[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction June, July, August, September 1955.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Winner of the $6,500 Galaxy-Simon & Schuster novel contest,
this taut suspense story asks the challenging question: how
dangerous would it be to live in a rigidly risk-free world?
The liner from Port Lyautey was comfortable and slick, but I was
leaning forward in my seat as we came in over Naples. I had been on
edge all the way across the Atlantic. Now as the steward came through
the compartments to pick up our Blue Plate ration coupons for the
trip, I couldn't help feeling annoyed that I hadn't eaten the food
they represented. For the Company wanted everyone to get the fullest
possible benefit out of his policies--not only the food policies, but
Blue Blanket, Blue Bolt and all the others.
We _whooshed_ in to a landing at Carmody Field, just outside of
Naples. My baggage was checked through, so I didn't expect to have any
difficulty clearing past the truce-team Customs inspectors. It was only
a matter of turning over my baggage checks, and boarding the _rapido_
that would take me into Naples.
But my luck was low. The man before me was a fussbudget who insisted on
carrying his own bags, and I had to stand behind him a quarter of an
hour, while the truce-teams geigered his socks and pajamas.
While I fidgeted, though, I noticed that the Customs shed had, high
up on one wall, a heroic-sized bust of Millen Carmody himself. Just
standing there, under that benevolent smile, made me feel better. I
even managed to nod politely to the traveler ahead of me as he finally
got through the gate and let me step up to the uniformed Company
expediter who checked my baggage tickets.
And the expediter gave me an unexpected thrill. He leafed through
my papers, then stepped back and gave me a sharp military salute.
"Proceed, Adjuster Wills," he said, returning my travel orders. It
hadn't been like that at the transfer point at Port Lyautey--not even
back at the Home Office in New York. But here we were in Naples, and
the little war was not yet forgotten; we were under Company law, and I
was an officer of the Company.
It was all I needed to restore my tranquility. But it didn't last.
* * * * *
The _rapido_ took us through lovely Italian countryside, but it was in
no hurry to do it. We were late getting into the city itself, and I
found myself almost trotting out of the little train and up into the
main waiting room where my driver would be standing at the Company desk.
I couldn't really blame the Neapolitans for the delay--it wasn't their
fault that the Sicilians had atomized the main passenger field at
Capodichino during the war, and the _rapido_ wasn't geared to handling
that volume of traffic from Carmody Field. But Mr. Gogarty would be
waiting for me, and it wasn't my business to keep a Regional Director
waiting.
I got as far as the exit to the train shed. There was a sudden high,
shrill blast of whistles and a scurrying and, out of the confusion of
persons milling about, there suddenly emerged order.
At every doorway stood three uniformed Company expediters; squads of
expediters formed almost before my eyes all over the train shed;
single expediters appeared and took up guard positions at every
stairwell and platform head. It was a triumph of organization; in no
more than ten seconds, a confused crowd was brought under instant
control.
But why?
There was a babble of surprised sounds from the hurrying crowds; they
were as astonished as I. It was reasonable enough that the Company's
expediter command should conduct this sort of surprise raid from time
to time, of course. The Company owed it to its policyholders; by
insuring them against the hazards of war under the Blue Bolt complex
of plans, it had taken on the responsibility of preventing war when it
could. And ordinarily it could, easily enough.
How could men fight a war without weapons--and how could they buy
weapons, particularly atomic weapons, when the Company owned all the
sources and sold only to whom it pleased, when it pleased, as it
pleased? There were still occasional outbreaks--witness the recent
strife between Sicily and Naples itself--but the principle remained....
Anyway, surprise raids were well within the Company's rights.
I was mystified, though--I could not imagine what they were looking
for here in the Naples railroad terminal; with geigering at Carmody
Field and every other entry point to the Principality of Naples, they
should have caught every fissionable atom coming in, and it simply
did not seem reasonable that anyone in the principality itself could
produce nuclear fuel to make a bomb.
Unless they were not looking for bombs, but for people who might want
to use them. But that didn't tie in with what I had been taught as a
cadet at the Home Office.
* * * * *
There was a crackle and an unrecognizable roar from the station's
public-address system. Then the crowd noises died down as people
strained to listen, and I began to understand the words: "...
Where you are in an orderly fashion until this investigation is
concluded. You will not be delayed more than a few minutes. Do not,
repeat, _do not_ attempt to leave until this man has been captured.
Attention! Attention! All persons in this area! Under Company law,
you are ordered to stop all activities and stand still at once. An
investigation is being carried out in this building. All persons will
stand still and remain where you are in an orderly fashion until this
investigation...."
The mounting babble drowned the speaker out again, but I had heard
enough.
I suppose I was wrong, but I had been taught that my duty was to serve
the world, by serving the Company, in all ways at all times. I walked
briskly toward the nearest squad of expediters, who were already
breaking up into detachments and moving about among the halted knots of
civilians, peering at faces, asking questions.
I didn't quite make it; I hadn't gone more than five yards when a heavy
hand fell on my shoulder, and a harsh voice snarled in the Neapolitan
dialect, "Halt, you! Didn't you hear the orders?"
I spun, staggering slightly, to face an armed expediter-officer. I
stood at attention and said crisply, "Sorry. I'm Thomas Wills, Claims
Adjuster. I thought I might be able to help."
The officer stared at me for a moment. His cheeks moved; I had the
impression that, under other circumstances, he would have spat on the
floor at my feet. "Papers!" he ordered.
I passed him my travel orders. He looked them over briefly, then
returned them. Like the Customs expediter at Carmody Field, he gave
me a snap salute, militarily precise and, in a way I could not quite
define, contemptuous. "You should just stay here, Adjuster Wills," he
advised--in a tone that made it a command. "This will be over in a
moment."
He was gone, back to his post. I stood for a moment, but it was easier
to listen to his orders than to obey them; the Neapolitan crowd didn't
seem to take too well to discipline, and though there was no overt
resistance to the search squads, there was a sort of Brownian movement
of individuals in the throng that kept edging me back and away from
where I had been standing. It made me a little uncomfortable; I was
standing close to the edge of a platform, and a large poster announced
that the Milan Express was due to arrive on that track at any moment.
In fact, I could hear the thin, effeminate whistle of its Diesel
locomotive just beyond the end of the platform. I tried to inch my
way from the edge. I dodged around an electric baggage-cart, and trod
heavily on someone's foot.
* * * * *
"Excuse me," I said quickly, looking at the man. He glared back at
me. There was a bright spark in his eyes; I could tell little about
his expression because, oddly enough in that country of clean-shaven
faces, he wore a heavy, ragged, clipped beard. He wore the uniform of
a porter. He mumbled something I could not quite catch, and moved as if
to push me away. I suppose I put up my arm. My papers, with the Company
seal bright gold upon them, were still in my hand, and the bearded man
caught sight of them.
If there had been anger in his eyes before, there was now raging fury.
He shrilled, "Beast! Animal!" He thrust at me blindly and leaped past
me, out of the shelter of the bags; he went spinning furiously through
the crowd, men and women ricocheting off him.
I heard a harsh bellow: "There he goes! Zorchi! Zorchi!" And I could
hear the bearded man shrieking curses as he hurtled up the platform, up
toward the oncoming train, over to the edge--and off the platform to
the tracks!
He fell less than a yard in front of the slim nose of the Diesel. I
don't suppose the speed of the train was even five miles an hour, but
the engineer hadn't a chance in the world to stop.
While I watched, struck motionless, along with all the others on that
platform, the engine passed over the huddled form. The brakes were
shrieking, but it was much, much too late. Even in that moment I
thought he would not be killed--not instantly, at least, unless he
died of loss of blood. The trunk of his body was safely in the well
between the tracks. But his legs were sprawled over a rail. And the
slow click-click of the wheels didn't stop until his uniformed body was
far out of sight.
It was shocking, sickening, unbelievable.
And it didn't stop there. A strange thing happened. When the man had
dived into the path of the train, there was a sudden fearful hush; it
had happened too suddenly for anyone to cry out. And when the hush
ended, there was only a momentary, instinctive gasp of horror. Then
there was a quick, astonished babble of voices--and then cheers! And
applause, and ringing bravos!