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THE BRAIN
By Alexander Blade
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories October
1948. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed.]
[Illustration: Repairs had to be made in great haste, at night, while
The Brain's machines slept]
[Sidenote: America's greatest weapon, greater than the Atom Bomb, was
its new, gigantic mechanical brain. It filled a whole mountain--and then
it came to life...!]
CHAPTER I
Cautiously the young flight engineer stretched his cramped legs across
some gadgets in his crowded little compartment. Leaning back in his
swivel chair he folded a pair of freckled hands behind his neck and
smiled at Lee.
"This is it doctor; we're almost there."
The tall and lanky man at the frame of the door didn't seem to
understand. Bending forward he peered through the little window near the
engineer's desk, into the blue haze of the jets and down to the earth
below, a vast bowl of desert land gleaming like silver in the glow of
the sunrise.
"But this couldn't possibly be Washington," he finally said in a puzzled
tone. "Why, we crossed the California coast only half an hour ago. Even
at 1200 miles an hour we couldn't be almost there."
The engineer's smile broadened into a friendly grin: "No, we're not
anywhere near Washington. But in a couple of minutes you'll see Cephalon
and that's as far as we go. One professor and 15 tons of termites to be
flown from Wallabawalla Mission station, Northern Territory, Australia,
to Cephalon, Arizona, U.S.A., one way direct. Those are our
instructions. Say, this is the queerest cargo I've ever flown, doctor,
if you don't mind my saying so."
Lee blinked. Removing his glasses which were fairly thick, he wiped them
carefully and put them on again as if to get a clearer picture of an
unexpected situation. His long fingered hand went through his greying
hair and then down the cheek which was sallow, stained with the atabrine
from his latest malaria attack and badly in need of a shave. His mouth
formed a big "O" of surprise as nervously he said:
"I don't get it. I don't understand this business at all. First the
Department of Agriculture extends an urgent letter of invitation to a
completely forgotten man out there in the Never-Never land. Then almost
on the heels of the letter the government sends a plane. I would have
been glad to mail to the Department samples of "Ant-termes Pacificus"
sufficient for most scientific purposes if they needed them for
experiments in termite control; that would have been the simple and the
sensible thing to do. But no, they want everything I have; you fellows
drop out of the sky with a sort of habeas corpus and a whole wrecking
crew. You disturb the lives of my species, which took me ten years to
breed; you pack up their mounds lock, stock and barrel. And then you
drop me at some place I never even heard about--Cephalon. What is this
Cephalon, anyway? If the place had any connotations to entomology, I
would have known about it...."
* * * * *
The flight engineer glanced at the irritated scientist curiously and
sympathetically: "If you don't know, I couldn't tell you what it's all
about myself, I'm sure," he said slowly. "Cephalon--Cephalon is a place
alright, but it doesn't show on the map. Sort of a Shangri-la, if you
know what I mean."
This cryptic statement failed to have a calming effect on Lee.
"Nonsense," he frowned. "If it is an inhabited place it must be on the
map and if it isn't on the map the place doesn't exist."
"Look here," the flight engineer pointed through the window to the
horizon ahead. "What do you think this is, doctor, a mirage?"
Lee stared at the apparition which swiftly materialized out of the
ground haze at the plane's supersonic speed. "It _does_ look like a
mirage," he said judiciously. "Is that Cephalon?"
The engineer nodded. "Prettiest little town in the U. S. for my money.
Ideal airport, too. Rather unusual though--I mean the architecture. Take
a good look while we're circling around for the come-in signal."
Pretty and unusual were hardly the words for it, Lee thought, as he
gazed in admiration. Below, Cephalon spread like a visionary's dream of
a far-away future blended with a far-away past. Along wide, palm shaded
avenues the flat-roofed terraced houses fanned out into the desert.
Style elements of ancient Peru and Mexico were blended together with the
latest advances of technology, such as the rectangular sheets of water
which covered and cooled the roofs. The business center, dotted with
helicopter landing fields on top of the pyramidal buildings, was
reminiscent of the classic Babylon and Nineveh. At the center of the
man-made oasis a huge fortress-like structure sprawled and towered like
a seven-pointed star. Even so, for all its impressiveness of masonry,
the lush green of its parks, the bursts of color from its hanging
gardens, made Cephalon resemble one enormous flower bed.
Overawed and mystified the lone passenger from Down-Under took in the
scene while the big plane circled with diminished speed. "It's
beautiful," he murmered. "It's a dream." And louder then: "Pardon me if
I find it hard to trust my senses. I've been away from home for more
than ten years, to be sure. But then, even in the Australian bush I've
received some periodicals and scientific journals from the U.S.A. Surely
if a city like this has been built during my absence there should have
been mention of the fact. And surely a city like this must show on some
map. I don't understand. The longer I look the less I understand...."
The flight engineer shrugged. "It's a new city, maybe that's why it
doesn't show."
Lee nodded. "In that case you must know the meaning of all this. Why did
they build this city in the middle of the desert? What purpose does it
serve? Why am I here? Why are we circling for so long? There don't seem
to be any other planes up in the air."
"We cannot come in until our cargo has been examined and okayed," the
engineer said.
Lee raised a pair of heavy and untidy brows: "Cargo examination? In
mid-air and with nobody from the ground examining it?"
"That's it. It's being done by Radar, one of the new fangled kinds, you
know." He grinned: "I hope, doctor, that your termite species is neither
explosive nor fissionable in any way. Because in that case we could
never make a landing in Cephalon."
"How utterly absurd," Lee said disgustedly. "Even a child would know
better. There is no war going on--or is there? What makes them take such
absurd precautions?"
The engineer narrowed his eyes. "You're an American, Dr. Lee, aren't
you? Well, in any case, I can see no reason why I should be beating
about the bush. After all, every foreign agent in this country must have
learned by now about the existence of Cephalon. It's too big to be
secret anyway. Besides, as you perceive, no attempt has been made to
camouflage the place. Cephalon and the whole district takes up about a
thousand square miles. It's a military preserve. Only you don't see any
Brass. What they are doing, I wouldn't know, but I would rather try to
rob all the gold from Fort Knox than get away with a single scrap of
paper from that Braintrust Building in the center of the city over
there. By the way, that skull shaped building right across the Plaza is
the official hotel reserved for very important persons, such as you are
listed."
* * * * *
A deep-throated buzz over the intercom interrupted him. "There, thank
God, they finally made up their minds to let us in. One minute more and
then a shower, a shave, bacon and eggs, and lots of Java!"
There were what appeared to Lee to be a multitude of people waiting as
they landed. Eager and intelligent white faces all lifted up to him and
pressed forward with bewildering offerings and requests. A Western Union
messenger handed him a telegram in which one Dr. Howard K. Scriven
proffered greetings, expressing a desire to interview him. Some cleancut
youngster, obviously a scientific worker, assured Lee that he was fully
familiar with the care and feeding of "_Ant-termes-pacificus-Lee_", that
Lee need not concern himself about their welfare, that the mounds would
be immediately transferred to Experimental Station 19 G. The "Flying
Wing's" supercargo and two truck-drivers came forward with papers for
Lee to sign, as the first of the heavy steelboxes which harbored the
mounds were lowered into a van with the whine of an electric hoist.
Meanwhile somebody who said he was an assistant manager of the Cranium
hotel informed Lee that reservations had been made for him and that he
had a car waiting to conduct Dr. Lee to his suite. It was all very
mysterious, but efficient. Feeling more and more like some prize exhibit
handled without a will of its own on a whirlwind tour, Lee allowed
himself to be whisked from the airport to the hotel. With the din of the
jets still in his ears, overpowered by impressions which crowded his
senses from all sides, he listened politely to the hotel manager's
explanations of the sights without understanding a word of them.
There were flowers in his suite, the carpets were deeper, the bathtub
was bigger, the towels piled higher, the breakfast more abundantly rich
than anything Lee could remember in the 38 years of his life. "So this
is America in 1960," he thought. "It must have advanced by leaps and by
bounds over these past ten years."
He felt embarrassed because he had almost forgotten the uses of all
those comforts, and at the same time deeply moved over the way they
embraced him, him, the lost son, the voluntary exile who once had turned
his back on them in despair and disgust. But why was all this? He had
done nothing to deserve this kind of hospitality. Entomologists as a
rule were not transported by magic carpets into Arabian Nights for
modest achievements such as the discovery of a new species. All the
things which had happened within the last 24 hours were riddles wrapped
up in enigmas. Fatigued as he was he couldn't lie down, he was
desperately resolved to get at the bottom of this thing.
There came a buzz from the telephone. A soft and melodious contralto
voice announced that its carrier was Dr. Howard K. Scriven's secretary
and would Dr. Lee be good enough to come over to the Braintrust Building
to meet Dr. Scriven at 9:30 A.M.? Lee said that he would.
* * * * *
The distance across the Plaza was short enough, but as Lee entered the
hall of the huge concrete pyramid he was reminded of Washington's
Pentagon in wartime, for his progress was halted right from the start
and at more than one point. He had to line up at the receptionist's, he
was being checked over the phone, a pass was handed to him, and
somebody, obviously a plain-clothes man, took him to the express
elevator which shot him up to the 40th floor.
There, another plain-clothes man conducted Lee through a long carpeted
corridor and up one flight of stairs to a steel door which slid open
automatically at their approach. Sunlight was flooding through its frame
as Lee followed the guard and the door closed noiselessly behind them.
The man from Down-Under took a deep breath. He had not expected this for
it was not a stepping in, but rather a stepping out from a vast tomb
into the light of day. This was the top of a huge pyramid, and was in an
entirely different kind of world.
The terrace was laid with flagstones and landscaped like a luxurious
country club. In its middle there arose a penthouse, low and irregularly
shaped like some organic outcropping of native rock. It could hardly be
said that it had walls, overgrown as was the stone by creepers and built
into the shape of massive pillars. The structure seemed a kind of
Stonehenge improved upon by America's late great architect Frank Lloyd
Wright. There were birch shade trees around the house, the leaves
whispering in the breeze. From some crevice in the rock came the
peaceful murmurings of a spring. A meandering little brook criss-crossed
the gravel path under Lee's feet. From a stone table which might have
belonged to some Pharaoh there came the only incongruous noise in this
bucolic idyll; it was the nervous ticking of a typewriter, which stopped
abruptly at Lee's approach, and the melodious contralto voice he had
already heard over the phone greeted him. "Oh--it's Dr. Lee from
Canberra University, isn't it? I'm so happy to meet you. Please, do sit
down. How was your trip? I'm Oona Dahlborg, Dr. Scriven's secretary."
Lee blinked. Out of this world as was this Stone Age cabin in the sky,
even more so was the girl. He had a vivid image of American girls as
they had been when he had left the States way back in '49; in fact, he
had an all too vivid memory of at least one of them. His memory had been
refreshed within the last hour at the airport, at the hotel, at the
receptionist's, and it had been confirmed: they still wore masks instead
of their true faces, they still were overdressed, overloud, oversexed,
overhung with trinkets and their voices still resounded shrilly from the
roof of their mouths.
This girl Oona Dahlborg was different. He raked his brains to find some
concept which would express how she was different. The word "organic"
came to mind; yes, as one looked at her one sensed a unity of being, a
creatural whole compared to which those other girls appeared as
artificial composites.
She was tall for a girl, the pure Scandinavian type, and she looked like
a young Viking with the golden helmet of her hair gleaming in the sun.
She wore a tunic, short, sleeveless and of classic simplicity, the kind
of dress which once Diana wore. It revealed the splendor of her slender
figure and stressed the length of her full white limbs. On the black of
the tunic an antique necklace of large amber beads formed the only
ornament. The bow or the spear of the great huntress whom she resembled
so much would have looked more natural in her hands than the typewriter;
even so, her every move showed perfect coordination of body and mind, a
large surplus of vital energy carefully controlled. Had she turned to
some different career she might easily have developed into some great
athlete or else a great singer. Her beautiful voice had that rare
natural gift of using the whole thorax for a vessel of resonance instead
of merely the mouth.
* * * * *
It was this voice which fascinated Lee more than the strangeness of the
scene, more than her beauty, more even than the things she said. It was
like remembering some haunting melody, it transported him into the
forgotten land of his youth. It made him feel happy except that suddenly
he felt painfully conscious of his ill fitting suit, the emaciation of
his body, the atabrine stains on the skin of his face, the wildness and
the grey of his hair.
With the shyness of a boy, he accepted first the firm pressure of her
hand and then a seat which was another piece of ancient Egyptian
furniture.
"Dr. Scriven will be with you in a few minutes," she said.
"Unfortunately he is a little delayed by an official visitor from
Washington. The unexpected always happens over here. Meanwhile...."
She suddenly interrupted herself. The searching look of her deep blue
eyes startled Lee by its directness. There was in it a depth of
understanding and of sympathy which penetrated to his heart. He felt as
if she already knew about him and knew everything. It lasted only a few
seconds before she continued, but in a different, a warmer voice:
"I think we can drop the usual conventions," she said. "We know you, Dr.
Scriven and I. We know your work as published in the journal of
entomology. It is the work of a man of genius. You are not the kind of
man whom I must entertain with the usual small talk about the weather,
how you have enjoyed your trip, or whether you feel very tired--as you
probably do--and all the rest of it. That is routine with most of our
visitors; it's quite a relief to feel that I can dispense with it for
once."
Lee had blushed under this frankness of compliment as if a decoration
had been pinned to his breast. "Thank you, Miss Dahlberg, you put me at
my ease. I've been out in the wilderness for so long that I've lost the
language of the social amenities. I really feel like another Rip van
Winkle. All this," he made a sweeping gesture, "is tremendously new and
surprising to me. There are so many burning questions to ask...."
The girl gave him a smile of sympathy. "Of course," she said, "and I can
imagine some of them. To begin with, we owe you an explanation and an
apology for having used the methods of deception in getting you here. As
you probably know by now the work we're doing here is closely connected
with the National defense. Whether we like it or not, military secrecy
forces us to use roundabout ways in contacting scientists who happen to
work in some context with our field, especially if they live in foreign
lands. That's why in your case we have used the good offices of the
Department of Agriculture in bringing you here. Dr. Scriven feels
terrible about this. He feels that to be lifted out from one desert just
to be dropped into the middle of another must be a fierce disappointment
to you. For this and all the disturbance of your work--can you manage to
forgive us Dr. Lee?"
The sincerity in these regrets was such that Lee hastened to reply: "You
don't owe me any apology, Miss Dahlborg," he reassured her. "Naturally
it is impossible for me to see any connection between my work with ants
and termites and the problems of National Defense. But I am an American;
I wouldn't doubt for a moment the legitimacy of your call." The girl
nodded: "Besides you have fought for your country in the second world
war," she added. "And also you are the son of General Jefferson Lee of
the Marines. You understand of course that we had you investigated
before calling you here; do you mind very much?"
* * * * *
Again Lee blushed; this time even deeper than before. He squirmed in his
seat. "No, I guess not. I suppose it's necessary. Now that I'm going to
meet Dr. Scriven, who is he? I probably ought to know--forgive my
ignorance."
"You really don't know about him?" The girl sounded surprised. "He's a
surgeon. He's considered the foremost living brain-specialist. Remember
the Nuremberg trials of the Nazi war criminals? Dr. Scriven did the
post-mortems on their brains. He wrote a book that made him famous."
"Of course," Lee slapped his forehead. "Yes, but of course, how could I
forget."
"Yes," she answered, "He was made the head of the Braintrust over here."
"What is the Braintrust? What does it do? What am I supposed to do
here?" Lee asked eagerly.
The girl's smile was mysterious: "I think Howard would like to explain
all that to you in his own way."
"Howard". The word struck Lee like a vicious little snake. Was he a
friend, or more than a friend to her? "This is terrible," he thought,
"I've been away from normal life for overlong. Must be that I'm
emotionally unbalanced. I haven't known her for five minutes. There is
nothing between us. I've no earthly right to be jealous; it is absurd,
it's mean."
He felt deeply ashamed. Yet as he looked at her he couldn't deny the
truth before himself: that he _was_ jealous, that he _had_ fallen in
love with a girl who looked like the goddess Diana with a golden helmet
for hair.
There was a noise of footsteps on the gravel paths. A man with a
portfolio under his arm walked briskly by the stonetable; despite his
civilian clothes he had "Westpoint" written all over him. He disappeared
through the steel door.
"That was General Vandergeest", Oona said. "Dr. Scriven will see you
now; just walk in, Dr. Lee."