He fixed things--clocks, refrigerators, vidsenders and
destinies. But he had no business in the future, where the
calculators could not handle him. He was Earth's only
hope--and its sure failure!
Security Commissioner Reinhart rapidly climbed the front steps and
entered the Council building. Council guards stepped quickly aside and
he entered the familiar place of great whirring machines. His thin
face rapt, eyes alight with emotion, Reinhart gazed intently up at the
central SRB computer, studying its reading.
"Straight gain for the last quarter," observed Kaplan, the lab
organizer. He grinned proudly, as if personally responsible. "Not bad,
Commissioner."
"We're catching up to them," Reinhart retorted. "But too damn slowly.
We must finally go over--and soon."
Kaplan was in a talkative mood. "We design new offensive weapons, they
counter with improved defenses. And nothing is actually made!
Continual improvement, but neither we nor Centaurus can stop designing
long enough to stabilize for production."
"It will end," Reinhart stated coldly, "as soon as Terra turns out a
weapon for which Centaurus can build no defense."
"Every weapon has a defense. Design and discord. Immediate
obsolescence. Nothing lasts long enough to--"
"What we count on is the _lag_," Reinhart broke in, annoyed. His hard
gray eyes bored into the lab organizer and Kaplan slunk back. "The
time lag between our offensive design and their counter development.
The lag varies." He waved impatiently toward the massed banks of SRB
machines. "As you well know."
At this moment, 9:30 AM, May 7, 2136, the statistical ratio on the SRB
machines stood at 21-17 on the Centauran side of the ledger. All facts
considered, the odds favored a successful repulsion by Proxima
Centaurus of a Terran military attack. The ratio was based on the
total information known to the SRB machines, on a gestalt of the vast
flow of data that poured in endlessly from all sectors of the Sol and
Centaurus systems.
21-17 on the Centauran side. But a month ago it had been 24-18 in the
enemy's favor. Things were improving, slowly but steadily. Centaurus,
older and less virile than Terra, was unable to match Terra's rate of
technocratic advance. Terra was pulling ahead.
"If we went to war now," Reinhart said thoughtfully, "we would lose.
We're not far enough along to risk an overt attack." A harsh, ruthless
glow twisted across his handsome features, distorting them into a
stern mask. "But the odds are moving in our favor. Our offensive
designs are gradually gaining on their defenses."
"Let's hope the war comes soon," Kaplan agreed. "We're all on edge.
This damn waiting...."
The war would come soon. Reinhart knew it intuitively. The air was
full of tension, the _elan_. He left the SRB rooms and hurried down
the corridor to his own elaborately guarded office in the Security
wing. It wouldn't be long. He could practically feel the hot breath of
destiny on his neck--for him a pleasant feeling. His thin lips set in
a humorless smile, showing an even line of white teeth against his
tanned skin. It made him feel good, all right. He'd been working at it
a long time.
First contact, a hundred years earlier, had ignited instant conflict
between Proxima Centauran outposts and exploring Terran raiders. Flash
fights, sudden eruptions of fire and energy beams.
And then the long, dreary years of inaction between enemies where
contact required years of travel, even at nearly the speed of light.
The two systems were evenly matched. Screen against screen. Warship
against power station. The Centauran Empire surrounded Terra, an iron
ring that couldn't be broken, rusty and corroded as it was. Radical
new weapons had to be conceived, if Terra was to break out.
Through the windows of his office, Reinhart could see endless
buildings and streets, Terrans hurrying back and forth. Bright specks
that were commute ships, little eggs that carried businessmen and
white-collar workers around. The huge transport tubes that shot masses
of workmen to factories and labor camps from their housing units. All
these people, waiting to break out. Waiting for the day.
Reinhart snapped on his vidscreen, the confidential channel. "Give me
Military Designs," he ordered sharply.
* * * * *
He sat tense, his wiry body taut, as the vidscreen warmed into life.
Abruptly he was facing the hulking image of Peter Sherikov, director
of the vast network of labs under the Ural Mountains.
Sherikov's great bearded features hardened as he recognized Reinhart.
His bushy black eyebrows pulled up in a sullen line. "What do you
want? You know I'm busy. We have too much work to do, as it is.
Without being bothered by--politicians."
"I'm dropping over your way," Reinhart answered lazily. He adjusted
the cuff of his immaculate gray cloak. "I want a full description of
your work and whatever progress you've made."
"You'll find a regular departmental report plate filed in the usual
way, around your office someplace. If you'll refer to that you'll know
exactly what we--"
"I'm not interested in that. I want to _see_ what you're doing. And I
expect you to be prepared to describe your work fully. I'll be there
shortly. Half an hour."
* * * * *
Reinhart cut the circuit. Sherikov's heavy features dwindled and
faded. Reinhart relaxed, letting his breath out. Too bad he had to
work with Sherikov. He had never liked the man. The big Polish
scientist was an individualist, refusing to integrate himself with
society. Independent, atomistic in outlook. He held concepts of the
individual as an end, diametrically contrary to the accepted organic
state Weltansicht.
But Sherikov was the leading research scientist, in charge of the
Military Designs Department. And on Designs the whole future of Terra
depended. Victory over Centaurus--or more waiting, bottled up in the
Sol System, surrounded by a rotting, hostile Empire, now sinking into
ruin and decay, yet still strong.
Reinhart got quickly to his feet and left the office. He hurried down
the hall and out of the Council building.
A few minutes later he was heading across the mid-morning sky in his
highspeed cruiser, toward the Asiatic land-mass, the vast Ural
mountain range. Toward the Military Designs labs.
Sherikov met him at the entrance. "Look here, Reinhart. Don't think
you're going to order me around. I'm not going to--"
"Take it easy." Reinhart fell into step beside the bigger man. They
passed through the check and into the auxiliary labs. "No immediate
coercion will be exerted over you or your staff. You're free to
continue your work as you see fit--for the present. Let's get this
straight. My concern is to integrate your work with our total social
needs. As long as your work is sufficiently productive--"
Reinhart stopped in his tracks.
"Pretty, isn't he?" Sherikov said ironically.
"What the hell is it?
"Icarus, we call him. Remember the Greek myth? The legend of Icarus.
Icarus flew.... This Icarus is going to fly, one of these days."
Sherikov shrugged. "You can examine him, if you want. I suppose this
is what you came here to see."