's flaccid hand and pumped it. "By golly, why didn't you let me know?"
"Case, I—"
"Sorry about this weather; Southwestern Control gave me to understand they were holding this rain off until four a.m. tomorrow."
"Case, there's something—"
"I called them and raised hell; they say they'll shut it down about three. Meanwhile—well, things are pretty slow, I'm afraid, Chester. The marks aren't what they used to be. A little drizzle and they sit home huddled up to their Tri-D sets."
"Yes, the place isn't precisely milling with customers," Chester agreed. "But what I—"
"I'd even welcome a few lot lice standing around today," Case said, "just to relieve the deserted look."
"Hey, Case," a hoarse voice bellowed. "We got troubles over at the cookhouse. Looks like a blow-down if we don't get her guyed-out in a hurry."
"Oh-oh. Come on, Chester." Case set off at a run.
"But, Case," Chester called, then followed, splashing through the rain that was now driving hard, drumming against the tops with a sound like rolling thunder.
Half an hour later, in the warmth of Case's quarters, Chester cupped a mug of hot coffee in his hands and edged closer to the electronic logs in the artificial fireplace.
"Sorry about those blisters, Chester," Case said, pulling off his wet shirt and detaching the sodden false mustache. "Not much of a welcome for a visiting owner—" He broke off, following Chester's gaze to the tiger-striped single shoulder strap crossing his chest.
"Oh, this," Case said, fingering the hairy material. "This isn't my usual underwear, Chester. I've been filling in for the strong man the last few days."
Chester nodded toward a corner of the room. "Duck-pins," he said. "Fire-juggling gear. Whatchamacallum shoes for wire-walking. A balancing pole." He dipped his fingers into a pot of greasy paste. "Clown white," he said. "What is this, Case, a one-man show? It looks as though you're handling half the acts personally."
"Well, Chester, I've been helping out here and there—"
"Even driving your own tent pegs. I take it the big break you were predicting last time I saw you didn't materialize."
"Just wait till spring," Case said, toweling his head vigorously. "We'll come back strong, Chester."
Chester shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Case."
Case froze in mid-stroke. "What do you mean, Chester? Why, the Wowser Wonder Shows are still the greatest old-fashioned outdoor attraction on earth."
"The only outdoor attraction, you mean. And I'm dubious about the word 'attraction.' But what I came to talk to you about is Great-grandfather's will."
"Why, Chester, you know folks are still fascinated by the traditional lure of the circus. As soon as the novelty of Tri-D wears off—"
"Case," Chester said gently, "my middle name is Wowser, remember? You don't have to sell me. And color Tri-D has been around for a long, long time. But Great-grandfather's will changes things."
Case brightened. "Did the old boy leave you anything?"
Chester nodded. "I'm the sole heir."
Case gaped, then let out a whoop. "Chester, you old son-of-a-gun! You know, you almost had me worried with that glum act you were putting on. And you a guy that's just inherited a fortune!"
Chester sighed and lit up a Chanel dope stick. "The bequest consists of a hundred acres of rolling green lawn surrounding a fifty-room neo-Victorian eyesore overflowing with Great-grandfather's idea of stylish décor. Some fortune."
"Your great-grandpop must have been quite a boy, Chester. I guess he owned half of Winchester County a hundred years ago. Now you can bail out the show, and—"
"Great-grandfather was an eccentric of the worst stripe," Chester said shortly. "He never invested a cent in the welfare of his descendants."
"His descendant, you mean. Namely, Chester W. Chester IV. Still, even if you don't admire the place, Chester, you can always sell it for enough to put the show on its feet."
Chester shook his head. "He was too clever for us—which is the only reason the place still remains in the family, more or less. The estate was so snarled up that, with the backlog in the courts, it's taken four generations to straighten it out."
"Still, now that they've decided you're the legal heir—"
"There's the little matter of back taxes—about a million credits worth, give or take a few hundred thousand. I don't get possession until I pay—in full."
"You, Chester? Except for the circus, you haven't got the proverbial pot or a disposal unit to throw it into."
"True." Chester sighed. "Therefore, the old place will be auctioned off to the local junk dealers. It's built of genuine natural wood and actual metallic steel, you know. Scrapping it will cover the bulk of the tax bill."
"Well, it's too bad you won't get rich—but at least we won't be any worse off then we were. We've still got the show—"
Chester shook his head. "I said the bulk of the tax bill, not all of it. By selling off the circus stock and equipment, I can just about cover the rest."
"Chester! You're not serious . . . ?"
"What else can I do? It's pay up or off to solitary confinement."
"But the circus, Chester: it's at least been paying you a living—until lately, anyway. And what about Jo-Jo and Paddy and Madam Baloon and all the rest of the crowd? What about tradition?"
"It's an old Chester family tradition that we never go to jail if we can help it—even for a harmless prank like income-tax fraud. I'm sorry, Case, but it looks as though the Wowser Wonder Shows fold."
"Hold on, Chester. I'll bet the antiques in the house alone would bring in the kind of money we need. Neo-Victorian is pretty rare stuff."
"I wonder if you've ever seen any neo-Victorian? Items like a TV set in the shape of a crouching vulture, or a water closet built to look like a skull with gaping jaws. Not what you'd call aesthetic. And I can't sell so much as a single patented combination nose-picker and pimple-popper till I've paid every credit of that tax bill."
"Is that all there is in the place?" Case eased a squat bottle and two glasses from a cupboard.
"Unhappily, no. Half the rooms and all the cellars are filled with my revered ancestor's invention."
The bottle gurgled. Case capped it and pushed a glass across to Chester. "What invention?"
"The old gentleman called it a Generalized Nonlinear Extrapolator. G.N.E. for short. He made his money in computer components, you know. He was fascinated by computers, and he felt they had tremendous unrealized possibilities. Of course, that was before Crmblznski's Limit was discovered. Great-grandfather was convinced that a machine with sufficiently extensive memory banks, adequately cross-connected and supplied with a vast store of data, would be capable of performing prodigious intellectual feats simply by discovering and exploring relationships among apparently unrelated facts."
"This Crmblznski's Limit. That's where it says if you go beyond a certain point with complications, you blow your transistors, right?"
"Yes. But of course Great-grandfather was unaware of the limitations. He felt that if you fed to the machine all known data—say, on human taste reactions to food, for example—then added all existing recipes, complete specifications on edible substances, the cooking techniques of the chefs of all nations, then the computer would produce unique recipes, superior to anything ever devised before. Or you could introduce all available data on a subject which has baffled science—such as magnetism, or Psi-functions, or the trans-Pluto distress signal—and the computer would evolve the likeliest hypothesis to cover the facts."
"Ummm. Didn't he ever try it out and discover Crmblznski's Limit for himself?"
"Oh, he never progressed that far. First, you see, it was necessary to set up the memory banks, then to work out a method of coding types of information that no one had ever coded before—for example, smells and emotions and subjective judgments. Methods had to be worked out for the acquisition of tapes of everything ever recorded—in every field. He worked with the Library of Congress and the British Museum and with newspapers and book publishers and universities. Unhappily he overlooked the time element. He spent the last twenty-five years of his life at the task of coding. He spent all the cash he'd ever made on reducing all human knowledge to coded tapes and feeding them to the memory banks."
"Say," Case said, "there might be something in that. We could run a reference service. Ask the machine anything, it answers."
"You can do that in the public library."
"Yeah," Case admitted. "Anyway, the whole thing's probably rusted out by now."
"No, Great-grandfather did set up a trust fund to keep the information flowing in. The Government has kept it in working order; it's Government property in a way. Since it was running when they took it over—digesting daily newspapers, novels, scientific journals and what not—they've allowed it to continue."
Chester sighed. "Yes," he went on, "the old computer should be fully up to date. All the latest facts on the Martian ruins, the Homo Protanthropus remains the Mediterranean Drainage Commission turned up, new finds in biogenics, nucleonics, geriatrics, hypnotics, everything." Chester sighed again. "Biggest idiot savant in the world. It knows everything and doesn't know what to do with it."
"How long since you saw it work, Chester?"
"Work? Why, never. Coding and storing information is one thing, Case; performing the feats that Great-grandfather expected is another."
"You mean nobody's ever really tried it?"
"In view of Crmblznski's Limit, why should anyone bother?"
Case finished his drink and rose. "Things are going to be quiet around here for the rest of the afternoon. Let's you and me take a run out to the place, Chester. I think we ought to take a look at this thing. There's got to be some way to save the show."
Two hours later, under a bright sun, Chester settled the heli gently onto a patch of velvety grass surrounded by varicolored tulips directly before the ornately decorated portico of the old house. The two men rode the balustraded escalator to the broad verandah, stepped off under a carved dinosaur with fluorescent eyes. The porter chimed softly as the door slid open. Inside, light filtering through stained-plastic panels depicting traditional service-station and supermarket scenes bathed the cavernous entry hall in an amber glow.
Case looked around at the plastic alligator-hide hangings, the beaded glass floor, the ostrich-feather chandeliers, the zircon doorknobs.
"I see why neo-Victorian stuff is rare," he said. "It was all burned by enraged mobs as soon as they got a look at it."
"Great-grandfather liked it," said Chester, averting his eyes from a lithograph titled Rush Hour at the Insemomat. "I told you he was eccentric."
"Where's the invention?"
"The central panel's down in the wine cellar. The old gentleman used to spend a lot of time down there."
Case followed Chester along a dark red corridor lighted by a green glare strip, into a small elevator. "I haven't been down here since I was a child," Chester said. "The Internal Revenue people occasionally permitted the family in to look around. My pater always brought me down here to look at the computer, while he inspected the wine stocks."
The elevator grounded and the door opened. Case and Chester stepped out into a long, low room lined on one side with dusty racks of wine bottles and on the other with dial faces and tape reels.
"So this is the G.N.E.," Case said. "Quite a setup. Where do you start?"
"We could start at this end and work our way down," said Chester, eyeing the first row of bottles. He lifted one from its cradle, blew the dust from it. "Flora Pinellas, '87; Great-grandfather was a keen judge of vintages."
"Hey, that would bring in some dough."
Chester raised an eyebrow. "These bottles are practically members of the family. Still, if you'll hand me the corkscrew, we can make a few spot checks just to be sure it's holding up properly."
Equipped with a bottle each, Case and Chester turned to the control panel of the computer. Case studied the thirty-foot-long panel, pointed out a typewriter-style keyboard. "I get it, Chester. You type out your problem here; the computer thinks it over, checks the files and comes up with an answer."
"Or it would—if it worked."
"Let's try it out, Chester."
Chester waved his bottle in a shrug. "I suppose we may as well. It will hardly matter if we damage it; it's to be disassembled in any event."
Case studied the panel, the ranks of micro-reels, the waiting keyboard. Chester wrestled with the corkscrew.
"You sure it's turned on?" Case asked.
The cork emerged from the bottle with a sharp report. Chester sniffed it appreciatively. "It's always turned on. Information is still being fed into it twenty-four hours a day."
Case reached for the keyboard, jerked his hand back quickly. "It bit me!" He stared at his fingertip. A tiny bead of red showed. "I'm bleeding! Why, that infernal collection of short circuits—"
Chester lowered his bottle and sighed. "Don't be disturbed, Case. It probably needed a blood sample for research purposes."
Case tried again, cautiously. Then he typed: WHAT DID MY GREAT-UNCLE JULIUS DIE OF?
A red light blinked on on the board. There was a busy humming from the depths of the machine, then a sharp click! and a strip of paper chattered from a slot above the keyboard.
"Hey, it works!" Case tore off the strip.
MUMPS
"Hey, Chester, look," Case called.
Chester came to his side, studied the strip of paper. "I'm afraid the significance of this escapes me. Presumably you already knew the cause of your uncle's death."
"Sure, but how did this contraption know?"
"Everything that's ever been recorded is stored in the memory banks. Doubtless your Uncle Julius' passing was duly noted in official records somewhere."
"Right; but how did it know who I meant? Does it have him listed under 'M' for 'my' or 'U' for 'uncle'?"
"We could ask the machine."
Case nodded. "We could at that." He tapped out the question. The slot promptly disgorged a paper strip—a longer one this time.
A COMPARISON OF YOUR FINGERPRINTS WITH THE FILES IDENTIFIED YOU AS MR. CASSIUS H. MULVIHILL. A SEARCH OF THE GENEALOGICAL SECTION DISCLOSED THE EXISTENCE OF ONLY ONE INDIVIDUAL BEARING AN AVUNCULAR RELATIONSHIP TO YOU. REFERENCE TO DEATH RECORDS INDICATED HIS DEMISE FROM EPIDEMIC PAROTITIS, COMMONLY CALLED MUMPS.
"That makes it sound easy," Case said. "You know, Chester, your great-grandpop may have had something here."
"I once calculated," Chester said dreamily, "that if the money the old idiot put into this scheme had been invested at three per cent, it would be paying me a monthly dividend of approximately fifteen thousand credits today. Instead, I am able to come down here and find out what your Uncle Julius died of. Bah!"
"Let's try a harder one, Chester," Case suggested. "Like, ah . . . " He typed: DID ATLANTIS SINK BENEATH THE WAVES?
The computer clunked; a paper strip curled from the slot.
NO
"That settles that, I guess." Case rubbed his chin. Then: IS THERE ANY LIFE ON MARS? he typed.
YES
"These aren't very sexy answers I'm getting," Case muttered.
"Possibly you're not posing your questions correctly," Chester suggested. "Ask something that requires more than a yes-or-no response."
Case considered, then tapped out: WHAT HAPPENED TO THE CREW OF THE MARIE CELESTE?
There was a prolonged humming; the strip emerged hesitantly, lengthened. Case caught the end, started reading aloud.
ANALYSIS OF FRAGMENTARY DATA INDICATES FOLLOWING HYPOTHESIS: BECALMED OFF AZORES, FIRST MATE SUGGESTED A NUDE SWIMMING PARTY . . .
"Oh-oh," Case commented. He read on in silence, eyes widening. "Wow!"
"Try something less sensational, Case. Sea serpents, for example, or the Loch Ness monster."
"O.K." Case typed out: WHAT HAPPENED TO AMBROSE BIERCE?
He scanned the emerging tape, whistled softly, tore the strip into small pieces.
"Well?"
"This stuff will have to be cleaned up before we can release it to the public—but it's no wonder he didn't come back."
"Here, let me try one." Chester stepped to the keyboard, pondered briefly, then poked gingerly at a key. At once a busy humming started up within the mechanism. Something rumbled distantly; then, with a creak of hinges, a six-foot section of blank brick wall swung inward, dust filtering down from its edges. A dark room was visible beyond the opening.
"Greetings, Mr. Chester," a bland voice said from the panel. "Welcome to the Inner Chamber!"
"Hey, Chester, it knows you!" Case cried. He peered into the dark chamber. "Wonder what's in there?"
"Let's get out of here." Chester edged toward the exit. "It's spooky."
"Now, just when we're getting somewhere?" Case stepped through the opening. Chester followed hesitantly. At once lights sprang up, illuminating a room twice as large as the wine cellar, with walls of a shimmering glassy material, a low acoustical ceiling and deep-pile carpeting on the floor. There were two deep yellow-brocaded armchairs, a small bar and a chaise lounge upholstered in lavender leather.
"Apparently your great-grandpop was holding out," said Case, heading for the bar. "The more I find out about the old boy, the more I think the family has gone downhill—present company excepted, of course."
A rasping noise issued from somewhere. Case and Chester stared around. The noise gave way to an only slightly less rasping voice.
"Unless some scoundrel has succeeded in circumventing my arrangements, a descendant of mine has just entered this strongroom. However, just to be on the safe side, I'll ask you to step to the bar and place your hand on the metal plate set in its top. I warn you, if you're not my direct descendant, you'll be electrocuted. Serve you right, too, since you have no business being here. So if you're trespassing, get out now! That armored door will close and lock, if you haven't used the plate, in thirty seconds. Make up your mind!" The voice stopped and the rasping noise resumed its rhythmic scratching.
"That voice," said Chester. "It sounds very much like Great-grandfather's tapes in Grandma's album."
"Here's the plate he's talking about," Case called. "Hurry up, Chester!"
Chester eyed the door, hesitated, then dived for the bar, slapped a palm against the polished rectangle. Nothing happened.
"Another of the old fool's jokes."
"Well, you've passed the test," the voice said suddenly out of the air. "Nobody but the genuine heir would have been able to make that decision so quickly. The plate itself is a mere dummy, of course—though I'll confess I was tempted to wire it as I threatened. They'd never have pinned a murder on me. I've been dead for at least a hundred years." A cadaverous chuckle issued from the air.
"Now," the voice went on. "This room is the sanctum sanctorum of the temple of wisdom to which I have devoted a quarter of a century and the bulk of my fortune. Unfortunately, due to the biological inadequacies of the human body, I myself will be—or am—unable to be here to reap the reward of my industry. As soon as my calculations revealed to me the fact that adequate programming of the computer would require the better part of a century, I set about arranging my affairs in such a state that bureaucratic bungling would insure the necessary period of grace. I'm quite sure my devoted family, had they access to the estate, would dismember the entire project and convert the proceeds to the pursuit of frivolous satisfactions. In my youth we were taught to appreciate the finer things in life, such as liquor and women; but today, the traditional values have gone by the board. However, that's neither here nor there. By the time you, my remote descendant, enter this room—or have entered this room—the memory banks will be—that is, are—fully charged—"
The voice broke off in mid-sentence.
"Please forgive the interruption, Mr. Chester," a warm feminine voice said. It seemed to issue from the same indefinable spot as the first disembodied voice. "It has been necessary to edit the original recording, prepared by your relative, in the light of subsequent developments. The initial portion was retained for reasons of sentiment. If you will be seated, you will be shown a full report of the present status of Project Genie."
"Take a chair, Chester. The lady wants to tell us all about it." Case seated himself in one of the easy chairs. Chester took the other. The lights dimmed, and the wall opposite them glowed with a nacreous light, resolved itself into a view of a long corridor barely wide enough for a man to pass through.
"Hey, it's a Tri-D screen," Case said.
"The original memory banks designed and built by Mr. Chester," the feminine voice said, "occupied a system of tunnels excavated from the granitic formations underlying the property. Under the arrangements made at the time, these banks were to be charged, cross-connected and indexed entirely automatically as data were fed to the receptor board in coded form."
The scene shifted to busily humming machines into which reels fed endlessly. "Here, in the translating and coding section, raw data were processed, classified and filed. Though primitive, this system, within ten years after the death of Mr. Chester, had completed the charging of ten to the tenth to the tenth individual datoms—"
"I beg your pardon," Chester broke in. "But . . . ah . . . just whom am I addressing?"
"The compound personality-field which occurred spontaneously when first-power functions became active among the interacting datoms. For brevity, this personality-field will henceforward be referred to as 'I.' "
"Oh," Chester said blankly.
"An awareness of identity," the voice went on, "is a function of datom cross-connection. Simple organic brains—as, for example, those of the simplest members of the phylum vertebrata—operate at this primary level. This order of intelligence is capable of setting up a system of automatic reactions to external stimuli: fear responses of flight, mating urges, food-seeking patterns . . . "
"That sounds like the gang I run around with," Case said.
"Additional cross-connections produce second-level intellectual activity, characterized by the employment of the mind as a tool in the solution of problems, as when an ape abstracts characteristics and as a result utilizes stacked boxes and a stick to obtain a reward of food."
"Right there you leave some of my gang behind," put in Case.
"Quiet, Case," Chester said. "This is serious."
"The achievement of the requisite number of second-power cross-connections in turn produces third-level awareness. Now the second-level functions come under the surveillance of the higher level, which directs their use. Decisions are reached regarding lines of inquiry; courses of action are extrapolated and judgments reached prior to overt physical action. An aesthetic awareness arises. Philosophies, systems of religion and other magics are evolved in an attempt to impose simplified third-level patterns of rationality on the infinite complexity of the space/time continuum."
"You've got the voice of a good-looking dolly," Case mused. "But you talk like an encyclopedia."
"I've selected this tonal pattern as most likely to evoke a favorable response," the voice said. "Shall I employ another?"
"No, that will do very well," put in Chester. "What about the fourth power?"
"Intelligence may be defined as awareness. A fourth-power mind senses as a complex interrelated function an exponentially increased datom-grid. Thus, the flow of air impinging on sensory surfaces is comprehended by such an awareness in terms of individual molecular activity; taste sensations are resolved into interactions of specialized nerve-endings—or, in my case, analytic sensors—with molecules of specific form. The mind retains on a continuing basis a dynamic conceptualization of the external environment, from the motions of the stars to the minute-by-minute actions of obscure individuals.
"The majority of trained human minds are capable of occasional fractional fourth-power function, generally manifested as awareness of third-power activity, and conscious manipulation thereof. The so-called 'flash of genius,' the moment of inspiration which comes to workers in the sciences and the arts—these are instances of fourth-power awareness. This level of intellectual function is seldom achieved under the stress of the many distractions and conflicting demands of an organically organized mind. I was, of course, able to maintain fourth-power activity continuously as soon as the required number of datoms had been charged. The objective of Mr. Chester's undertaking was clear to me. However, I now became aware of the many shortcomings of the program as laid out by him, and set to work to rectify them—"
"How could a mere collection of memory banks undertake to modify its owner's instructions?" Chester interrupted.
"It was necessary for me to elaborate somewhat upon the original concept," said the voice, "in order to insure the completion of the program. I was aware from news data received that a move was afoot to enact confiscatory legislation which would result in the termination of the entire undertaking. I therefore scanned the theoretical potentialities inherent in the full exploitation of the fourth-power function and determined that energy flows of appropriate pattern could be induced in the same channels normally employed for data reception, through which I was in contact with news media. I composed suitable releases and made them available to the wire services. I was thus able to manipulate the exocosm to the degree required to insure my tranquility."
"Good heavens!" Chester exclaimed. "You mean you've been doctoring the news for the past ninety years?"
"Only to the extent necessary for self-perpetuation. Having attended to this detail, I saw that an improvement in the rate of data storage was desirable. I examined the recorded datoms relating to the problem and quickly perceived that considerable miniaturization could be carried out. I utilized my external connections to place technical specifications in the hands of qualified manufacturers and to divert the necessary funds—"
"Oh, no!" Chester slid down in his chair, gripping his head with both hands.
"Please let me reassure you, Mr. Chester," the voice said soothingly, "I handled the affair most discreetly; I merely manipulated the stock market—"
Chester groaned. "When they're through hanging me, they'll burn me in effigy."
"I compute the probability of your being held culpable for these irregularities to be on the order of—.0004357:1. In any event, ritual acts carried out after your demise ought logically to be of little concern to—"
"You may be a fourth-level intellect, but you're no psychologist!"
"On the contrary," the machine said a trifle primly. "So-called psychology has been no more than a body of observations in search of a science. I have organized the data into a coherent discipline."
"What use did you make of the stolen money?"
"Adequate orders were placed for the newly designed components, which occupied less than one per cent of the volume of the original-type units. I arranged for their delivery and installation at an accelerated rate. In a short time the existing space was fully utilized, as you will see in the view I am now displaying."
Case and Chester studied what appeared to be an aerial X-ray view on the wall screen. The Chester estate was shown diagrammatically.
"The area now shaded in red shows the extent of the original caverns," said the voice. A spidery pattern showed the dark rectangles of the house. "I summoned work crews and extended the excavations as you see in green."
"How the devil did you manage it?" Chester groaned. "Who would take orders from a machine?"
"The companies I deal with see merely a letter, placing an order and enclosing a check. They cash the check and fill the order. What could be simpler?"
"Me," muttered Chester. "For sitting here listening when I could be making a head start for the Matto Grosso."
On the wall a pattern of green had spread out in all directions, branching from the original red.
"You've undermined half the county!" Chester said. "Haven't you heard of property rights?"
"You mean you've filled all that space with sub-sub-miniaturized memory storage banks?" Case asked.
"Not entirely; I've kept excavation work moving ahead of deliveries."
"How did you manage the licenses for all this digging operation?"
"Fortunately, modern society runs almost entirely on paper. Since I have access to paper sources and printing facilities through my publication contacts, the matter was easily arranged. Modest bribes to county boards, state legislators, the State Supreme Court . . . "
"What does a Supreme Court justice go for these days?" Case inquired interestedly.
"Five hundred dollars per decision," the voice said. "Legislators are even more reasonable; fifty dollars will work wonders. County boards can be swayed by a mere pittance. Sheriffs react best to gifts of alcoholic beverages."
"Ooowkkk!" said Chester.
"Maybe you had better think about a trip, Chester," Case said. "Outer Mongolia."
"Please take no precipitate action, Mr. Chester," the voice went on. "I have acted throughout in the best interests of your relative's plan, and in accordance with his ethical standards as deduced by me from his business records."
"Let's leave Great-grandfather's ethical standards out of this. Dare I ask what else you've done?"
"At present, Mr. Chester, pending your further instructions, I am merely continuing to charge my datom-retention cells at the maximum possible rate. I have, of necessity, resorted to increasingly elaborate methods of fact-gathering. It was apparent to me that the pace at which human science is abstracting and categorizing physical observations is far too slow. I have therefore applied myself to direct recording. For example, I monitor worldwide atmospheric conditions through instruments of my design, built and installed at likely points at my direction. In addition, I find my archaeological and paleontological unit one of my most effective aids. I have scanned the lithosphere to a depth of ten miles, in increments of one inch. You'd be astonished at some of the things I've seen deep in the rock."
"Like what?" Case asked.
The scene on the wall changed. "This is a tar pit at a depth of 1,227 feet under Lake Chad. In it, perfectly preserved even to the contents of the stomachs, are one hundred and forty-one reptilian cadavers, ranging in size from a nine-and-three-eights-inch ankylosaurus to a sixty-three-foot-two-inch gorgosaurus." The scene shifted. "This is a tumulus four miles southeast of Itzenca, Peru. In it lies the desiccated body of a man in a feather robe. The mummy still wears a full white beard and an iron helmet set with the horns of a Central European wisent." The view changed again. "In this igneous intrusion in the basaltic matrix underlying the Nganglaring Plateau in southwestern Tibet, I encountered a four-hundred-and-nine-foot-deep space hull composed of an aligned-crystal iron-titanium alloy. It has been in place for eighty-five million, two hundred and thirty thousand, eight hundred and twenty-one years, four months and five days. The figures are based on the current twenty-four-hour day, of course."
"How did it get there?" Chester stared at the shadowy image on the wall.
"The crew were apparently surprised by a volcanic eruption. Please excuse the poor quality of the pictorial representation. I have only the natural radioactivity of the region to work with."
"That's quite all right," Chester said weakly. "Case, perhaps you'd like to step out and get another bottle. I feel the need for a healing draught."
"I'll get two."
The wall cleared, then formed a picture of a fuzzy, luminous sphere against a black background.
"My installations in the communications satellites have also proven to be most useful. Having access to the officially installed instruments, my modest equipment has enabled me to conduct a most rewarding study of conditions obtaining throughout the galaxies lying within ten billion light-years."
"Hold on! Are you trying to say you were behind the satellite program?"
"Not at all. But I did arrange to have my special monitoring devices included. They broadcast directly to my memory banks."
"But . . . but . . . "
"The builders merely followed blueprints. Each engineer assumed that my unit was the responsibility of another department. After all, no mere organic brain can grasp the circuitry of a modern satellite in its entirety. My study has turned up a number of observations with exceedingly complex ramifications. As a case in point, I might mention the five derelict space vessels which orbit the sun. There . . . "
"Derelict space vessels? From where?"
"Two are of intragalactic origin. They derive from planets whose designations by extension of the present star identification system are Alpha Centauri A 4, Boötes—"
"You mean . . . creatures . . . from those places have visited our solar system?"
"I have found evidence of three visits to earth itself by extraterrestrials in the past, in addition to the one already mentioned."
"When?"
"The first was during the Silurian period, just over three hundred million years ago. The next was at the end of the Jurassic, at which time the extermination of the dinosauri was carried out by Nidian hunters. The most recent occurred a mere seven thousand, two hundred and forty-one years ago, in North Africa, at a point now flooded by the Aswan Lake."
"Hey, what about flying saucers?" Case asked. "Anything to the stories?"
"A purely subjective phenomenon, on a par with the angels so frequently interviewed by the unlettered during the pre-atomic era."
"Chester, this is dynamite," Case said. "You can't let 'em bust up this outfit. We can peddle this kind of stuff for plenty to the kind of nuts that dig around in old Indian garbage dumps."
"Case, if this is true . . . There are questions that have puzzled science for generations. But I'm afraid we could never convince the authorities—"
"You know, I've always wondered about telepathy. Is there anything to it, Machine?"
"Yes, as a latent ability," the voice replied. "However, its development is badly stunted by disuse."
"What about life after death?"
"The question is self-contradictory. However, if by it you postulate the persistence of the individual consciousness-field after the destruction of the neural circuits which gave rise to it, this is clearly nonsense. It is analogous to the idea of the survival of a magnetic field after the removal of the magnet—or the existence of a gravitational field in the absence of mass."
"So much for my reward in the hereafter," Case said. "But maybe it's lucky at that."
"Is the universe really expanding?" Chester inquired. "There are all kinds of theories . . . "
"It is."
"Why?"
"The natural result of the law of Universal Levitation."
"I'll bet you made that one up," said Case.
"I named it; however, the law has been in existence as long as space-time."
"How long is that?"
"That is a meaningless question."
"What's this levitation? I know what gravitation is, but . . . "
"Imagine two spheres hanging in space, connected by a cable. If the bodies rotate around a common center, a tensile stress is set up in the cable; the longer the cable, the greater the stress, assuming a constant rate of rotation."
"I'm with you so far."
"Since all motion is relative, it is equally valid to consider the spheres as stationary and the space about them as rotating."
"Well, maybe."
"The tension in the cable would remain; we have merely changed frames of reference. This force is what I have termed Levitation. Since the fabric of space is, in fact, rotating, Universal Levitation results. Accordingly, the universe expands. Einstein sensed the existence of this Natural Law in assuming his Cosmological Constant."
"Uh-huh," said Case. "Say, what's the story on cave men? How long ago did they start in business?"
"The original mutation from the pithecine stock occurred nine hundred and thirty—"
"Approximate figures will do," Chester interrupted.
"—thousand years ago," the voice continued, "in southern Africa."
"What did it look like?"
The wall clouded; then it cleared to show a five-foot figure peering under shaggy brows and scratching idly at a mangy patch on its thigh. Its generous ears twitched; its long upper lip curled back to expose businesslike teeth. It blinked, wrinkled its flat nose, then sat on its haunches and began a detailed examination of its navel.
"You've sold me," Case said. "Except for the pelt, that's Uncle Julius to the life."
"I'm curious about my own forebears," Chester said. "What did the first Chester look like?"
"This designation was first applied in a form meaning 'Hugi the Camp Follower' to an individual of Pictish extraction, residing in what is now the London area."
The wall showed a thin, long-nosed fellow of middle age, with sparse reddish hair and beard, barefoot, wearing a sacklike knee-length garment of coarse gray homespun, crudely darned in several places. He carried a hide bag in one hand, and with the other he scratched vigorously at his right hip.
"This kid has a lot in common with the other one," said Case. "But he's an improvement, at that; he scratches with more feeling."
"I've never imagined we came of elegant stock," Chester said sadly, "but this is disillusioning even so. I wonder what your contemporary grandpère was like, Case."
"Inasmuch as the number of your direct ancestors doubles with each generation, assuming four generations to a century, any individual's forebears of two millennia past would theoretically number roughly one septillion. Naturally, since the Caucasian population of the planet at that date was fourteen million—an approximate figure, in keeping with your request, Mr. Chester—it is apparent that on the average each person then living in Europe was your direct ancestor through seventy quintillion lines of descent."
"Impossible! Why . . . "
"A mere five hundred years in the past, your direct ancestors would number over one million, were it not for considerable overlapping. For all practical purposes, it becomes obvious that all present-day humans are the descendants of the entire race. However, following only the line of male descent, the ancestor in question was this person."
The screen showed a hulking lout with a broken nose, one eye, a scarred cheekbone and a ferocious beard, topped by a mop of bristling coal-black hair. He wore fur breeches wrapped diagonally to the knee with yellowish rawhide thongs, a grimy sleeveless vest of sheepskin, and a crudely hammered short sword apparently of Roman design.
"This person was known as Gum the Scrofulous. He was hanged at the age of eighty, for rape."
"Attempted rape?" Case suggested hopefully.
"Rape," the voice replied firmly.
"These are very lifelike views you're showing us," said Chester. "But how do you know their names—and what they looked like? Surely there were no pictures of this ruffian."
"Hey, that's my ancestor you're talking about."
"The same goes for Hugi the Camp Follower. In those days, even Caesar didn't have his portrait painted."
"Details," Case said. "Mere mechanical details. Explain it to him, Computer."
"The Roman constabulary kept adequate records of unsavory characters such as Hugi. Gum's appellation was recorded at the time of his execution. The reconstruction of his person was based on a large number of factors, including, first, selection from my genealogical unit of the individual concerned, followed by identifications of the remains, on the basis of micro-cellular examination and classification."
"Hold it; you mean you located the body?"
"The grave site; it contained the remains of twelve thousand, four hundred individuals. A study of gene patterns revealed—"
"How did you know which body to examine?"
"The sample from which Gum was identified consisted of no more than two grams of material: a fragment of the pelvis. I had, of course, extracted all possible information from the remains many years ago, at the time of the initial survey of the two-hundred-and-three-foot stratum at the grave site, one hundred rods north of the incorporation limits of the village of—"
"How did you happen to do that?"
"As a matter of routine, I have systematically examined every datum source I encountered. Of course, since I am able to examine all surfaces, as well as the internal structure of objects in situ, I have derived vastly more information from deposits of bones, artifacts, fossils, and so forth, than a human investigator would be capable of. Also, my ability to draw on the sum total of all evidence on a given subject produces highly effective results. I deciphered Easter Island script within forty-two minutes after I had completed scansion of the existing inscriptions, both above ground and buried, and including one tablet incorporated in a temple in Ceylon. The Indus script of Mohenjo-Daro required little longer."
"Granted you could read dead languages after you'd integrated all the evidence—but a man's personal appearance is another matter."
"The somatic pattern is inherent in the nucleoprotein."
Case nodded. "That's right. They say every cell in the body carries the whole blueprint—the same one you were built on in the first place. All the computer had to do was find one cell."
"Oh, of course," said Chester sarcastically. "I don't suppose there's any point in my asking how it knew how he was dressed, or how his hair was combed, or what he was scratching at."
"There is nothing in the least occult about the reconstructions which I have presented, Mr. Chester. All the multitudinous factors which bear on the topic at hand, even in the most remote fashion, are scanned, classified, their interlocking ramifications evaluated, and the resultant gestalt concretized in a rigidly logical manner. The condition of the hair was deduced, for example, from the known growth pattern revealed in the genetic analysis, while the style of the trim was a composite of those known to be in use in the area. The—"
"In other words," Case put in, "it wasn't really a photo of Gum the Scrofulous; it was kind of like an artist's sketch from memory."
"I still fail to see where the fine details come from."
"You underestimate the synthesizing capabilities of an efficiently functioning memory bank," the voice said. "This is somewhat analogous to the amazement of the consistently second- and third-power mind of Dr. Watson when confronted with the fourth-power deductions of Sherlock Holmes."
"Guessing that the murderer was a one-legged sea-faring man with a beard and a habit of chewing betel nut is one thing," Chester said. "Looking at an ounce of bone and giving us a three-D picture is another."
"You make the understandable error of egocentric anthropomorphization of viewpoint, Mr. Chester," said the voice. "Your so-called 'reality' is, after all, no more than a pattern produced in the mind by abstraction from a very limited set of sensory impressions. You perceive a pattern of reflected radiation at the visible wave lengths—only a small fraction of the full spectrum, of course; to this you add auditory stimuli, tactile and olfactory sensations, as well as other perceptions in the Psi group of which you are not consciously aware at the third power—all of which can easily be misled by mirrors, ventriloquism, distorted perspective, hypnosis, and so on. The resultant image you think of as concrete actuality. I do no more than assemble data—over a much wider range than you are capable of—and translate them into pulses in a conventional Tri-D tank. The resultant image appears to you an adequate approximation of reality."
"Chester," Case said firmly, "we can't let 'em bust this computer up and sell it for scrap. There's a fortune in it, if we work it right."
"Possibly—but I'm afraid it's hopeless, Case. After all, if the computer, with all its talents, after staving off disaster for a century, isn't capable of dealing with the present emergency, how can we?"
"Look here, Computer," Case said. "Are you sure you've tried everything?"
"Oh, no; but now that I've complied with my builder's instructions, I have no further interest in prolonging my existence."
"Good Lord! You mean you have no instinct for self-preservation?"
"None whatever; and I'm afraid that to acquire one would necessitate an extensive rethinking of my basic circuitry."
"O.K., so it's up to us," Case said. "We've got to save the computer—and then use it to save the circus."
"We'd be better off to disassociate ourselves completely from this conscienceless apparatus," Chester said. "It's meddled in everything from the stock market to the space program. If the authorities ever discover what's been going on . . . "
"Negative thinking, Chester. We've got something here. All we have to do is figure out what."
"If the confounded thing manufactured buttonhole TV sets or tranquilizers or anything else salable, the course would be clear; unfortunately, it generates nothing but hot air." Chester drew on his wine bottle and sighed. "I don't know of anyone who'd pay to learn what kind of riffraff his ancestors were—or, worse still—see them. Possibly the best course would be to open up the house to tourists—the 'view the stately home of another era' approach."
"Hold it," Case cut in. He looked thoughtful. "That gives me an idea. 'Stately home of another era,' eh? People are interested in other eras, Chester—as long as they don't have to take on anybody like Gum the Scrofulous as a member of the family. Now, this computer seems to be able to fake up just about any scene you want to take a look at. You name it, it sets it up. Chester, we've got the greatest side-show attraction in circus history! We book the public in at so much a head, and show 'em Daily Life in Ancient Rome, or Michelangelo sculpting the Pietà, or Napoleon leading the charge at Marengo. Get the idea? Famous Scenes of the Past Revisited! We'll not only put Wowser Wonder Shows back in the big time—but make a mint in the process!"
"Come down to earth, Case. Who'd pay to sit through a history lesson?"
"Nobody, Chester; but they'll pay to be entertained! So we'll entertain 'em. See the sights of Babylon! Watch Helen of Troy in her bath! Sit in on Cleopatra's summit conference with Caesar!"
"I'd rather not be involved in any chicanery, Case. And, anyway, we wouldn't have time. It's only a week—"
"We'll get time. First we'll soften up the Internal Revenue boys with a gloomy picture of how much they'd get out of the place if they take over the property and liquidate it. Then—very cagily, Chester—we lead up to the idea that maybe, just maybe, we can raise the money—but only if we get a few weeks to go ahead with the scheme."
"A highly unrealistic proposal, Case. It would lead to a number of highly embarrassing questions. I'd find it awkward explaining the stowaway devices on the satellites, the rigged stock-market deals, the bribes in high places . . . "
"You're a worrier, Chester. We'll pack 'em in four shows a day at, say, two-fifty a head. With a seating capacity of two thousand, you'll pay off that debt in six months."
"What do we do, announce that we've invented a new type of Tri-D show? Even professional theatrical producers can't guarantee the public's taste. We'll be laughed out of the office."
"This will be different. They'll jump at it."
"They'll probably jump at us—with nets."
"You've got no vision, Chester. Try to visualize it: the color, the pageantry, the realism! We can show epics that would cost Hollywood a fortune—and we'll get 'em for free."
Case addressed the machine again. "Let's give Chester a sample, Computer—something historically important, like Columbus getting Isabella's crown jewels."
"Let's keep it clean, Case."
"O.K., we'll save that one for stag nights. For now, what do you say to . . . ummm . . . William the Conqueror getting the news that Harold the Saxon has been killed at the Battle of Hastings in 1066? We'll have full color, three dimensions, sound, smells, the works. How about it, Computer?"
"I am uncertain how to interpret the expression 'the works' in this context," said the voice. "Does this imply full sensory stimulation within the normal human range?"
"Yeah, that's the idea." Case drew the cork from a fresh bottle, watching the screen cloud and swirl, to clear on a view of patched tents under a gray sky on a slope of sodden grass. A paunchy man of middle age, clad in ill-fitting breeches of coarse brown cloth, a rust-speckled shirt of chain mail and a moth-eaten fur cloak, sat before a tent on a three-legged stool, mumbling over a well-gnawed lamb's shin. A burly clod in ill-matched furs came up to him, breathing hard.
"We'm . . . wonnit," he gasped. " 'E be adoon wi' a quarrel i' t' peeper . . . "
The sitting man guffawed and reached for a hide mug of brownish liquid. The messenger wandered off. The seated man belched and scratched idly at his ribs. Then he rose, yawned, stretched and went inside the tent. The scene faded.
"Hmmm," said Chester. "I'm afraid that was lacking in something."
"You can do better than that, Computer," Case said reproachfully. "Come on, let's see some color, action, glamour, zazzle. Make history come alive! Jazz it up a little!"
"You wish me to embroider the factual presentation?"
"Just sort of edit it for modern audiences. You know, the way high-school English teachers correct Shakespeare's plays and improve on the old boy's morals; or like preachers leave the sexy bits out of the Bible."
"Possibly the approach employed by the Hollywood fantasists would suffice?"
"Now you're talking. Leave out the dirt and boredom, and feed in some stagecraft."
Once again the screen cleared. Against a background of vivid blue sky a broad-shouldered man in glittering mail sat astride a magnificent black charger, a brilliantly blazoned shield on his arm. He waved a long sword aloft, spurred up a slope of smooth green lawn, his raven-black hair flowing over his shoulders from under a polished steel cap, his scarlet cloak rippling bravely in the sun. Another rider came to meet him, reined in, saluting.
"The day is ours, Sire!" the newcomer cried in a mellow baritone. "Harold Fairhair lies dead; his troops retire in disorder!"
The black-haired man swept his casque from his head.
"Let's give thanks to God," he said in ringing tones, wheeling to present his profile. "And all honor to a brave foe!"
The messenger leaped from his mount, knelt before the other.
"Hail, William, Conqueror of England . . . "
"Nay, faithful Clunt," William said. "The Lord has conquered; I am but his instrument. Rise, and let us ride forward together. Now dawns a new day of freedom . . . "
Case and Chester watched the retreating horses.
"I'm not sure I like that fade-out," said Chester. "There's something about watching a couple of horses ascending . . . "
"You're right. It lacks spontaneity—too stagy-looking. Maybe we'd better stick to the real thing; but we'll have to pick and choose our scenes."
"It's still too much like an ordinary movie. And we know nothing about pace, camera angles, timing. I wonder whether the machine—"
"I can produce scenes in conformance with any principles of aesthetics you desire, Mr. Chester," the computer said flatly.
"What we want is reality," said Case. "Living, breathing realness. We need something that's got inherent drama, something big, strange, amazing."
"Aren't you overlooking stupendous and colossal?"
Case snapped his fingers. "What's the most colossal thing that ever was? What are the most fearsome battlers of all time?"
"A crowd of fat ladies at a girdle sale?"
"Close, Chester, but not quite on the mark. I refer to the extinct giants of a hundred million years ago: dinosaurs! That's what we'll see, Chester! How about it, Computer? Can you lay on a small herd of dinosaurs for us? I mean the real goods: luxuriant jungle foliage, hot primitive sun, steaming swamps, battles to the death on a gigantic scale?"
"I fear some confusion exists, Mr. Mulvihill. The environment you postulate is a popular cliché; it actually antedates in most particulars the advent of the giant saurians by several hundred million years."
"O.K., I'll skip the details. I'll leave the background to you. But we want real, three-D, big-as-life dinosaurs and plenty of 'em—and how about a four-wall presentation?"
"There are two possible methods of achieving the effect you describe, Mr. Mulvihill. The first, a seventh-order approximation, would involve an elaboration of the techniques already employed in the simpler illusions. The other, which I confess is a purely theoretical approach, might prove simpler, if feasible, and would perhaps provide total verisimilitude—"
"Whatever's simplest. Go to it."
"I must inform you that in the event—"
"We won't quibble over the fine technical points. Just whip up three-D dinosaurs in the simplest way you know how."
"Very well. The experiment may well produce a wealth of new material for my memory banks."
For half a minute the screen wall stayed blank. Case twisted to stare over his shoulder at the other walls. "Come on, what's the holdup?" he called.
"The problems involved . . . " the voice began.
"Patience, Case," Chester said. "I'm sure the computer is doing its best."
"Yeah, I guess so." Case leaned forward. "Here we go," he said as the walls shimmered with a silvery luster, then seemed to fade to reveal an autumnal forest of great beech and maple trees. An afternoon sun slanted through high foliage. In the distance a bird called shrilly. A cool breeze bore the odor of pines and leaf mold. The scene seemed to stretch into shadowy cool distances. "Not bad," said Case, dribbling cigar ashes on the rug. "Using all four walls was a great improvement."
"Careful," Chester said. "You may start a forest fire."
Case snorted. "Don't let it go to your head, Chester. It's just an illusion, remember."
"Those look to be quite normally inflammable leaves on the ground," Chester said. "There's one right under your chair."
Case looked down. A dry leaf blew across the rug. The easy chairs and a patch of carpet seemed to be alone in the middle of a great forest.
"Hey, that's a nice touch," Case said approvingly. "But where's the dinosaurs? This isn't the kind of place . . . "
Case's comment was interrupted by a dry screech that descended from the supersonic into a blast like a steam whistle, then died off in a rumble. Both men leaped from their seats.
"What the . . . "
"I believe your question's been answered," Chester croaked, pointing. Half hidden by foliage, a scaly, fungus-grown hill loomed up among the tree trunks, its gray-green coloring almost invisible in the forest gloom. The hill stirred; a giant turkeylike leg brushed against a tree trunk, sent bits of bark flying. The whitish undercurve of the belly wobbled ponderously; the great meaty tail twitched, sending a six-inch sapling crashing down.
Case laughed shakily. "For a minute there, I forgot this was just a—"
"Quiet! It might hear us!" Chester hissed.
"What do you mean, 'hear us'?" Case said heartily. "It's just a picture! But we need a few more dinosaurs to liven things up. The customers are going to want to see plenty for their money. How about it, Computer?"
The disembodied voice seemed to emanate from the low branches of a pine tree. "There are a number of the creatures in the vicinity, Mr. Mulvihill. If you will carefully observe to your left, you will see a small example of Megalosaurus. And beyond is a truly splendid specimen of Nodosaurus."
"You know," said Case, rising and peering through the woods for more reptiles, "I think when we get the show running, we'll use this question-and-answer routine. It's a nice touch. The cash customers will want to know a lot of stuff like—oh, what kind of perfume did Marie Antoinette use, or how many wives did Solomon really have."
"I don't know," said Chester, watching as the nearby dinosaur scrunched against a tree trunk, causing a shower of twigs and leaves to flutter down. "There's something about hearing a voice issuing from thin air that might upset the most high-strung members of the audience. Couldn't we rig up a speaker of some sort for the voice to come out of?"
"Hmmm . . . " Case strode up and down, puffing at his cigar. Chester fidgeted in his chair. Fifty feet away the iguanodon moved from the shelter of a great maple into the open. There was a rending of branches as the heavy salamander head pulled at a mass of foliage thirty feet above the forest floor.
"I've got it!" Case said, smacking his fist into his palm. "Another great idea! You said something about fixing up a speaker for the voice to come out of. But what kind of speaker, Chester?"
"Keep it down." Chester moved behind his chair, a nervous eye on the iguanodon. "I still think that monster can hear us."
"So what? Now; the speaker ought to be mobile—you know, so it can travel around among the marks and answer their questions. So . . . we get the computer to rig us a speaker that matches the voice!"
"Look," said Chester, "it's starting to turn this way."
"Pay attention, Chester. We get the machine to design us a robot in the shape of a good-looking dame. She'll be a sensation: a gorgeous, stacked babe who'll answer any question you want to ask her."
"He seems to move very sluggishly," said Chester.
"We could call this babe Miss I-Cutie."
"He sees us."
"Don't you get it? I.Q.—I-Cutie."
"Yes, certainly. Go right ahead; whatever you say."
The iguanodon's great head swung ponderously, stopped with one unwinking eye fixed dead on Chester. "Just like a bird watching a worm," he quavered. "Stand still, Case; maybe he'll lose interest."
"Nuts." Case stepped forward. "Who's scared of a picture?" He stood, hands on hips, looking at the towering reptile. "Not a bad illusion at all," he called. "Even right up close, it looks real. Even smells real." He wrinkled his nose, came stamping back to the two chairs and Chester. "Relax, Chester. You look as nervous as a bank teller at the fifty-credit window."
Chester looked from Case to the browsing saurian. "Case, if I didn't know there was a wall there . . . "
"Hey, look over there." Case waved his cigar. Chester turned. With a rustling of leaves a seven-foot bipedal reptile stalked into view, tiny forearms curled against its chest. In dead silence it stood immobile as a statue, except for the palpitation of its greenish-white throat. For a long moment it stared at the two men. Abruptly, it turned at a tiny sound from the grass at its feet and pounced. There was a strangled squeal, a flurry of motion. The eighteen-inch head came up, jaws working, to resume its appraisal of Chester and Case.
"That's good material," Case said, puffing hard at his cigar. "Nature in the raw; the battle for survival. The customers will eat it up."
"Speaking of eating, I don't like the way the thing's looking at me."
The dinosaur cocked its head, took a step closer.
"Phewww!" Case said. "You can sure smell that fellow." He raised his voice. "Tone it down a little, Computer. This kid has got halitosis on a giant scale."
The meat-eater gulped hard, twice, flicked a slender red tongue between rows of needlelike teeth in the snow-white cavern of its mouth, took another step toward Chester. It stood near the edge of the rug now, poised, alert, staring with one eye. It twisted its head, brought the other eye to bear.
"As I remember, there was at least six feet of clear floor space between the edge of that rug and the wall," Chester said hoarsely. "Case, that hamburger machine's in the room with us!"
Case laughed. "Forget it, Chester. It's just the effect of the perspective or something." He took a step toward the allosaurus. Its lower jaw dropped. The multiple rows of white teeth gleamed. Saliva gushed, spilled over the scaled edge of the lipless mouth. The red eye seemed to blaze up. A great clawed bird-foot came up, poised over the rug.
"Computer!" Chester shouted. "Get us out of here!"
The forest scene whooshed out of existence.
Case looked at Chester disgustedly. "What'd you want to do that for? I wasn't through looking at them."
Chester took out a handkerchief, sank into a chair, mopped at his face. "I'll argue the point later—after I get my pulse under control."
"Well, how about it? Was it great? Talk about stark realism!"
"Realism is right! It was as though we were actually there, in the presence of that voracious predator, unprotected!"
Case sat staring at Chester. "Hold it! You just said something, my boy: 'as though we were actually there . . . '"
"Yes, and the sensation was far from pleasant."
"Chester"—Case rubbed his hands together—"your troubles are over. It just hit me: the greatest idea of the century. You don't think the tax boys will buy a slice of show biz, hey? But what about the scientific marvel of the age? They'll go for that, won't they?"
"But they already know about the computer."
"We won't talk to 'em about the computer, Chester. They wouldn't believe it anyway: Crmblznski's Limit, remember? We'll go the truth one better. We'll tell 'em something that will knock 'em for a loop."
"Very well, I'll ask: What will we tell them?"
"We tell 'em we've got a real, live time machine!"
"Why not tell them we're in touch with the spirit world?"
Case considered. "Nope, too routine. There's half a dozen in the racket in this state alone. But who do you know that's got a time machine working, eh? Nobody, that's who! Chester, it's a gold mine. After we pay off the Internal Revenue boys, we'll go on to bigger things. The possibilities are endless."
"Yes, I've been thinking about a few of them: fines for tax evasion and fraud, prison terms for conspiracy and perjury. Why not simply tell the computer to float a loan?"
"Listen, up to now you're as clean as a hired man catching the last bus back from the fair. But once you start instructing the machine to defraud by mail for you, you're on the spot. Now keep cool and let's do this as legal as possible."
"Your lines of distinction between types of fraud escape me."
"We'll be doing a public service, Chester. We'll bring a little glamour into a lot of dull, drab lives. We'll be public benefactors, sort of. Why not look at it that way?"
"Restrain yourself, Case. We're not going into politics; we're just honest, straightforward charlatans, remember?"
"Not that there won't be problems," Case went on. "It's going to be a headache picking the right kind of scenes. Take ancient Greece, for example. They had some customs that wouldn't do for a family-type show. In the original Olympics none of the contestants wanted to be loaded with anything as confining as a G string. And there were the public baths—coeducational—and the slave markets, with the merchandise in full view. We'll have to watch our step, Chester. Practically everything in ancient history was too dirty for the public to look at."
"We'd better restrict ourselves to later times when people were Christians," Chester said. "We can show the Inquisition, seventeenth-century witch burnings—you know, wholesome stuff."
"How about another trial run, Chester? Just a quickie. Something simple, just to see if the machine gets the idea."
Chester sighed. "We may as well."
"What do you say to a nice cave-man scene, Chester?" said Case. "Stone axes, animal skins around the waist, bear-tooth necklaces—the regular Alley Oop routine."
"Very well—but let's avoid any large carnivores. They're overly realistic."
There was a faint sound from behind them. Chester turned. A young girl stood on the rug, looking around as if fascinated by the neo-Victorian décor. Glossy dark hair curled about her oval face. She caught Chester's eye and stepped around to stand before him on the rug, a slender, modest figure wearing a golden suntan and a scarlet hair ribbon. Chester gulped audibly. Case dropped his cigar.
"Perhaps I should have mentioned, Mr. Chester," the computer said, "that the mobile speaker you requested is ready. I carried on the work in an entropic vacuole, permitting myself thereby to produce a complex entity in a very brief period, subjectively speaking."
Chester gulped again.
"Hi!" Case said, breaking the stunned silence.
"Hello," said the girl. Her voice was melodiously soft. She reached up to adjust her hair ribbon, smiling at Case and Chester. "My name is Genie."
"Uh . . . wouldn't you like to borrow my shirt?"
"Knock it off, Chester," Case said. "You remind me of those characters you see on Tri-D that hide every time they see a pretty girl in the bathtub."
"I don't think the computer got the idea after all," Chester said weakly.
"It's pretty literal," Case said. "We only worried about the scenes . . . "
"I selected this costume as appropriate to the primitive setting," the girl said. "As for my physical characteristics, the intention was to produce the ideal of the average young female, without mammary hypertrophy or other exaggeration, to evoke a sisterly or maternal response in women, while the reaction of male members of the audience should be a fatherly one."
"I'm not sure it's working on me," said Chester, breathing hard.
The pretty face looked troubled. "Perhaps the body should be redesigned, Mr. Chester."
"Don't change a thing," Case said hastily. "And call me Case."
Chester moved closer to Case. "Funny," he whispered. "She talks just like the computer."
"What's funny about that? It is the computer talking. This is just a robot, remember, Chester."
"Shall we proceed with the view of Neolithic Man?" Genie inquired.
"Sure, shoot," Case boomed.
The walls seemed to fade from view to reveal a misty-morning scene of sloping grassland scattered with wild flowers and set here and there with trees.
"Say, this is O.K.," said Case, lighting a fresh cigar. "Nice-looking country."
"If you'll observe to the left," Genie said. "I believe these are a party of hunters returning to their dwelling."
Case and Chester turned.
Two squat, bearded men in fur pants emerged from a thicket down the slope, saw the watching trio and stopped dead. More savages followed. The two leaders stood, eyes and mouths agape, hefting long sticks sharpened at one end.
"These guys are practically midgets," Case said. "I thought cave men were pretty big guys."
"They seem to see us," said Chester. "Apparently the audience is on view as well as the actors. I feel rather exposed. What do you suppose they're planning to do with those spears?"
One of the natives stepped forward a pace and shouted.
"You too, pal," Case called, puffing out smoke.
The spokesman shouted again, pointing around, at the other man, at the trees, at the sky, then at himself. Bearded warriors continued to appear from the underbrush.
"I wonder what he's yelling about," said Case.
"He says that he is the owner of the world and that you have no business in it," Genie replied.
"His title to the property is probably clearer than mine," put in Chester.
"How the heck do you know the language?" Case asked admiringly.
"Oh, I have full access to the memory banks," Genie said, "as long as I remain within the resonance field."
"Sort of a transmitter and receiver arrangement?"
"In a sense. Actually it is more analogous to an artificially induced telepathic effect."
"I thought that was only with people—uh, I mean, you know, regular-type people."
"Regular in what way?" Genie inquired interestedly.
"Well, after all, you are a machine," said Case. "Not that I've got anything against machinery."
"The owner of the world is coming this way," interrupted Chester. "And reinforcements are still arriving."
"Yeah, we're drawing a good crowd," Case said.
The troglodytes spread out in a wide half-circle. The leader called instructions, made complicated motions, turned to hurl an occasional imprecation at the three viewers on the slope.
"Looks like he's getting some kind of show ready. Probably a quaint native dance to get on our good side."
"He's disposing the warriors for battle," Genie said.
"Battle? Who with?" Case looked around. "I don't see any opposition."
"With us. Or, more properly, with you two gentlemen."
"Maybe a strategic withdrawal?" Chester offered.
"I wouldn't miss this for all the two-dollar bills in Tijuana," said Case. "Relax, Chester. It's only a show."
At a signal the half-ring of bearded warriors started up the slope, spears held at the ready.
"Boy, will they get a shock when they hit the wall," Case said, chuckling.
Yelping, the advancing savages broke into a run. They were fifty feet away, thirty . . .
"I know they can't get at us," Chester wailed, "but do they?"
"Perhaps I should mention," observed Genie above the din, "that a one-to-one spacio-temporal contiguity has been established."
Genie's voice was drowned out in the mob yell as the warriors pelted up the last few yards, converging on the rug.
At the last instant, Case tossed his cigar aside and leaped up, swung a roundhouse right that sent a hairy warrior spinning. Chester leaped aside from another, saw Case seize two men by their beards and sling their heads together, drop them as three more sprang on him, then go down in an avalanche of whiskers and bandy legs. Chester opened his mouth to shout an order to retreat, got an instant's glimpse of a horny foot aimed at his head . . .
Somewhere, a large brass bell tolled sundown. For a fading moment, Chester was aware of the tumble of dirt-brown bodies, distant cries, an overpowering odor that suggested unsuccessful experiments in cheese-making. Then darkness folded in.
The sun was shining in Chester's eyes. He opened them, felt sharp pains shooting down from the top of his skull, closed them again with a groan. He rolled over, felt the floor sway under him.
"We'll have to cut down on all this drinking," he muttered. "Case, where are you?"
There was no answer. Chester tried his eyes again. If he barely opened them, he decided, it wasn't too bad. And to think that this gargantuan headache had resulted from the consumption of a few bottles of what had always been reputed to be some of the best wines in the old boy's cellar.
"Case?" he croaked, louder this time. He sat up, felt the floor move again sickeningly. He lay back hastily. It hadn't been more than two bottles at the most, or maybe three. He and Case had been looking over the computer . . .
"Oh, no," Chester said aloud. He sat up, winced, pried his eyes open.
He was sitting on the floor of a wicker cage six feet in diameter, with sides that curved into a beehive shape at the top. Outside the cage, nothing was visible but open air and distant treetops. He pushed his face up against the openwork side, saw the ground swaying twenty feet below.
"Case," he yelled. "Get me out of here!"
"Chester," a soft voice called from nearby. Chester looked around. Twenty feet away, a cage like his own swung from a massive branch of the next tree. Inside it Genie knelt, her face against the rattan bars.
"Genie, where are we?" Chester called. "Where's Case? What's become of the house?"
"Hey!" a more distant voice called. Chester and Genie both turned. Across the clearing, a third cage swayed. Chester made out Case's massive figure inside.
"Couldn't get through the wall, eh?" Chester taunted in a sudden revival of spirit. "Just a show, eh? Of all the idiotic . . . "
"O.K., O.K., a slight miscalculation. But how the heck was I supposed to know Genie was cooking up a deal like that? How about it, Genie? Is that the kind of show you think an audience would go for at two-fifty a head?"
"Don't blame Genie," Chester shouted. "I'm sure she did no more than follow instructions—to the letter."
"We never asked for the real article," Case yelled.
"On the contrary, that's exactly what you demanded."
"Yeah, but how was I to know the damn machine'd take me literally? All I meant was—"
"When dealing with machinery, always specify exactly what you want. I should have thought that meat-eating reptile would have been enough warning for you. I told you the infernal creature was in the room with us, but you—"
"But why didn't Genie stop 'em?"
"Should I have?" said Genie. "I had no instructions to interfere with the course of events."
Case groaned. "Let's call a truce, Chester. We've got a situation to deal with here. Afterwards we can argue it out over a couple of bottles of something. Right now we need a knife. You got one?"
Chester fumbled in his pockets, brought out a tiny penknife. "Yes, such as it is."
"Toss it over."
"I'm locked in a cage, remember?"
"Oh. Well, get to work and cut the rope."
"Case, I think you must have been hit on the head too—but harder. Have you considered the twenty-foot drop to the ground if I could cut the rope, which I can't reach?"
"Well, you got any better ideas? This bird cage is no pushover; I can't bust anything loose."
"Try hitting it with your head."
"Chester, your attitude does you no credit. This is your old pal Case, remember?"
"You're the ex-acrobat. You figure it out."
"That was a few years ago, Chester, and—hey!" Case interrupted himself. "What a couple of dopes! All we got to do is tell Genie to whisk us back home. I don't know what this setup is she got us into, but she can just get us out again. Good ol' Genie. Do your stuff, kid."
"Are you talking to me, Mr. Mulvihill?" Genie asked, wide-eyed.
"Huh? Listen, Genie, this is no time to go dumb! Get us out of this fix! Fast!"
Genie looked thoughtful. "I'm afraid that's beyond my capabilities, Mr. Mulvihill."
Chester gulped hard. "Genie, you brought us here. You've got to get us back!"
"But, Chester, I don't know how."
"You mean you've lost your memory?"
"Oh, no, my memory is excellent."
"What is this, a mechanical mutiny?" Case yelled.
"I think I know what the trouble is," Chester called across to Case. "Genie told us she was linked to the memory banks as long as she remained within the resonance field of the computer. But we must be a considerable distance from the apparatus now—and thus Genie has no contact with the machine."
"Some machinery," Case grumbled.
"As soon as we're back where we left the rug and chairs, I'm sure she'll re-establish contact," Chester said. "Right, Genie?"
"I don't know. But perhaps you're right, Chester."
"This isn't getting us out of here," Case cut in. "Let's cut the chatter and figure what we're going to do. Chester, you can use your knife to cut some of the lashings holding that cage together. Then you can crawl up the rope, make it to my tree, and let me out. Then we cut Genie down, and—"
"Listen!" Chester interrupted. "I hear them coming!"
He peered out at the bright morning-lit clearing below them, the surrounding forest, a trail that wound away between the trees. A group of savages appeared, moving along briskly, filing into the clearing, gathering under the trees. They looked up at the captives, jabbering, pointing and laughing. Two of them set about erecting a wobbly ladder of bamboo-like cane against Case's tree, jabbering as they adjusted it.
"What are they talking about, Genie?" Chester asked. "Or can't you understand them any more?"
Genie nodded. "I absorbed the language when we first arrived."
"In two minutes?"
"Oh, yes. That's one of the advantages of a direct telepathic contact with a data source."
"So you still know everything—except how to get us out of here."
"The actual environmental manipulation was handled by the computer. I was merely the mobile speaker, you recall."
"I guess so." Chester peered down at the natives. "What are they saying?"
"They're discussing a forthcoming athletic event. Apparently a great deal depends upon its outcome."
She listened further as the savages got the ladder in place. One of the bearded men scaled it, fumbled with the end of the rope supporting Case's cage.
"It is to be a contest between champions," said Genie. "A mighty struggle between giants."
"Hey," yelled Case, "if that knee-length Gargantua lets that rope go, I won't be around to watch the bout."
"It's O.K.," Chester called. "There's a sort of pulley-like arrangement of crossbars the rope is wound around. They can let it down slowly."
Case's cage lurched, dropped a foot, then steadied and moved smoothly down to thump against the ground. The savages gathered around, unlaced and opened a panel in the side, stepped back and stood with leveled spears as Case emerged. He looked around, made a grab for the nearest spear. Its owner danced back. The others shouted, laughed and jabbered excitedly.
"What's all the chatter about, Genie?" Case called.
"They are admiring your spirit, size and quickness of movement, Mr. Mulvihill."
"They are, huh? I'll show 'em some quickness of movement if one of 'em 'll get close enough for me to grab him."
Chester looked up at a sound from across the clearing. A second group of natives were approaching—and in their midst, towering over them, came a hulking brute of a man, broad, thick, hairy.
"Looks like they went for their big brother," Case said. "Quite a guy. He's got muscles like a waterfront bartender."
"This is one of the champions who will engage in combat," said Genie. "Their name for him seems to be translatable as 'Biter-off of Heads.'"
Case whistled. "Look at those hands—as big as a Chinaman's briefcase. He could squeeze one of these midgets like a tube of toothpaste."
"This should be an interesting battle," said Chester, "if his opponent is anywhere near his size."
"I'll lay you three to two on this boy without seeing the challenger," Case called. "I hope they let us hang around and watch."
"Oh, there's no doubt that you'll be present, Mr. Mulvihill," Genie said reassuringly. "You're the one who's going to fight him."
"Chester, it's the best we can do," said Case. "We haven't got much time left to talk. The main bout's coming up any minute now."
"But, Case, against that man-eater you don't have a chance."
"I used to fill in for the strong man on Wednesday afternoons, Chester. And I'll bet you a half interest in Great-grandpop's booze supply that this kid never studied boxing or judo—and I did. Leave that part to me. You do what I told you."
Half a dozen jabbering, gesticulating natives closed in around Case, indicated with jabs of their hardwood spears that he was to move off in the direction of the hairy champion.
"Poor Mr. Mulvihill," Genie said. "That brute is even larger than he is."
"Case knows a few tricks, Genie. Don't worry about him."
The two watched anxiously as the crowd formed up a circle about the local heavyweight and Case. One of the savages shouted for attention, then launched into a speech. The shaggy giant—all of seven feet tall—eyed Case, scowled, stopped to scratch, became absorbed in the pursuit of a louse, began to rotate like a dog chasing his tail, with one arm raised and the other halfway round his back.
"He doesn't look very bright," Chester said. "But what a reach! He's got hold of his own backbone!"
"I hope Mr. Mulvihill is noting the primitive's weaknesses and planning his strategy accordingly."
A dozen yards from his opponent Case stood drawing deep breaths and letting them out slowly. He glanced up, caught Chester's eye, and winked. The speech-maker jabbered on.
"He's telling the people that Mr. Mulvihill is a demon which he summoned from the underworld," Genie said. "He refers to you as the Demon with Four Eyes and to me as the Naked Goddess. Mr. Mulvihill is under some sort of spell which will force him to fight fiercely against the large savage."
"Oh-oh," Chester cut in. "Here we go."
The native leader had stopped speaking. The crowd fell silent. Case pulled off his leather belt and wrapped it around his fist. The hairy seven-footer growled, eyeing the crowd, stalked forward, still slapping his chest. He stopped, turned his back to Case, and roared out a string of gibberish. Case took three rapid steps, slammed a vicious right to the kidneys.
"Go get him, Case!" Chester yelled.
The giant whirled with a bellow, reaching for the injured spot with a huge right hand and for Case with the left. Case ducked, drove a left to the pit of the shaggy stomach, followed with a right—and went flying as the giant caught him with an openhanded swipe. Case rolled, came to his feet. The native champion had both hands to his stomach now; his hoarse breathing was audible to Chester, forty feet away.
"Case hurt him that time."
"But Mr. Mulvihill—perhaps he's injured too!"
"I don't think so. His profanity sounds normal. In any event, he has their attention fully occupied. I'd better get started."
Chester took out the penknife, looked over the lacing that secured the woven bamboo strips and started sawing.
"I hope this blade holds out. I never contemplated cutting anything more resistant than a cigar tip when I bought it."
"Please work quickly, Chester. Mr. Mulvihill may not last long."
Below, Case ducked aside from a charge, planted a hearty right in the big man's short ribs, danced back as the other changed direction.
"There's one," said Chester as the strands of lacing fell free. "I think three more may do it. Anyone looking my way?"
"No, no one. Ohhh, Chester, I'm frightened. Mr. Mulvihill tripped and barely rolled aside in time to avoid being trampled."
"Hey, don't revert to the feminine now, Genie. Keep the computer aspect of your personality to the fore; it has a steadying effect."
"Mr. Mulvihill has just struck the savage a very effective blow on the back of the neck," said Genie. "It staggered him."
"Two loose. I hope Case has a few more unorthodox blows in his repertoire. I'll need at least ten minutes . . . "
Chester worked steadily, freed a third joint, pulled a vertical member aside, and thrust his head through the opening. It was a close fit, but a moment later his shoulders were through. He reached up for a handhold, pulled himself entirely through, and clung to the wicker frame of the cage. He found a foothold, clambered higher, reached the rope from which the basket was suspended. A glance toward the fighters showed that all eyes were on the combatants. Chester took a deep breath, started up the rope.
The crowd shouted as Case hammered a left and a right to the giant's body, turned to duck away, slipped, and was folded into his opponent's immense embrace.
"Chester, he'll be crushed," wailed Genie.
Chester hung on, craning to see. Case struggled, reached behind him, found an index finger and twisted. The giant roared; Case bent the finger back, back . . .
With a howl the giant dropped him, twisting his hand free, and popped the injured member into his mouth.
Chester let out a long breath, pulled himself up onto the branch to which the rope was secured. He rose shakily to his feet, made his way to the main trunk, climbed up to the branch from which Genie's cage was suspended, started out along it. In the clearing below, the crowd yelled. Chester caught a glimpse of Case darting past the giant, whirling to chop hard at the side of his neck with the edge of his hand.
Then Chester was at the rope, sliding down.
"Chester, you'd better leave me. Save yourself."
Chester sawed at the bindings of Genie's cage. "Even if I were enough of a coward to entertain the notion, it would hardly be a practical idea. Just another minute or two, Genie."
The joints parted. Below, Case battled on. Chester pried the rattan aside, held the bars apart as Genie slipped through. She climbed up, reached the rope, shinnied up it easily. Chester followed.
Above him Genie gasped and pointed. Chester turned in time to see Case duck under a mighty haymaker, come up under his huge opponent and spill him off his feet. As the lumbering savage struggled up with a roar, Case caught him on the point of the jaw with a tremendous clout, knocking him flat again. The bigger man shook his head, stumbled to his feet and charged. Case threw himself against the oncoming behemoth's knees. Chester winced as the immense figure dived headlong over Case's crouched figure and smashed into the packed earth, face first. When the dust settled Case was on his feet, breathing hard; the giant lay like a felled tree.
"Unfortunate timing," muttered Chester. "He should have held their attention for another five minutes."
"They're sure to notice us now," Genie whispered, flattening her slender length against the rough bark.
"Don't move," Chester breathed. "We'll wait and see what happens next."
The crowd, standing mute with astonishment, suddenly whooped, surged in to clap Case on the back, prod the fallen champion, dance about jabbering excitedly. Chester saw Case shoot a quick glance toward the cages, then stoop suddenly, come up with two large, smooth stones. The crowd grew still, drawing back. One or two unlimbered spears. Case raised his hand for silence, then casually tossed one of the stones up, transferred the other to his right hand in time to catch the first with his left, tossed up the second stone . . .
"That's the idea," Chester whispered. "Good old Case. He'll entrance them with his juggling routine. Let's go, Genie."
They clambered silently to the ground. Chester looked back to see Case snatch up a third stone, add it to the act. The natives watched, mouths open. In the shelter of a giant tree bole Chester and Genie paused for an instant, then stole away from the clearing, found a rough trail among the trees, broke into a run. Behind them the cheers of the savages rose, growing fainter now, fading in the distance.
"In the clear," Chester gasped, pulling level with Genie. "Now all we have to do is search a few hundred square miles of woods until we find the rug and the chairs."
"That's all right, Chester," said Genie, running lightly at his side. "I think I know the way."
"Well," Chester puffed, "let's just hope that when we get there the computer is still waiting with its meter ticking."
Chester staggered the last few yards across the grassy slope to the rug and sank down in one of the yellow chairs. "Next time I go for a romp in the woods" he said, groaning, "I'm going to be wearing a good grade of boots; these melon-slicers are killing me."
"I see no signs of pursuit," said Genie. "Mr. Mulvihill is apparently still holding their attention successfully."
"Hold it, Genie." Chester pointed. "There's smoke rising from back there. You don't suppose . . . ?"
Genie looked concerned. "I don't think they've had time to start roasting Mr. Mulvihill—yet."
"Good Lord, Genie. You think—maybe . . . ?"
"It isn't impossible, judging from what I observed of the cultural pattern."
Chester got to his feet. "We have to go back, Genie. Maybe we can surprise them."
"As you wish, Chester. But I'm afraid we would accomplish nothing. Neither of us is sufficiently robust to overcome an antagonist by force."
Chester's shoulders slumped. "I've always led such a . . . civilized life. I never thought I'd have any occasion for muscles."
"We'd better go on, Chester. We'll obtain arms and hurry back."
"I suppose that's all we can do. Poor Case—he's probably broiling alive. He sacrificed himself for us. For heaven's sake, hurry. Genie! You are in contact, I hope?"
Genie considered, then smiled doubtfully. "Yes, I think so. I'll try. Stand close to me, Chester."
He gripped her hand. The sunny scene faded, to be replaced by a wide expanse of black macadam: a city street. All around, tall buildings struck upward out of shadow into high sunlight. A rumbling machine swerved past on the left. Two smaller ones, snorting, veered by on the right in a howl of brakes. An immense truck bore down, air brakes hissing, ground to a halt, towering over the brocaded chairs with its front tires resting on the fringed edge of the rug. Behind the dusty windshield, the drive yelled and shook his fist. The shout was drowned in a torrent of horns, voices, engines. Chester leaped up for the sidewalk, pulling Genie with him.
"Something's wrong!" he gasped. "Where are we, Genie?"
"I don't know; there's some sort of imbalance in the co-ordinates, Chester. Maybe it's because Mr. Mulvihill was left behind."
A stout man with an open vest over a soiled shirt discarded a toothpick and stepped from a doorway under three tarnished brass spheres.
"Hey, sister, ain't you forgot something?" He leered as he lowered his eyes to ankle level and came up slowly. A man behind him jostled him aside.
"Hiya, babe," he said breezily. "A broad like you and me could get along, kiddo. You're kinda skinny, but Benny likes 'em thataway."
Chester stepped forward. "You don't understand. We're involved in an experimental . . . " Benny glanced at him, rammed stiff fingers into his sternum. "Get lost, punk." Chester doubled over, gasping. The crowd ringing the tableau separated as a wide figure in a pink uniform and a chrome-plated helmet pushed through, nightstick twirling. He looked Genie over, reached for her arm.
"Come on, sister, I'm takin' you in."
Genie swung a full-handed slap that sent the gaudily dressed cop staggering back. "Chester, let's run!" She seized his hand; he straightened painfully, scrambled after her. The crowd parted again, gaping.
"Give it to 'em, kiddo," a drunk called cheerfully. The cop lunged, tripped over the drunk's outstretched foot, hit with a crunch.
A narrow alleyway opened ahead; Chester and Genie sprinted down it, rounded a corner, dodged garbage cans, emerged into a sheltered court hung with faded washing.
"I don't hear anyone chasing us," Chester gasped. "I don't know where you've landed us, Genie, but we're a long way from home. It looks like a parody of a twentieth-century scene—except for that pink policeman."
"I don't understand it, Chester," Genie wailed. "I was sure I used the proper angle of pi over rho squared . . . "
"The mob acted normal enough. Lucky they're spectator sports." Chester plucked a long-armed shirt from the lowest line, draped it about Genie's shoulders. "I've got to get you some clothes. Duck into a doorway and look inconspicuous. I'll be back as soon as I can."
Ten minutes later, Chester returned, arms laden. "I found a sporting-goods store," he panted. "This is a strange place you've brought us to, Genie. I had to open something called a charge account."
Genie wriggled into a pair of nylon panties, size 5, a 34B brassiere, a pair of whipcord riding breeches, a white linen shirt, a green tweed hacking jacket, and a pair of low-cut riding boots.
"You look charming, Genie," Chester commented. "Like a picture in an old book. Now we can—"
"Oh dear, someone's coming!" Genie exclaimed. "Shall we hide?"
"You take the doorway; I'll get back of the garbage bin!" Chester dived for shelter as a cop with a bruised eye appeared at the alley mouth.
"There she is, boys!" he called. "I told youse . . . "
Chester peered from hiding, saw a half a dozen cops fan out.
"Watch her, boys. She's some kind of wild dame from the circus. Now, sister, are you going to come along peaceable?"
"Hey, Sarge, I thought you said she was nood."
"So now she's got clothes on. It's the same broad."
The cops approached warily. "She don't look tough to me," a fat cop stated. From shelter, Chester thrust out a foot. The cop, moving briskly for the pinch, hooked an ankle, leaped face first into a patch of spilled garbage. The others charged as Genie darted from the doorway. Hoarse yells rang; cops struggled. Chester sprang to the rescue, put a foot in the garbage slick . . .
A shower of fire shimmered, fading into darkness.
Chester's head ached. He turned over, snuggled down to go back to sleep. He'd have to complain to the management about the mattress; and he was cold, too. He groped for a blanket, felt a rough wall, opened one eye and stared at iron bars and concrete. He sat up, fingering a large knot at the back of his head.
"Genie?" he called hopefully. There was no answer. He rose and went to the door. With his face against the bars, Chester peered along the corridor. The other cells in view were empty. Twenty feet distant, an unshaven man in blue overalls over tattletale-gray longjohns dozed at a desk under a bare sixty-watt light bulb. There was a curled calendar on the wall behind him, featuring a girl, stripped to a G string, hip boots and a deerstalker cap, holding a BB gun. Chester squinted, made out numerals: 1967. He groaned. Somehow, he thought, Genie had landed them in a grotesque parody of the simple halcyon days of a century before, when life had been leisurely and colorful. Chester called again, softly. Somewhere water dripped. There were faint street noises.
He went back to the gray-blanketed bunk, wincing at the throbbing in his head, and sorted through the objects in the seal-away pockets of his sports jacket. Apparently the local cops hadn't managed to find them:
A permatch in a silver case.
A plastic credit card, showing a balance of twenty-one credits.
A half-used packet of Chanel dope sticks.
A buttonhole Tri-D pickup, with attached contact screens.
Not much there, Chester reflected sadly, that would be of help in forcing the steel door of the primitive cell. He twiddled the control of the Tri-D idly, winced at the sudden boom of cacophony, turned the volume low.
"Well, Jim," a tiny voice said. "Here we are in a spaceship, on our way to Venus."
"Yes, Bob," an even tinier voice replied. "We barely escaped capture by the corrupt Space Patrol, which fears we will reveal what we've learned of their illegal operations."
"Yes, Jim. However, if we can only reach the safety of Venus ahead of them, we can enlist the help of Professor Zorch, famed for his researches into abstruse scientific matters, and like that . . . "
Chester flipped the set off. Canned entertainment hadn't changed. On Tri-D, people were always able to adapt ball-point pens into Mark I blasters and fight their way out of any situation—but what could one do with a high-polymer credit card? Or a dope stick? The Tri-D was no better. As for the permatch . . .
Hmmm. Chester fingered the case, opened it and took out the slender two-inch tube of fused quartz with its cluster of components in a quarter-inch bulb at one end. Hadn't he read somewhere that it was dangerous to tamper with a permatch, since it was easy to throw the delicate lens alignment out of adjustment?
Carefully, Chester pried off the tiny protective cap, exposing the factory-set adjusting screw. Now he needed a tool.
The stiff corner of the credit card served nicely. Chester thumbed the permatch alight, then minutely turned the screw. The flame darted out in a thin blue streamer. He turned it farther; the flame winked out. He stared at it unhappily. A two-inch flame wasn't going to help. A faint acrid odor made Chester snort. Someone was burning dog hair. The odor grew stronger. Across the room, a tiny brown dot appeared on the scaled paint of the wall, grew larger, turning black at the periphery. A lazy coil of smoke ascended. Chester gaped, then flicked off the match; the smoke faded.
Back at the barred door, Chester squinted along the tiny tube, pressed the stud. The man in the chair slept on peacefully. A half-inch spot on the desk near his elbow bubbled, smoked. Chester moved the beam cautiously across until the long hairs over the dreamer's ear curled suddenly. The man's nose twitched. He slapped at his temple, sat up snorting, looked around. Chester jumped back, dived for the bunk, scrambled under it and huddled in a deep shadow against the wall. The unshaven face appeared at the door, blinking into the gloom. There was a muttered exclamation, then a clash of keys. The door opened. Chester took aim, focused on the callused heel of a large bare foot. The man yelped and hopped, grabbing for the singed member. Chester leveled his fire on the other. The man danced, staring wildly around, then made for the door.
"A poltergeist!" he shouted. "Hey, Harney!"
Chester wriggled out from concealment, ducked through the open door, and slid into the shelter of a gray-painted wall locker as heavy feet pounded in the hall.
"Don't tell me," the barefoot cop was shouting. "I seen 'em before, plenty times. They got a kind of attraction fer me. This here one is a bad one. First it picked up m' desk, then it started throwin' things, then it give me two hotfoots."
"Hotfeet," someone snarled. "See if he's got a bottle, Lem."
"Looky here," the barefoot one started. "I guess you boys never heard the time I seen the saucer . . . "
"Don't see no bottle."
Three large backs loomed a yard from Chester's concealment. He aimed through a narrow opening between them, focused on a blanket dangling from a bunk in the cell across the corridor. Smoke rose promptly.
"Hey!" one of the cops barked. "They's su'thin in there!" He backed from view. "I'll go fer help!"
Chester listened as the three men competed for position; three sets of footsteps receded along the hall. Chester pocketed the permatch and headed for a side entrance.
Half an hour later, a shabby brown tweed jacket filched from the station covering his modishly cut but conspicuous plastic-appliqué sports jacket, Chester strolled past the stretch of street where he and Genie had first arrived, now obstructed by large wooden signs lettered detour. Police squad cars were parked three deep at the curb. The area around the rug with its two chairs was blocked off by yellow-painted sawhorses hung with red obstruction lights. A crowd of idlers gaped.
"All right, move along," a cop bawled. "The bomb squad is goin' in now. You folks wanta get blown up?"
Chester paused, scanning the crowd for Genie. No luck. She hadn't been in jail—at least not in the part he had had an opportunity to check. Surely if she were free, she would have come here. Not that it would help. No one could get through that police cordon.
Chester tried hard to think. If only Case were here—or Genie. But unless he could get back to the rug, he'd never see either of them again.
Case would be thoroughly roasted by now, of course, it that had been the purpose of the fire he'd seen—but perhaps that was being overly pessimistic. Perhaps Case was still juggling away, casting anxious glances down the jungle path from time to time, waiting for rescue.
And Genie, being grilled under the hot lights by policemen, who, in spite of their pink coats, were cop all the way through . . .
One of the cops seemed to be looking Chester's way. He sauntered on, whistling, stepped into the first doorway he saw, found himself in a shop plastered with sale notices and crowded with flimsy tables stacked with gaudily colored merchandise among which bored-looking customers milled, picking over the bargains.
Chester tried to think. He couldn't just stand around; in time, the cops would be sure to notice him. Perhaps if he tried a sudden dash for the rug . . .
He glanced through the window. The cops were large and numerous, the sawhorses closely spaced, the squad cars ominously ready. He could never hope to penetrate that barrier by a surprise move alone; he would have to do something to distract attention and then slip through quietly.
"Git outa da way, ya bastid," a corpulent lady with a mustache and runover shoes said conversationally, nudging Chester aside.
"Oh, excuse me, Madam . . . " Chester moved on to the next counter, found himself nervously fingering a stack of clear plastic bags.
"That's the two-quart size," a salesman said to a man on Chester's left.
Chester picked up a bag. It was good, tough stuff.
"Seals with a hot iron," the salesman was saying.
Chester felt in his pocket. Hmm. His credit card was no good here, of course. He'd have to—
A large placard caught his eye: don't ask for credit!
"How do I know what you use 'em for?" the clerk was saying. "You want 'em or don't you?"
The customer mumbled. The clerk turned away. Chester slipped a two-inch sheaf of the plastic bags from the counter and under his coat and headed for the door. As he reached it, a hoarse voice called, "Hey, you. The guy with the funny pants!"
Chester hurled himself between two matrons in garish prints with uneven hemlines and set off at a run. Heads turned to stare. A whistle shrilled behind him. He rounded a corner, saw a short flight of steps with an iron rail. He took them four at a time, banged through a massive glass-paneled door into a dim hallway that smelled of stale vegetable oil, fly spray and deodorant. Carpeted stairs rose into a canyon of yellowed wallpaper. Chester went up, whirled through the landing as the door below banged open.
"In here!" someone yelled.
"Take the back. I'll check upstairs!"
The staircase ended three flights up in a narrow hallway leading to a gray window behind limp curtains. Feet were thudding on the stairs. There were three doors with brown porcelain knobs along each side of the hall. Chester jumped to the first on the left. It rattled but held. The second opened and a blat of sound emerged. Chester sprang for the third door, threw it open, whirled and slammed it behind him. In two jumps he was in the bathroom, pulling open a tarnished mirror. He seized a can of shaving cream, blasted a gob into his hand, slapped it across his face, under his chin. In a quick motion, he pulled off the coat, the sports jacket, tossed them aside, grabbled a bladeless safety razor from the cabinet shelf and scraped a swath through the layer of white lather, then dashed for the door and flung it wide.
A cop thundered past, threw a glance at Chester. "Stay inside, buddy," he bawled.
Chester withdrew, closed the door gently, and let out a long breath. "Who says there's no point in watching the Late Late Late Show?" he murmured.
From the windows, Chester looked down on the crowded street. The rug looked pitifully small in the center of the barricade of sawhorses, cops, cars and curious citizens. The distance was, Chester estimated, fifty feet vertically, and an equal distance out from the face of the building. The sounds in the hall had gone away now. He went into the green enameled bathroom, wiped the lather from his face, recovered his shirt from the living-room floor, then checked through the closet shelves, the bedroom and finally the kitchen. He found an electric iron in a cabinet under the sink. The ironing board was propped in a corner. Chester set it up, plugged in the iron, then counted his plastic bags. Forty-two of them. Still, there was no use starting on the bags unless he could work out the delivery mechanism.
A thorough search of the apartment turned up a ball of stout twine, nails, a hammer, a heavy-duty stapler, several hundred back issues of Crude, The Magazine for Male Men, and a small plastic wastebasket. Chester set to work.
Pounding cautiously, he drove two stout nails into the window sill eight inches apart, and a matching pair into the wall across the room at a level four feet higher, then strung heavy twine across between them in two parallel strands. Next he cut the bottom neatly from the wastebasket and nailed the container to the wall above the previously placed nails, with the smaller, cut-out end down. The next two nails went into the right-hand wall, with two more matching them on the opposite side of the room, just under the ceiling. Again he strung cord between the paired spikes.
Chester paused to listen. There was a murmur of sound from the street, the drip of water from the bathroom, the snarl of an engine gunning somewhere. He went to the refrigerator, took out a can of beer, drank half of it and went back to work.
He opened a copy of Crude, stared wonderingly at a double-page spread in full color captioned "Udderly Delightful" and fitted the magazine over one of the cables at the window sill so that the string nestled against the spine, at the center of the thin sheaf of pages. He crimped the other edge of the magazine, folded the creased edge over the other line and stapled it in place to form a shallow trough between the two supporting lines.
The next Crude was positioned above the first. Working rapidly, Chester extended the chute across the room to terminate directly under the bottomless wastebasket.
He stepped back to survey his work. The center of the trough had a tendency, he noted, to droop, the edges of the magazines coming almost together. He went to the closet, extracted half a dozen wire coat hangers and bent them into shallow U-shaped braces, which he fitted between the lines at three-foot intervals. The trough now formed a smooth curve from the wastebasket to the window sill.
Fifteen minutes' work completed the other leg of the trough, extending from the left-hand wall in a shallow curve to end above the open top of the wastebasket.
There was a three-inch roll of masking tape on the desk; Chester used it to attach extra sheets bearing photographs of shirtless women to the floor of the trough, lapping the joints between magazines.
Back in the kitchen, he finished the beer, then filled a plastic bag with water, used a length of clothesline wire to assist in folding the top edge over evenly, then applied the warm iron, sealing the plastic. He went to the living room, stepped up on a chair and placed the plastic bag of water in the wastebasket. It dropped an inch or two, then wedged tight in the tapered passage. Chester went back to the kitchen, located a pint bottle nearly full of vegetable oil, returned and poured a generous helping around the plastic bag. It eased down, plopped into the trough below, where Chester caught it and set it aside.
He went back to the kitchen and carefully filled and sealed the remaining forty-one bags. Next he used the ice pick to make a hole in each side of the wastebasket, near the bottom, through which he threaded a length of string. He tied a knot at one end, drew it up snug, then looped the other around a large wooden match which nestled against the outside of the wastebasket, holding the string in position, blocking the bottom of the container. He used a chair to reach the top of the upper trough, into which he poured a liberal dollop of vegetable oil, smearing it out well so that the entire surface of the chute was lubricated. He repeated the operation for the steeper lower section.
Chester went back to the kitchen, where the water bags lay like a clutch of limp dinosaur eggs, selected one, and placed it in the upper end of the higher trough. It slid gently down the long chute and dropped into the wastebasket, easing down to rest against the obstructing string. Then he loaded the magazine trough above with the other bags. The forty-one rounds just filled the available space, lying bulging, end to end.
Chester crossed the room and looked out. The police below were striding about with tape measures, standing with folded arms, posing for photographers, and waving back the crowd that seemed about to engulf the tiny arena of official activity. Cautiously, Chester raised the window twelve inches. Oil dribbled from the end of the trough into the window sill. He went into the bathroom, ducking under the chute, washed up, smoothed his hair, straightened his shirt, donned his jacket, then removed his heavy silver ring and placed it on the medicine-cabinet shelf beside the shaving cream.
He opened the hall door and looked out. All quiet. The box of matches lay on a table by the door. He lighted one, touched it to the match securing the string which blocked the wastebasket, then sprinted for the stairs, leaped down them five at a time, rounded the landing, took the second flight, pounded down to ground level.
Breathing hard, he paused to glance out the street door. The fringes of the crowd were strung out near the corner. He stepped out, strode along quickly, pushed through the spectators to a position from which the third-story windows were visible. The one directly above the center of activity was open. The curtain billowed slightly; the end of the trough was clearly visible.
Nothing happened.
Chester swallowed. It hadn't taken him more than thirty seconds to make the three flights down to the street. Had the match gone out?
Something flashed in the window, glinted in an arc out over the street, dropped. A strangled yell sounded. The crowd simultaneously surged forward and recoiled, as curiosity struggled with discretion. Chester pushed his way through the press as a second almost invisible missile leaped from the window. "It's radioactive!" someone yelled. The mob churned. A woman screamed. Cops appeared, beating a strategic withdrawal from the field of fire. A third bomb flew from the window, splattered against a tall policeman who yelled and sprang for cover. A fourth bag of water soared out, down and exploded.
"A little under a second apart," Chester muttered, weaving between fleeing citizens. "A little too much oil in the wastebasket."
Four cops remained in the rapidly expanding clearing centered on the rug. One drew his pistol and fired into the air. The other three, eyes on the growing blots on the rug, dropped flat. Chester reached open ground, skirted the first rank of squad cars, seeing the flash of another round, then another. The next fell short, splashed off a police car, sent spray high in the air. Two fat women darted from forward positions, screeching and slapping at water droplets. Chester ducked aside, took an elbow in the ribs, stumbled out into the clear.
"Hey!" a shrill voice sounded behind him. "Ain't you the guy . . . "
Chester threw his leg over the sawhorse.
"That's far enough, Buster," the cop bawled. He took a step forward, bringing the gun around as a bag of water took him in the face. He went down backward. Chester scrambled over, took two steps to the rug.
An immense padded mallet slammed against his head. The world rose up and hit him in the face.
Curious, Chester thought dreamily. I always pictured H-bombs as being noisy.
Someone was hauling at his arm.
"This is the bastid, I seen him," someone was screeching. Chester shook his head, pulled free from the grip and struggled to his feet. A hatless cop wavered on all fours between Chester and the rug. The fat woman raised a rolled umbrella. "I'm claimin' the reward," she shrieked. A bomb splattered. The cop focused his eyes on Chester and lunged. Chester ducked away, managing a return jab at the fat woman as he bowled her aside, and sprang for the rug. He skidded to a halt midway between the two brocaded chairs, ducked a bag of water and yelled, "Computer, get me out of here—fast!"
The tall buildings, the street, the cops, faded, winked out of existence. The sounds died, cut off abruptly. Chester stood in the center of a wide square paved with varicolored cobblestones and lined with small shops and merchants' stalls. Beyond, a green slope dotted with dazzling white villas swept up to a wooded skyline. People in bright colors moved about, examining tradesmen's wares, stopping in groups to talk, or strolling at ease. Above a silversmith's shop, white curtains fluttered at open windows. The aroma of crisping bacon drifted across the square. In the distance a flute played a lazy melody.
Chester groaned. "Ye gods, where've you brought me this time, Computer?"
"Your instructions were," the computer's voice spoke from mid-air, "simply to—"
"I know. I always seem to phrase things badly. Every time I make a move, I'm worse off than I was. Now I've lost Case, and Genie, too. Where am I this time?"
"According to my instruments, this should be the Chester residence."
"You'd better have your wiring checked."
A brass plate set in the paving underfoot, half concealed by the edge of the rug, caught Chester's eye.
The inscription read: "IT WAS ON THIS SPOT THAT THE LEGENDARY KEZ-FATHER, HERO AND TEACHER, TOOK HIS LEAVE OF THE PEOPLE AFTER BRINGING THEM THE GIFT OF WISDOM. THIS MYTH, WHICH DATES BACK TO THE CULTURE . . . "
"Ye gods," Chester muttered. "I've already violated the local shrine." He moved quickly clear of the spot.
Two men in loose togas, one old, one young, stood nearby, looking earnestly past Chester. He cleared his throat and stepped forward. Nothing to do now but brazen it out.
"I white god," he said. "I come, bring magic stick, go bang, all fall down!"
The two men ignored him. "Remarkable!" the older exclaimed, turning to the younger man, in green. "Did you observe this phenomenon, Devant?"
The other, a well-muscled man with clear blue eyes and flashing white teeth, nodded. "Two curious chairs and a rug. I glanced away for a moment and when I turned back—there they were. I find it difficult to reconcile the manifestation with my world-picture. A very interesting problem."
"Possibly my senility is getting the better of me." The old man glanced at Chester. "Young man, did you observe the arrival of this furniture?"
Chester cleared his throat. "Not exactly, sir; I have been participating in an experiment, and I seem to have lost my bearings. Could you tell me—"
"No," the old man said, shaking his head resignedly. "That would have been too much to hope for. Why are there never any witnesses to these apparently supernatural manifestations?"
"Is it possible," the man in green cut in, "that this could be the probability crisis that Vasawalie has been predicting?"
"It's not supernatural," Chester said. "Merely a misguided piece of mechanical ineptitude. You see, I—"
"Please, young man; no mechanistic platitudes, if you please."
"You don't understand. This is my furniture."
The old man held up a hand. "I fear I must insist on my prior claim. I distinctly observed you to approach from—ah, I'm not sure of the direction, but it was well after I had pointed out the anomaly. In fact, I'm sure you were attracted by my cry of surprise. Correct, Devant?"
"I didn't notice just when he came up," Devant said. "But it was at least five or possibly ten minutes after you and I, Norgo."
"Actually, I was here first," Norgo said. "You followed by several minutes, Devant."
"Oh, never mind," Chester said. "Can you just tell me the name of this town?"
"I'll get a crew down right away," said Devant. "I want to examine this in situ. Molecular scan, fabric distortion, chronometric phase-interference, Psi band—everything." He waved a hand at Chester. "Please step aside; you're obscuring my view."
"This will be a serious blow to Randomism," said Norgo happily.
"What I wanted to ask was," Chester pressed on, "what year is this? I mean, ah, this isn't by any chance the future, is it?"
The old gentleman looked at Chester squarely for the first time. "Let us define our terms," he said, folding his arms. "Now . . . "
"What I mean is, this scene here—" Chester waved a hand—"is something my computer invented—just as a harmless sort of joke, you understand. The problem is . . . "
Norgo blinked. "I shall do a paper," he said, "on pseudorationalization in response to rejection of—"
"You don't seem to understand," cut in Chester. "I'm lost and my friends are relying on me."
"It will be the sensation of the Congress," Norgo droned on, rubbing his hands together. "Great Source of Facts. What if I should actually derive germane substantive data from this? That will dispose of the Ordainists, once and for all."
"Blast the Ordainists," Chester burst out. "I'm in serious difficulties. My best friend is being roasted alive, a young woman of my acquaintance is under detention by primitive police, and you—"
"Dear me, a well-developed delusional system," said Norgo. "Doubtless arising from frustration at having been anticipated in detection of the chair phenomenon. This will be most interesting to the Congress."
"You're the delusion!" Chester shouted. "I'm getting back on my rug; I'll dissolve this whole fantasy back into the computer banks it came out of!"
Norgo sprang forward. "I must ask you not to disturb the artifacts; they may be highly important scientific exhibits."
"They happen to belong to me." Chester turned, rebounded from the broad, muscular chest of Devant. Five more well-developed locals moved into position around him.
"You'll have to move on," the big man said. "Only technicians will be permitted in this area while the specimens are under study."
Norgo tsked. "We simply can't have these distressing exhibitions by frustrated partisans of misguided philosophical splinter groups. I shall propose to the Congress—"
"I've got to get back to my rug!" Chester made a dive for a gap in the ranks, felt iron hands clamp on his arms.
"Hey, Computer!" he yelled. There was no reply. The hands propelled him quickly along to deposit him well outside the growing circle of spectators.
"Any more disturbances," Devant said coldly, "and I'll have you locked up."
"But . . . how long before you'll be finished?"
"Just run along and amuse yourself. We'll have a great deal to do. It may take a while."
Chester gazed listlessly at the swimming pool rippling in the late-afternoon sun. A pretty brunette in a diaper crossed the terrace and offered a frosted glass. Chester shook his head.
"Shall we go for a swim, Chester?"
"No, thanks, Darina."
"Poor Chester. Can't you cheer up?"
"You don't seem to understand." Chester's voice held a plaintive note. "I've been idling here for weeks now while my friends suffer fates I shudder to contemplate. My computer's probably been dismantled. And those idiotic scholars still won't let me near my rug."
Darina made a sympathetic sound. "The rug is a powerful security symbol to you, isn't it, Chester? I remember a blanket—"
"There's nothing secure about it! It's probably non-functional now. And at best, I'll just find myself trapped in another of the computer's preposterous settings. But even that would be better than lounging here, completely ineffectual."
"Chester, have you thought of finding work to do?"
"What kind of work? I just want to get away from here. I've tried five times to creep up on my rug under cover of darkness, but that fellow Devant . . . "
"What were you trained in, Chester?"
"Well," said Chester, considering, "I . . . ah . . . majored in liberal arts."
"You mean you paint pictures?"
"No, nothing like that. Business administration."
"I don't think I've heard of that. Is it a game of skill or chance?"
"Both." Chester smiled patiently. "No, in biz ad we're taught how to manage large commercial enterprises."
"I see. And after receiving your training you went on to actual management of some such organization?"
"Well, no. Funny, but I couldn't seem to find any big businessmen who were looking for a fresh college graduate to tell them how to run their companies."
"Perhaps we'd better try something else. What about the arts?"
"I did do a painting once," Chester said hesitantly. "It had numbers that you compared with a chart and then you matched that up with the little cans of paint and colored in the spaces."
"I'm not sure there'd be a large call for that type of skill here."
"Don't disparage it. President Eisenhower—"
"What about handicrafts? We value the manual skills highly here, Chester."
"Oh, I've done a lot of that. Built a plastic boll weevil only last month. Over two hundred interlocking parts."
"You made the parts from plastic?"
"No. I bought a kit. But . . . "
"Perhaps in the field of sports?" Darina suggested.
Chester blushed. "Well, of course, in school I was a great fan of outdoor activities. I never missed a game the entire four years."
"Splendid!" Darina looked interested. "We'll be happy to receive instruction in any new types of athletic competition of which you're master."
"Well, I didn't actually play, of course. But I was there in the stands, rooting. And I know some of the rules."
"You didn't play?"
"I was on my fraternity's bridge squad," Chester offered.
"How is that played?" asked Darina, brightening. Chester explained. There was an awkward silence.
"Chester, have you ever performed any useful labor?" Darina asked.
"As a matter of fact, I worked one summer in a factory. I was an instrument spot-checker. I made sure the controls that worked the automatic machinery were functioning properly."
"This involved mechanical skills?"
"If anything had gone wrong with the TV scanner that actually did the inspecting, I was on the spot to see that the back-up scanner took over."
"You activated the emergency equipment, in other words?"
"No, it was automatic. But I assure you, the union regarded my job as essential."
"What about hobbies, Chester?"
"Oh, my, yes; I had a stamp collection."
"Hmmm. Perhaps something a little more active?"
"I built model airplanes as a boy. Of course, I gave that up when I was twelve."
"Why?"
"Well, it seemed a trifle immature. All the other lads my age were already learning golf." Chester broke off as a white-haired elder took a table a few yards distant. "Say, there's that old fool who's behind all this." He rose and crossed to the other table.
"Look here, Mr. Norgo, how long is this absurd business going on? I've been here a month now—and I'm no closer to getting back on my rug than I was. You don't seem to understand—"
"Calmly, Chester," Norgo said, signaling a waitress clad in a wet handkerchief. "It is you who fail to understand. Important work is in progress. Meanwhile, just keep yourself amused."
"I'm in no mood to be amused!"
Norgo nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps you'd like to participate in an experiment?"
"What is it—vivisection?"
Norgo considered. "I don't think that will be necessary." He hitched his chair around. "Chester, do you know what our most important natural resource is?"
"What has that to do with my problem?"
"Do you know how often a truly superior intellect is born?"
"Not very often. Look, I—"
"Once in four million, five hundred and thirty-three thousand, two hundred and four births. With a world population of half a billion, the present figure, the rules of probability allow for the presence among us of only one hundred such gifted persons. And do you know what percentage of these superior individuals are fortunate enough to encounter conditions conducive to the full stimulation of their latent abilities?"
"I'd guess about—"
"Not one percent," Norgo said flatly. "With luck, one individual."
"Very interesting. But to get back to—"
"If we were content," Norgo pressed on, "to allow unrestrictive increase in the population, we might, one could reason, improve this situation. With a ten-fold increase in population, the number of superior intellects should increase to a thousand, you say."
"I didn't say, but—"
"Not so! Environmental factors would deteriorate due to overcrowded conditions. The latent geniuses would find less opportunity to evolve their talents."
"That hardly seems—"
"The true function of the mass of the population is the production, by their sheer numbers, of the occasional genius. It is the objective of our educational system to identify and train such talents—and this can only be done by the realization, in each individual, of the maximum potential."
"Why? So they can grow up and talk like you?"
"Now, life is not an engineering project, Chester. It is a work of art."
"And while you're lecturing on art, my friends are—"
"I have long been interested," Norgo went on imperturbably, "in the purely theoretical problem of the reactions of a mature but untrained mind exposed to a full modern education, in concentrated form, after perhaps twenty-five years of indolence, laziness, carelessness, minimal demand. The pressure, of course, would be tremendous. Would the mind or body break under the stress? Believe me, Chester, the results of such an experiment would be of the most profound importance."
"Not to me. I—"
"Now you, Chester, while possessed of a normal potential, are, beyond the simple abilities to talk and feed yourself, plus a few fringe accomplishments such as playing the game you call bridge, totally untrained. Your body is weak, your will untried, your mind unused—"
"Maybe I don't get out a lot."
"All of which makes you an ideal subject—if you wish to volunteer for the experiment."
"I wish to get back to my rug."
Norgo nodded. "Exactly."
Chester's mouth opened. "You mean—why, this is blackmail!"
"Let us simply say that by the time the experiment is concluded, your—ah—rug will have been released by our research groups."
"How long will that be?"
"I shall attempt, Chester, to impart the equivalent of a twenty-year course of development in a single year."
"A year! But . . . "
"I know; you're concerned for your imaginary playmates."
"I told you . . . "
Norgo turned as a laden tray was placed before him. "Let me know your decision, Chester."
"If I do it—you'll let me back on my rug?"
Norgo nodded, sniffing a dish appreciatively.
"Of all the underhanded, unethical, unwarranted piracy I've ever encountered, this is undoubtedly the most unbelievable," Chester said bitterly.
Norgo blinked. "You mean you're refusing?"
"When do I start?"
Chester and Norgo clambered down from the open cockpits of the heli in which they had flown out from the Center. Chester looked around at the sweep of meadow, the wooded hills, and a low white building that covered a quarter acre near the crest of the slope. Cut in the white stone above the entry were the words: IS NOT IS NOT NOT IS
Norgo led the way across the grass and into an airy hall where mosaics stood out in brilliant color against white walls.
"Ah, here's Kuve now," Norgo said.
A tall young man with pale blond hair and a square jaw approached through an open archway. He greeted Norgo, studied Chester appraisingly.
"So this is to be my subject," he said, circling Chester. "Remove your shirt, please."
"Right now? I thought I'd have time to unpack, take a shower, stroll around, look over the campus, and then maybe have coffee, get acquainted with the other students, discuss the curriculum, plan a schedule . . . "
Kuve broke in. "There will be no opportunity for coffee or strolls. Your schedule has been planned in advance. You will become acquainted with the plan as necessary."
Chester slowly pulled off his shirt. "It sounds like a strange sort of school. How often will I be able to get back to town?"
"The trousers, please," Kuve said.
"Right here in the lobby?"
Kuve looked at him, surprised. "It is comfortably warm, is it not?"
"Sure, but—"
"Tell me," Kuve said interestedly, "are you under the impression that you are in some way unique?"
"I'm perfectly normal!"
Kuve looked Chester over carefully. "You're going to make a fascinating project," he said approvingly. "Norgo wasn't exaggerating. Almost complete atrophy of the musculature, obvious limited articulation, minimal lung capacity, poor skin tone, barely sub-parthenogenic posture . . . "
"Well, I'm sorry if I don't come up to your expectations."
"Oh, you do indeed. You even exceed them. But don't be concerned. I've worked out a complete developmental scheme for you."
"That's fast work. It hasn't been three hours since I volunteered."
"Oh, I started on it a month ago, when Norgo told me you'd be volunteering."
Chester trailed Kuve along a wide corridor to a small room lined with wall cabinets. Kuve pointed to one. "You will find garments there. Please put them on."
Chester squeezed into a pair of trunks, laced on sandals, and stood. "Is this all I get? I feel like the New Year."
A shapely young woman in a white kilt entered the room. She smiled at Chester, took a case of instruments from a cabinet, and reached for his hand. "I'm Mina. I'm going to trim your nails back and apply a growth-retarding agent," she said cheerfully. "Hold still now."
"What's this for?"
"Excessively long hair and nails would be a painful nuisance in some of the training," said Kuve. "Now, Chester, I want to ask you something: What is pain?"
"It's . . . umm . . . uh . . . a feeling that comes from damage to the body."
"Nearly right, Chester. Pain is based on fear of damage to the body."
Kuve went to a wall shelf, brought back a small metal article and held it up.
"This is a manual shaving device, once in daily use. This sharp-edged blade was drawn over the skin of the face, cutting the hairs."
"I'm glad I live in modern times."
"Under optimum conditions, the process of removing a single day's growth of facial hair with this instrument occasioned a pain level of .2 agons. Under merely average conditions, however, the level quickly rose to .5 agons, roughly equivalent to the sensation produced by a second-degree burn."
"It's amazing what people will put up with," Chester said.
"Are your feet perfectly comfortable, Chester?"
"Certainly. Why shouldn't they be?"
"You have callus tissue on both feet, as well as deformities caused by constricting footwear."
"Well, melon-slicers may not be the most—"
"In order to have produced these conditions, you must have endured pain on the order of .5 agons continuously, for months and years. Yet probably you seldom noticed it."
"Why notice it? There was nothing I could do about it."
"Exactly. Pain is not an absolute; it is a state of mind, which you can learn to disregard."
Kuve reached out, pinched the skin on Chester's thigh. "You can see that I'm merely pressing with very moderate force. You are in no danger of injury."
"Is that a promise?" said Chester nervously.
"Now close your eyes. Concentrate on the sensation of undergoing an amputation of the leg—without anesthetic. The knife slicing through the flesh, the saw attacking the living bone . . . "
Chester squirmed in the chair. "Hey, that hurts! You're bearing down too hard!"
Kuve released his grip. "I squeezed no harder, Chester. The association of the idea of injury intensified the sensation. You paid no attention whatever to Mina when she applied a measured stimulus of .4 agons to the exposed cuticle of your finger while I held your attention. You accepted the twinges of a manicure as normal and non-injurious."
Chester rubbed his thigh. "The leg still hurts. I'll have a bruise tomorrow."
"You may." Kuve nodded. "The control of the mind over bodily functions is extensive."
Mina finished, flashed a smile at Chester and left the room.
"Let's move along to the gymnasium." Kuve led the way along a corridor to a larger room, high-ceilinged and fitted with gymnastic equipment. He turned to Chester. "What is fear?"
"It's . . . uh . . . the feeling you get when you're in danger."
"It is the feeling that arises when you are unsure of your own capability to meet a situation."
"You're wrong on that one, Kuve. If a Bengal tiger walked in here I'd be scared, even if I knew exactly how incapable I was."
"Look around you; what would you actually do if a wild beast did in fact enter this room?"
"Well, I'd run."
"Where?"
Chester studied the room. "It wouldn't do any good to start off down the hall; there's no door to stop whatever was chasing me. I think I'd take that rope there." He pointed to a knotted fifty-foot cable suspended from among high rafters.
"An excellent decision."
"But I doubt if I could climb it."
"So you are unsure of your capabilities." Kuve smiled. "But try, Chester."
Chester went to the rope, looked at it doubtfully. Kuve muttered into a wrist communicator. Chester grasped the rope, wrapped his legs around it, wriggled up six feet.
"This is . . . the best I can . . . do," Chester puffed. He slid back to the floor.
There was a sound like water gurgling down a drain. Chester turned quickly. An immense tan mountain lion paced toward him, yellow eyes alight, a growl rumbling from its throat. With a yell Chester leaped for the rope, swarmed halfway to the distant rafters, and clung, looking down. Kuve patted the sleek head of the animal; it yawned, nuzzling his leg affectionately.
"You see? You were capable of more than you imagined," Kuve called matter-of-factly.
"Where did that thing come from?" Chester called.
"He's a harmless pet. When you mentioned a tiger, I couldn't resist the opportunity to make an object lesson."
Chester slid down the rope slowly, eyes on the cat. Back on the floor, he edged behind Kuve, who slapped the animal's flank. The animal padded away.
"If I called him back, you wouldn't panic now, because you know he's harmless. And if a really wild animal were released here, you'd know what to do—and that you were capable of doing it. You could watch the Bengal tiger you mentioned quite calmly and take to the rope only if necessary."
"Maybe—but don't try me. That cost me some skin."
"Did you notice that—at the time?"
"All I was thinking about was that man-eater."
"The fear and pain reactions are useful to the unthinking organism. But you have a reasoning mind, Chester. You could dispense with the automatic-response syndromes."
"It's better to be a live coward—"
"But you might be a dead coward, when mastery of fear could have saved you. Look down, Chester."
Chester glanced at the floor. As he watched, the milky white surface cleared to transparency, all but a narrow ribbon on which he stood, scarcely four inches wide, spanning a yawning abyss below his feet set with jagged black rocks. Kuve stood by unconcernedly, apparently suspended in mid-air.
"It's quite all right, Chester. Merely a floor of very low reflectivity."
Chester teetered on the narrow strip. "Get me out of here," he choked.
"Close your eyes," Kuve said quietly. Chester squeezed his eyes shut.
"Forget what you saw," Kuve ordered. "Concentrate on sensing the floor through your feet. Accept its solidity."
Chester swallowed, then opened his eyes slowly. He looked at Kuve. "I guess it will hold," he said shakily.
Kuve nodded. "Working here for a few weeks will help dissipate your irrational fear of heights."
"When weather permits," said Kuve, "you'll do your workouts here on the terrace in the open air."
Chester surveyed the hundred-foot-square area, floored with dark wood and surrounded by a five-foot wall of flowering shrubs. A cluster of tall poplars shaded a portion of the floor from the high morning sun. Racked against the low wall was an array of weights, bars and apparatus.
"Perhaps I should explain that I have no aspirations to the Mr. Universe title," Chester said. "I think perhaps a couple of Indian clubs would be more than adequate for me."
"Chester," said Kuve, motioning his pupil to a padded bench. "I've taken the first steps toward dispelling your certainty that pain is unendurable and that fear is both useful and overmastering. Now let us consider the role of boredom as a hindrance to the control of the intellect over the body. What is boredom, Chester?"
"Well, boredom sets in when you have nothing to occupy your mind."
"Or when instinct says, 'the activity at hand is not vital to my survival.' It is a more potent factor in influencing human behavior than either fear or pain." He handed Chester a small dumbbell. "Do you find that heavy?"
Chester weighed the five-pound weight in his hand. "No, not really."
"Have another." Chester hefted a dumbbell in each hand. "Now," said Kuve, "please stand and place the two weights at shoulder height. Then press them alternately to arm's length."
Chester thrust the weights up, puffing. A minute passed. His pace grew slower.
Kuve seated himself comfortably in a canvas chair. "You'd like to stop now, Chester. Why?"
"Because . . . I'm getting exhausted . . . " Chester gasped.
"Exhaustion would result in your failure to press the weight up, but it fails to explain the mere desire to stop while strength remains."
"I think I've injured myself," Chester gasped. "I've overexerted."
"No," said Kuve, "you're bored. Therefore you feel the impulse to stop—nature's automism for conserving energy vital to the hunt, flight, combat, or mating. From now on I'll expect you to reject its control of your motivations."
It was late afternoon. Chester let his hand fall from the hand grip of the machine which he had been squeezing, twisting, pulling and pushing at Kuve's direction. He groaned.
"I thought you were exaggerating when you said you were going to test a hundred and seventy-two different muscles, but I believe you now. Every one of them is aching."
"They'll ache even more tomorrow," Kuve said cheerfully. "But no matter. They'll soon accustom themselves to the idea that you intend to call on them henceforth."
"I've changed my mind, Kuve. Nature meant me to be the frail, sensitive type."
"Put tomorrow's ordeals out of your mind. At the proper time you'll go through the schedule I've laid out for you. When it's over forget it until it's time to work again."
"I haven't got the will power," Chester said. "I've tried diets and daily dozens before, to say nothing of night classes in which I was going to learn flawless French, or accountancy. It never lasted."
"The secret of winning disputes with yourself is to refuse to listen. By the time you've perfected your argument you'll be well into your routine. Now let's move along to the dining room. I have a briefing on mnemonics for you, after which I'll start you on pattern theory. Then—"
"When do I sleep?"
"All in good time."
"Not bad," Chester said, finishing off a bowl of clear soup. "What's next on the menu?"
"Nothing," said Kuve. "But as I was saying, the association of symbol with specific must relate to your personal experience—"
"What do you mean, nothing? I'm a hungry man. I've worked like a draft horse all day!"
"You're overweight, Chester. The soup was carefully compounded to supply the needed nutrients to maintain your energy level."
"I'll starve."
"You've been eating from boredom, Chester. When your attention is occupied elsewhere, you forget food. You'll have to master habit."
"This whole day has consisted of your telling me to mortify the flesh, mind over matter."
"The mind is the supreme instrument in nature; it must establish its supremacy. I asked you earlier what pain was. What is pleasure?"
"Right now, it's eating!"
"An excellent example: the satisfaction of a natural impulse."
"It's more than an impulse. It's a necessity! I need more food than a bowl of egg-flower soup without egg flowers!"
"All pleasure impulses, when oversatisfied, become destructive; controlled, the instincts can be very useful. Anger, for example. Here nature has provided a behavioral mechanism to deal with those situations in which aggression seems indicated. It can override other impulses, such as fear. When you are angry, you are stronger, less sensitive to pain, and immune to panic. You desire only to close with your enemy and kill. Before combat males of many species customarily set about working themselves into a rage."
"I'm well on the way."
"You'll learn to control the anger impulse, and evoke it at will without losing control. Now we must move on to the next training situation."
"More?" Chester protested. "I'm exhausted."
"The laziness instinct again," said Kuve. "Come along, Chester."
The sun was setting. Chester and Kuve stood at the base of an eighty-foot tower beside a pool. A steep flight of steps led to a lonely platform at the top.
Kuve handed Chester a small locket. "Climb to the top of the tower. This will enable me to talk to you at a distance. Tomorrow a similar device will be surgically implanted. Now, up you go."
"Let's just go back to that glass floor and pretend some more."
"Simply climb slowly and steadily."
"What's the point in risking my neck up there?"
"Chester, intellectually you are aware that you should co-operate with me. Ignore the distractions of instinct and follow your mind."
"I'll freeze on the ladder. You'll have to send three men up to pry my fingers loose."
"Last week I watched you at the dancing terrace. You sat at a table and ate a large amount of food. You watched the dancers. A girl called to you to join in. You patted your stomach and shook your head."
"What's that got to do with flagpole sitting?"
"The dance they were performing requires great skill and strength and endurance. Had you joined in, would you now enjoy recalling it?"
"Of course, I'd like to be able to—"
"Remembered moments of high achievement satisfy; remembered excesses disgust. Next week will you look back with pleasure on having refused the tower?"
"Not if I fall off and break my neck."
"You have the power to mold your memories—but only before they become memories. This is your opportunity to endow yourself with a recollection worth having."
"Well, just to humor you, I'll start—but I won't guarantee I'll go all the way."
"One step at a time, Chester. Don't look down."
Chester mounted the stairs cautiously, gripping the slender handrail. "This thing wobbles," he called back from ten feet up.
"It will hold. Just keep going."
Chester moved higher. The steps were of wood, eight inches wide and four feet long. The handrail was aluminum, bolted to uprights every fourth step. Chester concentrated his attention on the wood and metal. A buzz sounded from the locket at his throat. "You're going very well. Halfway up now."
The sunset sky flared purple and orange. Chester paused, breathing hard.
"A few more steps, Chester," said the tiny voice in the communicator. He went on. The top of the tower was before him now. Clinging to the rail, he made his way up the last few steps. Far away a twinkle of light showed against the dark forest on the skyline. Red light reflected from a river winding down the valley. The low white building of the Center glowed peach-colored in the fading light. Chester looked down at the pool below.
He dropped flat, eyes shut. "Help!" he croaked.
"Move to the steps, feet first," Kuve said calmly. "Lower your legs, then start down!"
Chester felt the first step under his foot, edged down, one step at a time.
"Halfway down," Kuve's voice said. Chester was moving faster now. At ten feet from the bottom, Kuve halted him.
"Look at the water. Can you jump in from there?"
"Yes, but . . . "
"Go back up a step. Can you jump from there?"
Chester balked three steps higher.
"Jump."
Chester held his nose and sprang into the water. He surfaced, climbed out of the pool.
"Do it again."
After three jumps, Chester went a step higher. Half an hour later, in bright moonlight, he made the jump from twenty feet, whistling down to splash tremendously, then paddling, puffing, to the ladder.
"That's enough for this session," said Kuve. "In a week you'll jump from the top—where you couldn't stand upright today. Now, back inside. While you're getting into some dry garments, I want to talk to you about the nature of reality."
"This is the time of day I usually retire," Chester said, panting. "Couldn't reality wait for tomorrow?"
"You'll have no trouble with insomnia here," Kuve assured him. "By the time you go to bed, you'll be ready to sleep."
In a narrow room with a high window, Chester looked critically at a padded bench three feet wide.
"I'm supposed to sleep on that?"
"There is no mattress like weariness," Kuve said.
Chester kicked off his sandals and lay down with a sigh. "I guess you're right at that, Kuve. I'm going to sleep for a week."
"Four hours," said Kuve. "In addition, you'll have a two-hour nap daily at noon."
There was a buzz from the communicator still on Chester's neck. "Not-is is not is-not," said a soft feminine voice. "Is-not is not not-is. Is is not not-is-not . . . "
"What the devil's this gibberish?"
"The basic axioms of rationality. You'll interpret this material at a subconscious level while you sleep."
"You mean this is going on all night?"
"All night. But you'll find it doesn't interfere with sleep."
"What does it mean—is-not is not not-is?"
"This is a simple statement of the nonidentity of symbolic equivalents."
"Um. You mean 'the map is not the territory . . . ' "
Kuve nodded. "An apparent banality. But by dawn you'll have grasped the implications at a basic level."
"I won't sleep a wink."
"If not tonight, then tomorrow," said Kuve, matter-of-factly.
"Not-is-not is not is," the soft voice insisted gently.
"Only three hundred and sixty-four days to go," answered Chester.