"You're making this detector blink."
"I'm trying to duplicate an experiment."
"Trying?"
Tom grinned. "I'm performing the actual operation of the distillation
of alcohol."
"That shouldn't make the detector blink."
"There's only one thing that will do that!"
"Not after all this time."
"It's not been long. About ten years," objected Tom. "Look, Benj.
Someone has found the Key. And not only that, but they've made it work."
"I'd like to argue the point with you," said Benj pointedly. "Why
couldn't you make it tick when we had it seven years ago? You were
sharp enough to make a detector, later."
"Detecting is a lot different than generating, Benj. Come on, let's get
going. I want to see the dupe that's got the Key."
* * * * *
Had Cal Blair been really satisfied to make his gadget work, he might
never have been bothered. But he tinkered with it, measured it, and
toyed with it. He called Tinker Elliott to boast and found that she
had gone off to Northern Landing with her illustrious brother to speak
at a medical convention, and so he returned to his toy. Effectively,
his toying with the Key gave enough radiation to follow. And it was
followed by two parties.
The first one arrived about midnight. The doorbell rang, and Cal opened
it to look into the glittering lens of a needle beam. He went white
and retreated backwards until he felt a chair behind his knees. He
collapsed into the chair.
"P-p-p-put that thing away!"
"This?" grinned the man, waving the needle beam.
"Shut up, Logy," snapped the other. To Cal, he said: "Where is it?"
"W-w-w-where is w-w-w-what?"
"The Key."
"Key?"
"Don't be an idiot!" snarled the first man, slapping Cal across the
face with the back of his hand. Cal went white.
"Better kill me," he said coldly, "or I'll see your identity taken!"
"Cut it, Jake. Look, wiseacre, where did you get it?"
"The Key? It came in the mail."
"Mail hell! That was mailed ten years ago!"
"It got here six weeks ago."
"Musta got lost, Logy," offered Jake. "After all, Gadget's been gone
about that long."
"That's so. Those things do happen. Poor Gadg. An' we cooled him for
playing smart."
"We wuz wrong."
"Yep. So we was. Too bad. But Gadget wasn't too bright--not like this
egg. He's made it work."
"Logy, you're a genius."
"So we chilled Gadget because we thought he was playin' smart by tryin'
to swipe the pitch. He didn't lam wit' the Key at all."
"How about this one?" asked Logy.
"He ain't going to yodel. Better grab him and that pile of gewgaws. The
rest of the lads'll be here too soon."
"Rest?"
"Sure. The whole universe is filled wit' detectors ever since Ellswort'
made the first one."
"Git up, dope," snapped Jake, motioning to the door with his beam.
Blair walked to the door with rubber joints in his knees. Logy lifted
the equipment from the table and followed Jake. "He ain't made no
notebook," complained Jake.
"He had some plans," said Logy, "but the fool set the stuff on 'em and
they're all chewed up. He can make 'em over."
"O.K. Git goin', Loke."
Blair could not have protested against the pair unarmed. With two
needle beams trained on his back, he was helpless. He went as they
directed, and found that his helplessness could be increased. They
forced him into a spacecraft that was parked on the roof.
The autopilot was set, and the spacecraft headed across the sky, not
into space, but making a high trajectory over Terra itself. Once into
the black of the superstratosphere, they turned their attention back to
Cal.
"Gonna talk?"
"W-w-w-what do you w-w-want me to s-s-say?" chattered Cal.
"Dumb, isn't he?"
"Look, sweety, tell us what's with this thing."
"It's a c-c-cavity resonator."
"Yeah, so we've been told," growled Logy. "What makes?"
"B-b-b-but look," stammered Cal. "W-w-what good'll it do you?"
"Meaning?" snarled Jake.
"Whatever treasure might be there is useless now."
Jake and Logy split the air with peals of raw laughter. Jake said: "He
is dumb, all right."
"Just tell us, bright-eyes. We'll decide," snapped Logy.
"W-w-well, you send out a signal with it and then stop it and switch
it to the detecting circuit. You listen, and the signal goes out and
starts the other one going like tapping a bell. It resonates for some
time after the initial impulse. It returns the signal, and by using
the directional qualities, you can follow the shock-excited second
resonator right down to it. Follow?"
"Yeah. That we all know," drawled Jake in a bored voice. His tone took
on that razor edge again and he snarled: "What we're after is the how,
get me? How?"
"Oh, w-w-w-well, the trick is--"
"Creeps!" exploded Logy. He crossed the cabin in almost nothing flat
and jerked upward on the power lever.
* * * * *
The little ship surged upward at six gravities, making speech
impossible. Blair wondered about this, sitting there helpless and
scared green, until a blast of heat came from behind, and the ship lost
drive. A tractor beam flashed upward, catching the ship and hurling it
backwards. The reaction threw all three up against the ceiling with
considerable force, and the reverse acceleration generated by the
tractor's pull kept them pasted to the ceiling. Another ship was beside
them in a matter of seconds, and four spacesuited men breached the air
lock and entered, throwing their helmets back.
"Jake Jackson and Freddy Logan," laughed the foremost of the
newcomers. "How nerce of you to meet us here."
"Grab the blinker," said the one behind.
"Naturally. Naturally. Pete and Wally take Blair. Jim and I'll muscle
the gripper."
Two of them carried Cal to the larger ship. The other two scooped up
the equipment and carried it behind them. Once inside, the tractors
were cut and the smaller ship plummeted towards Terra. With no concern
over the other ship and its two occupants, they hurled Cal back against
the wall while they put his apparatus on the navigator's table.
"Very nice and timely rescue, eh Cal?"
Cal whirled. "Benj," he snarled. "Might have known--" He started
forward, but was stopped by the ugly muzzles of three needle beams that
waggled disconcertingly at the pit of his stomach. He laughed, but it
had a wild tone. "Go ahead and blast! Then run the Key yourselves!" he
hurled at them. But he stopped, and the waggling of the three weapons
became uncertain.
"Hell's fire," snorted Pete, looking from one to the other. "They're
duplicates!"
Cal leaped forward, smashed Pete's beam up, where it furrowed the
ceiling. His fist came forward and his knee came up. Beneath Cal's arm
flashed a streak of white. It caught Pete in the stomach and passed
down to the knee, trailing a bit of smoke and a terrible odor. Cal
dropped the lifeless form and whirled. Benj stood there, his needle
beam held rock-steady on the form that lay crumpled beneath Cal's feet.
Benj addressed the other two. "My brother and I have one thing
in common," he said coolly. "Neither of us cares to be called a
duplicate!" He holstered his weapon and addressed Cal. "Where is it?"
"Where is what?" asked Cal quietly.
"Murdoch's Hoard."
"I haven't had time to find out."
"O.K. So tell us how to make this thing run."
"I'll be psyched if I do."
"You'll be dead if you do not," warned Benj.
"Some day, you stinker, I'll take the satisfaction of killing you."
"I'll never give you cause," sneered Benj.
"Stealing my identity is plenty of cause."
"You won't take satisfaction on that," taunted Benj. "Because you'd
have to call me and I'll accept battle with beams."
Cal considered. Normally, he would have been glad to demonstrate to
anyone the secret of the Key. But he would have died before he told
Benj the time of day. But another consideration came. The Key was
worthless--and less valuable would be the vast treasures of Murdoch's
Hoard. Why not give him the Key and let him go hunting for the useless
stuff?
Wally waved an instant-welder in front of Cal's nose. The tip glowed
like a white-hot stylus. "Might singe him a bit," offered Wally.
"Put the iron down," snapped Benj. Wally laid the three-foot shaft on
its stand, where it cooled slowly. "Cal wouldn't talk. I know. That
thing would only make him madder than a hornet."
"So what do we do with the loke?" asked Wally.
"Take him home and work on him there," said Benj. "Trap his hands."
* * * * *
No more was said until they dropped onto Cal's rooftop. He was ushered
down the same way that he had gone up--with beams looking at his
backbone. They carried his equipment down, and set it carefully on the
table.
"Now," said Benj. "Make with the talk."
"O.K.," said Cal. "This is a cavity resonator--"
"This is too easy," objected Wally. "Something's fishy."
Cal looked at the speaker with scorn. "You imbecile. You've been
reading about Murdoch's Hoard. Vast treasure. Money, jewels, and
securities. Valuable as hell three hundred and fifty years ago, but not
worth a mouthful of ashes today. Why shouldn't I tell you about it?"
"That right, boss?" asked Wally.
"He's wishful thinking," snorted Benj.
Cal smiled inwardly. His protestation of what he knew to be the truth
was working. The desire to work on Benj was running high, now, and Cal
was reconsidering his idea of handing the thing to Benj scot-free.
"Let me loose. I'll show you how it works," he said.
"Not a peep out of it," warned Benj. "Wally, if he touches that switch
before he takes the Key out of the reflector, drill him low and
safe--but drill him!"
Cal knew the value of that order. The hands were freed, and he stepped
forward with tools and removed the Key. "Now?" he asked sarcastically.
"Go ahead," said Benj.
"Thanks," grinned Cal. "That I will!" He took three steps forward and
went out of the open window like a running jackrabbit. His strong
fencer's wrists caught the trellis at the edge and he swung wide before
he dropped to the ground several feet below. He landed running, and
though the flashes of the needle beams scored the ground ahead of him,
none caught him. He plowed through a hedge, jumped into his car, and
drove off with a swaying drive that would disrupt any aim.
He drove to the Solarian Medical Association, where he found Dr. Lange
in charge. In spite of the hour of the morning, he went in and spoke to
the doctor.
Lange looked up surprised. "What are you doing here at this hour?" he
asked with a smile.
"I've got a few skinned knuckles that hurt," said Cal, showing the
bruises.
"Who did you hit?" asked Lange. "Fisticuffs isn't exactly your style,
Cal."
"I know. But I was angry."
Lange inspected Cal's frame. "Wouldn't like to be the other guy," he
laughed. "But look, Cal. Tinker will be more than pleased."
"That I was fighting? Why?"
"You're a sort of placid fellow, normally. If you could only stir up a
few pounds of blood-pressure more frequently, you'd be quite a fellow."
"So I'm passive. I like peace and quiet. You don't see me running wild,
do you?"
"Nope. Tell me, what happened?"
Cal explained in sketchy form, omitting the details about Benj.
"The Key to Murdoch's Hoard?" asked Lange, opening his eyes.
"Sure."
"What are you going to do with it?"
"Send it back to the museum. They're the ones that own it."
"You'll give them Murdoch's Hoard if you do."
"Granting for the moment that the Hoard is valuable," laughed Cal, "it
is still the property of the museum."
"Wrong. The law is a thousand years old and still working. Buried
Treasure is his who finds it. That Hoard is yours, Cal."
"Wonderful. About as valuable as a gallon of lake water in Chicago.
It's about as plentiful."
"May I have the Key?" asked Lange eagerly.
Cal stopped. This was getting him down. First that pair of ignorant
crooks. Then his brother, trying to steal from him something that
both knew worthless--just for the plain fun of stealing he'd believed.
But now this man. Dr. Lange was advanced in years, a brilliant and
stable surgeon. Was he wrong? Did the Key really represent something
worth-while? If so, what on earth could it be? A hoard of treasure in a
worthless medium of exchange and with duplicates all over the System?
What could Murdoch's Hoard be that it made men fight for it even in
this day?
"Sorry," said Cal. "This is my baby."
He said no more about it.
* * * * *
Whatever the Hoard might be, it was getting Cal curious. That and the
desire to get the best of Benj worked on him night and day during the
next week. He was forced to hide out all of that time, for Benj was
looking for him. The equipment still required a knowing hand to run
it--any number of technicians had concocted the same circuit to drive
the Key--it was the technique, not the equipment that made it function
properly.
He toyed with the idea for some time. The desire to go and see for
himself, however, was not greater than his aversion to space travel.
Cal had an honest dislike, he had tried space travel three times when
business demanded it. He'd hated it all three times.
But there it was--and there it stayed. The whole affair peaked and then
died into a stasis. Murdoch's Hoard was something that Cal Blair
would eventually look into--some day.
The one thing that bothered him was his hiding-out. He hated that.
But he remained under cover until Tinker Elliott returned and then he
sought her advice. She made a date to meet him at a nearby refreshment
place later that afternoon.
* * * * *
The major-domo came up with a cheerful smile as Cal sauntered into the
chromium-and-crimson establishment. "At your service," greeted the
major-domo.
"I'm meeting a friend."
"A table will be reserved. Meanwhile, will you avail yourself of our
service in the bar?"
Cal nodded and entered the bar. He climbed up on a tall bar stool and
took cigarettes from his pocket. The bartender came over immediately.
"Your service?"
"Palan and ginger," said Cal. He was still working on the dregs of his
first glass when Tinker came up behind him and seated herself on the
stool beside.
"Hi, Tink," he smiled.
"Hello. What are you drinking?"
"Palan and ginger."
"Me too," she said to the bartender. "Cal, you are a queer duck. Your
favorite liquors come from Venus and Mars. You seem to thrive on those
foul-tasting lichens from Titan as appetizers. You gorge yourself on
Callistan loganberry, and your most-ordered dinner is knolla. Yet you
hate space travel."
"Sure," he grinned. "I know it. After all, there's nothing that says
that I have to go and get it. Four hundred years ago, Tink, there were
people who ate all manner of foods that they never saw in the growing
stage. And a lot of people lived and died without ever seeing certain
of their meat animals."
"I know. Gosh. They used to kill animals for meat back then. Imagine!"
Cal looked sour-faced, and silence ensued for a moment. Then Tinker's
face took on a self-horror.
"Hey. That look isn't natural. What's up?"
"Order me a big, powerful, hardy, pick-me-up," said Tinker. "And I'll
tell you--if you really want to know."
"I do and I will," said Cal, wonderingly. He ordered straight palan
which Tinker took neat, coughed, and then brightened somewhat.
"Now?" asked Cal.
"Better order another one for you," said Tinker. "Anyway, we had one of
those jobs last night."
"What jobs?"
"An almost-incurable."
"Oh," said Cal with a shiver. He ordered two more straight drinks, in
preparation. "Go ahead and tell, Tink. You won't be free of it until
you spill it."
"It was a last resort case and everybody knew it. Even the
patient--that's what made it so tough. It's distasteful enough to
consider a duplicate when you're well. But to be lying on the brink
and then know that they're going to make a duplicate of you for
experimental surgery--I can't begin to tell. The patient took it,
though.
"And even that wouldn't be too bad. We made our duplicates and went
to work on one immediately. We operated, located the trouble and
corrected it. The third duplicate lived. Then we operated on the
patient successfully. I didn't mind the first two dupes, Cal. It was
the disposing of the cured duplicate that got me. It was like ... no,
it _was_ disposing of an identity." Tink shuddered, and then drained
her second shot of palan simultaneously with Cal.
"And you wonder why I dislike medicine," he said flatly.
"I know--or try to. But look, Cal. Aside from the distaste, look at
what medicine has been able to accomplish."
"Sure," he said without enthusiasm.
"Well, it has."
"But at what a cost."
"Cost? Very little cost," snapped Tinker. "After all, once one has the
stomach to dispose of a duplicate, what is the cost? Doctors bury their
mistakes just as always, but the mistake is a duplicate. The sentience
remains."
"How can you tell the real article from the duplicate?"
"We keep track."
"I know that. What I mean is this: A man is born, lives thirty years
as an identity. He is duplicated for surgical purposes at age thirty.
All duplicates and the original are he--complete with thought and habit
patterns of thirty years. They are identical in every way right down
to the dirt on their hands and the subconscious thoughts that pass
inside of their brains. Their egos are all identical. When you kill the
duplicate, you might as well kill the identity. The duplicate is as
much an identity as the original."
"True," said Tinker. "However, once a duplicate is made, the identities
begin to differ. One will have different experiences and different
ideas and thoughts. Eventually the two duplicates are separate
characters. But in deference to the identity, it is he that we must
cure and preserve. For the instant that the duplication takes place,
the character starts to differ. We can not destroy the original. The
duplicate is not real. It ... how can I say it? ... hasn't enjoyed ...
yes it has, too. It was once the original. Cal, you're getting me all
balled up."
"Why not let them both live?"
* * * * *
Tinker looked at Cal with wonder. "Inspect your life," she said
sharply. "You and Benj. How do I know right now that you are not Benj?"
Cal recoiled as though he had been struck.
"You're Cal, I know. That distaste was not acting. It was too quick and
too good, Cal. But can you see what would happen? What is a dupe's lot?"
Cal nodded slowly. "He's scorned, taunted, and hated. He cannot
masquerade too well--that in itself is a loss in identity. Yes--it is a
matter of mercy to dispose of the duplicate. The whole thing is wrong.
Can't something be done about it?"
"Not until you change human nature," smiled Tinker.
"It's been done before."
"I know. But not a thing as ingrained as this."
"Ingrained? Look, Tinker Elliott, up to the period of duplication,
three hundred years ago, twins and multiple-births used to dress and
act as near alike as possible."
"Hm-m-m. That was before a duplicate could be made. Double birth was
something exceptional, and unique. The distaste against duplicates bred
the hatred between twins, I know."
"We might be able to change human nature then."
"Not in our lifetime."
"I guess not. What was the big kicker, Cal?"
"About duplication? Well, there was a war in Europe and both warring
countries put armies of duplicates into the field. The weapons, of
course, were manufactured right along with the troops. There were
armies of about nineteen million men on each side, composed of about
a thousand different originals. They took the best airmen, the best
gunners, the best rangers, the best officers, the best navigators, and
the best of every branch of fighting and ran them into vast armies. It
was stalemate until the rest of the world stepped in and put a stop to
it. Then there were thirty-eight million men, all duplicates, running
around. The mess that ensued when several thousand men tried to live
in one old familiar haunt ... it was seventy years before things ran
down."
"That would send public opinion reeling back," smiled Tinker. "But
do you mind if we change the subject? I think that I've gotten last
night's experience out of my system. What was all this wild story you
were telling me?"
"Let's stroll towards food," he said. "I'll tell you then." Cal dropped
some coins on the bar to take care of the check and they went into the
dining room. The waiter led them to their table and handed them menus.
"This isn't needed," he told the waiter. "I want roast knolla."
"Please accept the apology of the management," said the waiter
sorrowfully. "Today we have no knolla."
"None?" asked Cal in surprise. "That's strange. Every restaurant has
knolla."
"Not this one," smiled the waiter. "An accident, sir. The alloy disk
containing the recording of the roast knolla dinner slipped from the
chef's hands less than an hour ago and fell to the floor. It was
thought to be undamaged, close inspection showed it all right. But it
was tried, and the knolla came out with the most peculiar flavor. The
master files haven't replaced it yet. It will be four hours before they
get to our request for transmission of the disk. The engineer there
laughed and said something about molecule-displacement when I mentioned
the peculiar flavor. It was _most_ peculiar. Not distressing, mind, but
most alien. We're keeping the damaged disk. It may be a real unique."
"Good eating?"
"I'll reserve opinion on that until we find out how we like it
ourselves," smiled the waiter. "I'd recommend something else, sir."
* * * * *
Cal ordered for both Tinker and himself. Then he leaned forward on his
elbows and gave Tinker the highlights of his life for the past few
weeks. He finished with the statement: "It's worthless, but somehow I
can't see letting Benj get it."
"Worthless? Murdoch's Hoard?"
"Shall I go into that again? Look, Tinker. Murdoch's era was prior
to the discovery of the matter-duplicator, which followed the
Channing-Franks matter transmitter by only a few weeks. Now, anything
that Murdoch could cache away would be in currency of that time. The
period of duplication hadn't come yet, and the eventual invention or
discovery of identium as a medium of exchange had not come. So what
good is Murdoch's Hoard? It must be of some value. But what? I could
discount everything as ignorance or hatred except Dr. Lange's quick
desire for it. Lange is no fool, Tink. He knew what he was getting.
Darn it all, I feel like going out and running the Hoard down myself!"
Tinker's laugh was genuine and spontaneous.