"You've what?"
"You don't think I'd be nuts enough to go around telling people 'Well,
if you don't believe me, just wait until next month!' do you?"
"Why not?"
"Because then they'd have carefully kept me on ice until after the big
event."
"After which your story would be corroborated and you'd--"
"I'd have nothing," said Dusty sharply. "It's not good enough. Sure,
I'd be corroborated, but then I'd be blamed for not being effectual
enough to convince people in the first place. I'd be blamed for not
being the guy I've been depicting on the stage. I've been Dusty
Britton, The Great Hero. But when it comes down to really doing
something, I'm Dusty Britton, Liar First Class. Next it is going to be
Dusty Britton, Helpless Incompetent. I can't just fold my hands and
tell 'em that they can wait and see, and then yelp 'I told you so!'
because if there's anything that people hate it's 'I told you so!'
characters."
Barbara Crandall looked at Dusty pityingly. "Dusty," she asked softly,
"Just what do you hope to accomplish?"
"I hope I'll be able to--"
"No. I know what you want to do. But what I want to know is how."
"There must be some way--" his voice trailed off.
"I can't see it. Scyth has probably gone to Marandis to get his
generator. Dusty, do you know where the hell is Marandis?"
"Somewhere towards the galactic center."
"I'm told that the galaxy is a hell of a big place. You've about as
much chance of getting there as you have of swimming the Pacific Ocean
with one arm tied behind you. Scyth is gone from here so far that it
takes light thousands of years to get that far. Hell, Dusty, at this
moment, the best resources of all the science of the Earth and the
so-called planetary income couldn't move a housebrick from here to
Venus in less than a matter of months. Alpha Centauri is actually no
more than a dreamer's symbol so far as we're concerned. In fact, you
and I know that Scyth's little friends are somewhere on the dark side
of Mercury getting ready to make Sol a variable. We couldn't get there
for months and months, and then we'd have a hell of a time locating
them, even if we had whatever it might take to get there."
* * * * *
Barbara thought for a minute and then went on, "And if we could direct
the entire Earth, and could call upon anything or anyone, we wouldn't
know where to start. What is a phanoband? Why is a barytrine field?
Even I know that there are a couple of dozen rather brilliant men who
believe that the speed of light is not a limiting velocity, but this is
only a conviction, not founded on any experimental evidence. So maybe
you've got a firm inner drive to go out and prove yourself. But how in
the hell are you going to make headway against a race that considers us
primitive?"
"We've got to make contact."
"How? Shall we call Mercury on the phanoband communicators? And what
was that intermediary step? The machinus fields? It sounds like
double-talk to me."
"It was something about abandoning general relativity for the machinus
theory of space-time," said Dusty, bringing into focus all the science
fiction he had ever read.
"Got any theories?" asked Barbara pointedly. "Frankly, Dusty, I'd like
to help, but I feel too much like a man trying to come all the way from
the stone age to the atom bomb in ten days. In order to circumvent
their foul plan we've got to abandon a very workable theory in favor
of an unknown something called the machinus theory of space-time, and
then from that we develop something called phanoband radiation, which
produces factors enabling us to reduce the theory to practise and
eventually we take to deep space, find Marandis, and put our case in
front of some sort of bureaucratic something-or-other. Can't see it,
Dusty."
"So what am I supposed to do?"
"Sit and take it. What else can you do? Darn it, Dusty, you can't fight
them, and you aren't in any position to join them. We haven't got the
initiation fee, we don't have the address, and we hardly talk the
language."
Dusty looked at her sourly. "I'd hoped you'd help," he said unhappily.
"You at least know what the score is."
"Dusty, I'd like to help. I do know what the score is. It's hopeless.
You're trapped in an awkward position. And like a lot of other people,
you are in a position where you can't do a damned thing about it. So
you might as well save your high blood pressure and start looking
around to see what you can make out of it."
Dusty finished his drink and left. In a trash-can by the alley was
a Dusty Britton Blaster, complete with holster and a tin medal for
sharpshooting. The school-store across the street was displaying a
Jack Vandal mask and a small case containing ten candy cigarettes and
a secret compartment suitable for concealing ten-thousand dollar bills
lifted from lawless characters who might have used the dough to bribe
juries or buy professional gunmen.
Dusty made his way along the street unrecognized.
* * * * *
The guard at the front gate looked at Dusty with suspicion. Dusty
looked back defiantly; for a number of years the guard had practically
bowed thrice as Dusty approached, Dusty hoped that the habit of
deference was well established.
"Have you a pass, Mr. Britton?"
"Now see here, Sam, I don't need a pass and--"
"Mr. Britton, I've got orders to--"
"Look Sam. Let's not stall. I want in and I'm going to--"
"One minute, Mr. Britton. I'll have to call."