_"A lot has been written about mankind starving amid plenty. But
never before was a civilization confronted with the prospect of
luxury amid bankruptcy--"_
Keg Johnson was the executive type. He was the chief executive of
Interplanet Transport, a position of no mean height. Keg had become the
chief executive by sheer guts, excellent judgment, and the ability to
gamble and win.
Like any high executive in a culture based on a technical background,
Keg was well aware of science. He was no master of the scientific
method nor of laboratory technique. He was able to understand most
of the long-haired concepts if they were presented in words of less
than nine syllables, and he was more than anxious to make use of any
scientific discovery that came from the laboratory. He knew that the
laboratory paid off in the long run.
Keg Johnson was strictly a good business man. He played a good game
and usually won because he could size up any situation at a glance and
prepare his next move while his opponent was finishing his preparatory
speech.
So when Keg Johnson met Don Channing in the hallway of the courtroom
in Buffalo, he was dangling an exact replica of the judge's watch--a
timepiece no longer a rare collector's item.
He waved the watch before Channing's face.
"Brother," he said with a worried smile, "what have you done!"
"We won," said Channing cheerfully.
"You've lost!" said Keg.
"Lost?"
Keg's eyes followed the Terran Electric's lawyer, Mark Kingman, as he
left the courtroom.
"He's been trying to put you out of business for a couple of years,
Don, without any success. But you just put your own self out of comish.
Venus Equilateral is done for, Channing."
"Meaning?" asked Don, lowering his eyebrows. "Seems to me that you're
the one that should worry. As I said, we'll give you your opportunity
to buy in."
"Interplanet Transport is finished," agreed Johnson. He did not seem
overly worried about the prospect of tossing a triplanetary corporation
into the furnace. "So is Venus Equilateral."
"Do go on," snapped Don. "It seems to me that we've just begun. We can
take over the job of shipping on the beams. The matter-transmitter will
take anything but life, so far. Pick it up here, shove it down the
communications beams and get it over there. Just like that."
"That's wonderful," said Keg in a scathing voice. "But who and why will
ship what?"
"Huh?"
"Once they get recordings of Palanortis Whitewood logs on Mars, will
we ship? Once they get recordings of the Martian Lagel to Northern
Landing, who will take the time to make the run by ship?"
"Right," agreed Channing.
"The bulk of your business, my brilliant friend, comes not from
lovesick swains calling up their gal friends across a hundred million
miles of space. It comes from men sending orders to ship thirty
thousand tons of Venusian Arachnia-web to Terra, and to ship ten
thousand fliers to Southern Point, Venus, and to send fifty thousand
cylinders of acetylene to the Solar Observatory on Mercury, and so
forth. Follow me?"
"I think so," said Channing slowly. "There'll still be need for
communications, though."
"Sure. And also spacelines. But there's one more item, fella."
"Yes?"
"You've got a terrific laboratory job ahead of you, Don. It is one that
must be done--and quick! You owe it to the world, and to yourself, and
to your children. You've brought forth the possibility of a system of
plenty, Don, and left it without one very necessary item.
"_Channing, can you make one item that can not be duplicated?_"
"No, but--"
"Uh-huh. Now we go back to the barter and exchange."
"Golly!"
"Furthermore, chum, what are you going to barter with? A ton of pure
gold is the same value as a ton of pure silver. That is, aside from
their relative technical values. A ton of pure radium won't bother us
at all, and if we want Uranium 235, we make it by the ton also. _Oh,
brother, you've really screwed the works this time._"
"Now what?"
"You and your crew start looking for something that is absolutely
un-reproducible. It should be a light, metalloid substance of readily
identifiable nature, and it should be ductile and workable. We need a
coin-metal, Channing, that cannot be counterfeited!"
"Yum. That's one for the book. Meanwhile, we'll retrench on Venus
Equilateral and get set for a long, long drought."
"Check. I'm about to do likewise with Interplanet Transport. You don't
know anybody who'd like to buy the major holdings in a spaceline, do
you? It's on the market, cheap. In fine condition, too, in spite of the
depredations of Hellion Murdoch."
"Might swap you a communications company for your spaceline, Keg."
Johnson smiled. "No dice. I'm looking for a specialized business, Don.
One that will pay off in a world where there is no money!"
"What are you going to sell--and for what?"
"I'm going to sell security--for service!"
"So?"
"Those are items that your devil-gadget won't duplicate, Channing.
Barter and exchange on the basis of a washed car's worth of dug
postholes."
* * * * *
Linna Johnson looked up with some annoyance as Keg entered her room.
She was a tall woman, lissome in spite of her fifty years, but the
artificial stamp of the "woman-of-fashion" spoke louder than her
natural charm.
"Yes?" she asked without waiting for salutation.
"Linna, I need a hundred and seventy thousand dollars."
"Remarkable. What do you want me to do about it?"
"You've got a quarter of a million tied up in baubles. I want 'em."
"Give up my jewelry?" scoffed Linna. "What sort of a tramp deal have
you got into this time, Keg?"
"No tramp deal, Linna," he said. "I've just sold the spaceline."
"So--you've sold your spaceline. That should have brought you in a
pretty penny. What do you need more for?"
"I want to buy Fabriville."
"Who or what is Frabri ... what-is-it?"
"Fabriville. A fairly large manufacturing village south of Canalopsis,
here. They have a complete village, assembly plant, stores, and all
that's needed to be self-sufficient if you permit a thorough income and
out-go of fabricated articles."
"Never heard of it."
"Well," said Keg dourly, "there are a lot of things you have never
heard of nor taken the interest to find out, Linna. Better shell out
the baubles. They won't be worth an exhausted cathode inside of a year."
"Why?"
"The economic structure of the system is about to be shot to pieces in
a box. Nothing will be worth anything in money. A diamond as big as
your fist will be just so much carbon crystal. I want to butter us up,
Linna, before the crash. That's the way to do it."
"What is this crash coming from?"
"Don Channing and Walt Franks have just developed a gadget that
will transmit articles any distance. That shoots Interplanet. The
articles--or the signal impulses from them--can be recorded, and the
recording can be used to duplicate, exactly, the same thing as many
times as you want it."
"You idiot," scorned Linna, "why not just get one and duplicate your
present money?"
"Merely because an operator as large as myself cannot palm off
two hundred $1,000 bills with the serial number AG334557990HHL-6.
Counterfeiting will become a simple art soon enough, Linna, but until
it is accepted, I'm not going to break any laws. I can't if I'm going
to shove ahead."
"But my jewels."
"So much junk."
"But everything I have is tied up in jewelry."
"Still so much junk."
"Then we're bankrupt?"
"We're broke."
"But the house ... the cars...."
"Not worth a farthing. We'll keep 'em, but their trade-in value will be
zero."
"If we have no money," said Linna, "how are we going to pay for them?"
"Not going to. They'll pay for themselves. We'll send 'em back and keep
duplicates which we'll make."
"But--"
"Look, Linna. Shell out. I've got to hit the market this afternoon if
I'm going to grab Fabriville."
"Seems to me that getting that place is slightly foolish," objected
Linna. "If nothing will have any value, why bother?"
"Oh, certain items will have value, Linna. That's what I'm working on."
"I still do not like the idea of giving up my jewels."
"If the junk is that important," exploded Keg, "I'll promise to replace
them all with interest as soon as we get running."
"Promise?" whined Linna.
"Yes," said Keg wearily. "It's a promise. I've got to make an option
payment immediately. From then on in, the place will be mine."
"But if you gamble and lose?" asked Linna worriedly. "I'll lose my
jewelry."
"I can't lose."
"But if the economic structure falls?"
"I can't miss. All I want to do is get out what I need before the
bottom falls out. Inflation of the worst kind will set in, and the
wheels will stop dead--except at Fabriville. That's where I enter the
picture."
"Good," said Linna in a bored voice. "As long as I am assured of my
jewelry, I don't care how you play the market. Run along, Keg. I've got
a dinner engagement. May I have just a few, though? I'll feel naked
without at least a ring."
"Take what you need," said Keg, and was immediately appalled at the
necessities of life.
An hour later, Keg Johnson was making some quiet trading and slowly but
surely gaining control over the manufacturing village of Fabriville.
The market was steady and strong. The traders worked noisily and
eagerly, tossing millions back and forth with the flick of a finger.
It was a normal scene, this work of theirs, and when it was done, they
would take their usual way home to a quiet evening beside a roaring
fireplace.
But this was surface quiet. Deep down below there was a miniscule
vortex that churned and throbbed, and other equally minute forces
fought the vortex--and strove in a battle that was lost before it began.
Terran Electric bought a full page advertisement in every paper. A
five-minute commercial assailed the ears from every radio that listened
to the Interplanetary Network. A full column emerged from the morning
news-facsimile machines. Terran Electric, it said, was announcing the
most modern line of household electrical appliances. Everything from
deep-freezers to super-cookers. Everything from cigarette lighters to
doorbell chimes.
The prices they quoted were devastating.
But on page seventeen, hidden among the financial and labor-situation
news, was a tiny, three-line squib that told the story to those who
knew the truth. Terran Electric had just released sixty percent of
their production-line labor.
Don Channing caught the squib, and headed for Evanston less than
fifteen minutes after reading it.
* * * * *
Unannounced, Don Channing entered Kingman's office and perched himself
on the end of Kingman's desk. His bright blue eyes met Kingman's
lowering brown eyes in a challenge.
"Meaning?" asked Kingman.
"You utter fool," snapped Don. He lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of
smoke at Kingman, making the other cough.
"Am I?"
"You idiot. How long do you think this will last?"
"Not long," admitted Kingman, "but while it does, I'm going to get
mine."
"What good will it do you?"
"Plenty. Until the crash comes, I'm laying in a stock of stuff for my
personal use."
"Lovely set-up," grunted Channing. "Have you started duplicating the
duplicating machines yet?"
"Just today."
"Don't do it, Kingman. Venus Equilateral has all the rights sewed up
tight."
"What shall I do, Dr. Channing?" asked Kingman sourly. The title grated
on Don's ears, and Kingman knew it.
"Stop the whole thing."
"And what are you going to do about it?" asked Kingman. "Take me to
court, Channing. Go ahead. Get some litigation started."
"Oh, sure. And you'll tie the thing up for seventy years. And all the
time the plant here will be duplicating the whole solar system into
the worst mess it ever got itself into. Better stop until we can get
something sensible figured out to take care of the conversion."
"That in itself will take ten years," said Kingman. "Meanwhile, money
is still of value because the thing is not widespread. People will buy
and sell, and I'm going to buy up enough to keep me and mine in the
running until things settle down. You have no idea how much stuff is
needed to keep a man running ten years, Channing. Especially when you
try to store it all away at once. Oh, sure. Recordings. I know. I'm
making them. Also making recordings of everything that I can think of
that I might like. But getting originals takes money at the present
time, and I'm going to ride the inflation market right up to the peak
by being one step ahead all the way."
"How?"
"When butter is ten dollars a pound, Channing, I'll be producing and
selling its equivalent at fifteen."
"Very nice gesture, Kingman. But it doesn't work that way. You're
licked."
"Am I?"
"You're licked. You'll be no better off than any of us in the long
run. What happens when everyone has duplicators in their own homes and
are having their Sunday dinner coming out of the gadget complete; hot,
delicious, and costlessly complete from the salt-cellar to the butter
square? What price butter?"
"That'll happen," admitted Kingman. "But by the time it does, I'll be
able to weather the storm."
"You make it sound very easy, Mark. But it isn't going to work that
way."
"This is going to be a nice, level civilization by the time we get
through with it," said Kingman. "There'll be no more shopping for food.
No more working thirty hours a week for your pay so that you can buy
the niceties of life. With your household duplicator, you can make
everything you need for life, Channing. The Terran Electric label on
your duplicator is the label of the New Way of Living."
Channing snorted and crushed out his cigarette with a vicious gesture.
"You've been reading your own advertising," he gritted. "Kingman, what
do you hope to gain?"
Kingman leaned back in his chair and put both of his feet on the desk.
"I don't mind telling you," he said gloatingly. "Venus Equilateral is
going to have the name of having invented and developed the matter
transmitter and matter duplicator. That's fine. It will carry quite
an honor, that reputation, up to the time that the big crash comes,
when people realize they're being trapped. Terran Electric, selling
duplicators for home use at a song, will emerge as the savior of
mankind. All I'm going to gain out of this is security for Mark Kingman
and a big black eye for Venus Equilateral."
Channing swore. He stood up. "You fool," he snapped, "you blind,
bigoted fool. A little co-operation on your part would save a lot of
trouble, but you prefer to let a petty quarrel ruin the entire economic
system immediately. We could work this out sensibly, Kingman. Will you
help?"
"No. Nothing you can say will convince me that I'm doing wrong."
"But why fire your help? That's what is going to hurt."
"I don't need a production line full of people, Channing, to sit around
and watch a duplicator turn out vacuum cleaners, complete in their
packing cartons."
Channing took Kingman's under ankle where they were crossed on the edge
of the desk. He lifted, and the pudgy attorney went over backwards
with a roaring crash, hitting his head on the carpet and spilling
over backwards out of the chair onto the floor behind his desk. He
arose with a roar of hate, but the door slammed behind Channing before
Kingman could become coherent.
Channing returned to Venus Equilateral immediately, a trip that
took four days. In touch with events by driver beam, Don heard the
news-advertising agencies announcing the Terran Electric Duplicator of
a size suitable for a medium home, complete with a recording attachment
and a supply of disks. Channing gritted his teeth and stepped up the
drive of the _Relay Girl_ another notch. His first query upon reaching
the Station was to Wes Farrell.
"Nothing yet, Don," answered Wes. "We've been running some very
interesting experiments, though."
Channing was interested in nothing but the non-duplicatable material,
but he nodded. Wes Farrell's sideline experiments often paid off more
than the main line of research.
"By inserting a filter circuit in the transmission beam, we can filter
out other responses," said Wes. "Meaning that we can take a cube of
regular iron, for instance, and run it through. The integrated iron in
the receiver is pure iron, the purity of which is dependent upon the
band-pass of the filter. Using alloy selectivity disks for filters in
the circuits, we can make iron that is 99.99997% pure."
"Might be useful for metallurgical work, and so forth," mused Don.
"Nine-nines iron is valuable and almost impossible--and it takes a
gadget that destroys value to make it. Nice paradox, that."
"Another thing," said Wes. "We re-transmit the pure iron and heterodyne
the impulses into other elements. We can start with iron and end up
with any of the other elements, merely by introducing the proper
heterodyning impulse."
"That's not bad."
"I've got several elements that start off where the Periodic Chart
ends. The boys in the chemistry lab are investigating the properties of
Venium, Channium, Frankine, Ardenium, and Farrelline right now."
"Who picked the names?" grinned Don.
"Arden."
"O.K., Wes, but keep looking for that non-reproducible substance."
"I will. It may be--"
Farrell was interrupted by the insistent call on the station intercom
for Don Channing. Don went to his office to find the Terran beam
awaiting his presence. He lifted the phone and identified himself.
"This is P. L. Hughes of the Interplanetary Criminal Office," came the
answer.
"I didn't do it," grinned Channing. "Besides, I gotta alibi."
"O.K.," came the amused answer. "No use talking then."
"Just a minute," said Don. "I might as well know what I'm being
suspected of. Whom have I murdered?"
"No one, yet. Look, Channing, we're having a time here."
"What kind?"
"Phony money."
"So?"
"Yes. The trouble is that it isn't phony. You can always detect
spurious coins and counterfeit bills by some means or another. We have
bits of nita-fluorescin in the bills that is printed into the paper in
a pattern which is symbolically keyed to the issue--date, the serial
number, and the identifying marks on the face of the bill. It takes
a bit of doing to duplicate the whole shooting-match, but we've been
getting stuff that we know is phony--but, Channing, I have the original
and the duplicate here on my desk and I can't tell which is which!"
"Give me more."
"I have a hundred dollar bill here--two of them in fact. They are
absolutely alike. They are both bona fide as far as I or my men can
tell from complete analysis, right down to the bits of stuff that get
ground into a bill from much handling. I have coinage the same way.
Isn't there something that can be done?"
"We are trying to find a substance that cannot be duplicated,"
explained Channing. "Given time, we will. Until then, I'm helpless."
"What do you suggest?"
"I don't know. I've been hoping that we could control the situation
until something sensible could be worked out. It slipped out of
hand. I'd suggest that you'd stop operations because of the absolute
impossibility of keeping your thumb on things. I'd forget the
counterfeiting angle entirely and start building up a force to guard
against riots, mob rule and minor, intercommunity warfare."
"I think you're right," said Hughes, and Channing knew that the head of
the Interplanetary Criminal Office was nodding his head.
Channing hung up the telephone and toyed with three copies of the
judge's watch that were keeping identical time. He shook his head and
wondered how it was all going to end.
* * * * *
Conversion from production line to duplicator came all over the Solar
System in about ten days. Terran Electric's own staff fabricated a
duplicator capable of handling an object the size of a locomotive,
and plant-sized duplicators were formed, one after the other on flat
cars that rolled from the maw of the huge machine. For payment, Terran
Electric accepted blocks of stock in the purchasing companies, and the
wealth and holdings of Terran Electric mounted high and began to look
like the major company that would ultimately control all merchandising
and manufacture in the System.
And thirty days after the conversion came, the wheels ground to a stop.
Industry was finished. Work had ceased. Plants lay idle, nothing to
do--and no one to do it for them.
Keg Johnson looked up as Linna entered. There was a worried look on her
face that caused Keg to inquire immediately as to its cause.