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BRINK OF MADNESS
By Walt Sheldon
Illustrated by KELLY FREAS
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from If Worlds of Science
Fiction July 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
[Sidenote: _C.I.B. Agent Pell used his head, even if he did rely on
hunches more than on the computer. In fact, when the game got rough, he
found that to use his head, he first had to keep it...._]
Chapter I
The night the visitors came Richard Pell worked late among the great
banks of criminological computers. He whistled to himself, knowing that
he was way off key but not caring. Ciel, his wife, was still in his
mind's eye; he'd seen her on the viewer and talked with her not ten
minutes ago.
"Be home shortly, baby," he'd said, "soon as I fill in a form or two."
"All right, dear. I'll wait," she'd answered, with just the slightest
tone of doubt.
It was an important night. It was at once their second anniversary and
the beginning of their second honeymoon. Just how Pell--knobby, more or
less homely, and easygoing--had won himself a lovely, long-limbed blonde
like Ciel was something of a mystery to many of their friends. She could
hardly have married him for his money. Central Investigation Bureau
agents were lucky if all their extras and bonuses brought them up to a
thousand credits a year.
Pell had unquestionably caught her in a romantic moment. Maybe that was
part of the trouble--part of the reason they needed this second
honeymoon, this period of re-acquaintance so badly. Being the wife of a
C.I.B. agent meant sitting at home nine-tenths of the time while he was
working on a case, and then not hearing about the case for security
reasons during the one-tenth of the time he was with her.
Four times now Pell had been ready to take his vacation; four times last
minute business had come up. No more, though, by golly. Tonight he'd get
out of here just as quickly as....
The Identifier, beyond the door, began to hum. That meant somebody was
putting his hand to the opaque screen, and if the scanner recognized the
fingerprints the door would open. Pell scowled at the bulky shadows
outside.
"Go away, whoever you are," he muttered to himself.
Some of the other agents were out there, no doubt; they were always
getting sudden inspirations late at night and returning to use the
computers again. In fact, it had been tactfully suggested to Agent
Richard Pell that he might use the computers a little more himself
instead of relying on hunches as he so often did. "Investigation's a
cold science, not a fancy art," Chief Larkin was fond of saying to the
group--with his eyes on Pell.
Well, whoever it was, Pell was definitely through. No time-wasting
conversation for him! He was ready for six glorious weeks of saved-up
vacation time. He and Ciel, early tomorrow, would grab a rocket for one
of the Moon resorts, and there they'd just loaf and relax and pay
attention to each other. Try to regain whatever it was they'd had....
* * * * *
The door opened and Chief Larkin walked in.
Chief Eustace J. Larkin was tall, in his forties, but still boyishly
handsome. He dressed expensively and well. He was dynamic and confident
and he always had about him just the faintest aroma of very expensive
shaving cologne. He had a Master's degree in criminology and his rise to
the post of Director, C.I.B., had been sudden, dramatic and impressive.
Not the least of his talents was a keen sense of public relations.
"I--uh--was on my way out," said Pell. He reached for his hat. Funny
about hats: few people traveled topside anymore, and in the
climate-conditioned tunnels you didn't need a hat. But C.I.B. agents had
to be neat and dignified; regulations required hats and ties and cuffs
and lapels. Thus, you could always spot a C.I.B. agent a mile away.
Larkin had a dimple when he smiled and Pell would bet he knew it. "We'd
have called your home if we hadn't found you here. Sit down, Dick."
Pell sat glumly. For the first time, he noticed the men who had come in
with the Chief. He recognized both. One was fiftyish, tall,
solidly-built and well-dressed on the conservative side. His face was
strong, square and oddly pale, as if someone had taken finest white
marble and roughly hacked a face into it. Pell had seen that face in
faxpapers often. The man was Theodor Rysland, once a wealthy corporation
lawyer, now a World Government adviser in an unofficial way. Some
admired him as a selfless public servant; others swore he was a
power-mad tyrant. Few were indifferent.
"I'm sure you recognize Mr. Rysland," said Chief Larkin, smiling. "And
this is Dr. Walter Nebel, of the World Department of Education."
Dr. Walter Nebel was slight and had a head remarkably tiny in proportion
to the rest of him. He wore cropped hair. His eyes were turtle-lidded
and at first impression sleepy, and then, with a second look--wary. Pell
remembered that he had won fame some time ago by discovering the
electrolytic enzyme in the thought process. Pell wasn't sure exactly
what this was, but the faxpapers had certainly made a fuss about it at
the time.
He shook hands with the two men and then said to Larkin, "What's up?"
"Patience," said Larkin and shuffled chairs into place.
Rysland sat down solidly and gravely; Nebel perched. Rysland looked at
Pell with a strong, level stare and said, "It's my sincere hope that
this meeting tonight will prevent resumption of the war with Venus."
Larkin said, "Amen."
Pell stared back in some surprise. High-level stuff!
Rysland saw his stare and chuckled. "Chief Larkin tells me your
sympathies are more or less Universalist. Not that it would be
necessary, but it helps."
"Oh," said Pell, with mild bewilderment. The difference between the
Universal and Defense parties was pretty clear-cut. The Universalists
hoped to resume full relations with Venus and bring about a really
secure peace through friendship and trade. It would admittedly be a
tough struggle, and the Defenders didn't think it was possible. Forget
Venus, said they; fortify Earth, keep the line of demarcation on Mars,
and sit tight.
"But there is, as you may know," said Rysland, "a third course in our
relations with Venus."
"There is?" asked Pell. From the corner of his eye he saw Chief Larkin
looking at him with an expression of--what, amusement? Yes, amusement,
largely, but with a touch of contempt, too, perhaps. Hard to say.
"The third course," said Rysland, not smiling, "would be to attack Venus
again, resume the war, and hope to win quickly. We know Venus is
exhausted from the recent struggle. A sudden, forceful attack might
possibly subjugate her. At least, that is the argument of a certain
group called the Supremists."
Dr. Nebel spoke for the first time. Pell realized that the man had been
watching him closely. His voice was sibilant; it seemed to drag itself
through wet grass. "Also Venus is psychologically unprepared for war;
the Supremists believe that, too."
Pell reached back into his memory. The Supremists. They were a minor
political party--sort of a cult, too. The outfit had sprung up in the
last year or so. Supremists believed that Earthmen, above all other
creatures, had a destiny--were chosen--were supreme. They had several
followers as delegates in World Congress. General impression: slightly
crackpot.
"The Supremists," said Theodor Rysland, tapping his hard, white palm,
and leaning forward, "have been calling for attack. Aggression. Starting
the war with Venus all over again. And they're not only a vociferous
nuisance. They have an appeal in this business of Earthman's supremacy.
They're gaining converts every day. In short, _they've now become
dangerous_."
* * * * *
Pell thought it over as Rysland talked. Certainly the idea of renewed
war was nightmarish. He'd been in the last one: who hadn't? It had
started in 2117, the year he was born, and it had dragged on for
twenty-five years until T-day and the truce. The causes? Well, both
Earth and Venus worked the mineral deposits on Mars unimpeded by the
non-intelligent insectile life on that planet, and the original
arguments had been about those mineral deposits, though there were
enough for a dozen planets there. The causes were more complicated and
obscure than that. Semantics, partly. There was freedom as Earthmen saw
it and freedom as the Venusians saw it. Same with honor and good and
evil. They were always two different things. And then Venusians had a
greenish tinge to their skins and called the Earthmen, in their clicking
language, "Pink-faces." And both Earthmen and Venusians hated like the
devil to see the other get away with anything.
Anyway, there had been war, terrible war. Space battle, air battle,
landing, repulse. Stalemate. Finally, through utter weariness perhaps,
truce. Now, a taut, uneasy, suspicious peace. Communications opened, a
few art objects mutually exchanged. Immigration for a few Venusian
dancers or students or diplomats. It wasn't much, but it was all in the
right direction. At least Pell felt so.
Rysland was saying: "We're not sure, of course, but we suspect--we
_feel_--that more than mere accident may be behind these Supremists."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Someone seeking power, perhaps. As I said, we don't know. We want to
find out. Dr. Nebel has been interested for some time in the curious
psychology of these Supremists--their blind, unthinking loyalty to their
cause, for instance. He is, as you know, a special assistant in the
Department of Education. He asked my help in arranging for an
investigation, and I agreed with him wholeheartedly that one should be
made."
"And I told these gentlemen," said Chief Larkin, "that I'd put a detail
on it right away."
Now Pell believed he saw through it. Larkin didn't believe it was
important at all; he was just obliging these Vips. A man couldn't have
too many friends in World Government circles, after all. But of course
Larkin couldn't afford to put one of his bright, machine-minded boys on
it, and so Pell was the patsy.
"Could I remind you," said Pell, "that my vacation is supposed to start
tomorrow?"
"Now, now, Dick," said Larkin, turning on the personality, "this won't
take you long. Just a routine report. The computers ought to give you
all the information you need in less than a day."
"That's what you always say, every time I'm ready to take a vacation.
I've been saving up for two years now...."
"Dick, that's hardly the right attitude for an agent who is so close to
making second grade."
Larkin had him over a barrel, there. Pell desperately wanted to make his
promotion. Second-graders didn't spend their time at the control banks
gathering data; they did mostly desk work and evaluation. They had a
little more time to spend with their wives. He said, "Okay, okay," and
got up.
"Where are you going?"
"To get my wife on the viewer and tell her I won't be home for a while
after all."
He left the three of them chuckling and thought: _He jests at scars who
never felt a wound._ He didn't say it aloud. You could quote formulae or
scientific precepts in front of Larkin, but not Shakespeare.
* * * * *
He punched out his home number and waited until Ciel's image swirled
into the viewplate. His heart went boppety-bop as it always did. Hair of
polished gold. Dark eyes, ripe olives, a little large for her face and
sometimes deep and fathomless. She wore a loose, filmy nightgown and the
suggestion of her body under it was enough to bring on a touch of
madness in him.
"Let me say it," Ciel said. She wasn't smiling. "You won't be home for a
while. You've got another case."
"Well--yes. That's it, more or less." Pell swallowed.
"Oh, Dick."
"I'm sorry, honey. It's just that something important came up. I've got
a conference on my hands. It shouldn't take more than an hour."
"And we were supposed to leave for the moon in the morning."
"Listen, baby, this is absolutely the last time. I mean it. As soon as
this thing is washed up we'll _really_ take that vacation. Look, I'll
tell you what, I'll meet you somewhere in an hour. We'll have some
fun--take in a floor show--drink a little meth. We haven't done that in
a long time. How about the Stardust Cafe? I hear they've got a terrific
new mentalist there."
Ciel said, "No."
"Don't be like that. We need an evening out. It'll hold us until I get
this new case washed up. That won't be long, but at least we'll have a
little relaxation."
Ciel said, "Well...."
"Attababy. One hour. Absolutely. You just go to Station B-90, take the
lift to topside and it's right on Shapley Boulevard there. You can't
miss it."
"I know where it is," said Ciel. She shook her finger. "Richard Pell, so
help me, if you stand me up this time...."
"Baby!" he said in a tone of deep injury.
"Goodbye, Dick." She clicked off.
Pell had the feeling that even the free-flowing meth and the gaiety of
the Stardust Cafe wouldn't really help matters much. He sighed deeply as
he turned and went back into the other room.