"The message will be in the hands of your representative Wilneda within
the hour!"
* * * * *
The punched tape from Operator No. 7's machine slid along the line. It
entered a coupling machine and was stripped from the tape and repunched
upon a tape that was operating at better than a thousand words per
minute. Operator 7's tape then left the machine to be rolled into a
file roll and placed in the vaults below the city. It was of no use
save as a reference from now on.
The coupling machine worked furiously. It accepted the tapes from
seventy operators as fast as they could write them. It selected the
messages as they entered the machine, placing a mechanical preference
upon whichever message happened to be ahead of the others on the moving
tapes. The master tape moved continuously at eleven hundred words
per minute, taking teletype messages from everywhere in the Northern
Hemisphere of Venus to any of the other planets in the Solar System.
It was a busy machine, for even at eleven hundred words per minute, it
often got hours behind.
The synchronous-keyed signal from the coupling machine left the
operating room and went to the transmission room. It was amplified and
hurled out of the city to a small, squat building at the outskirts of
Northern Landing.
Here it was impressed upon a carrier wave and flung at the sky.
But not alone. Not unguarded. The upper half of the building carried
a monstrous parabolic reflector, mounted on gimbals. The signal was
focused into a beam. The beam was made of two components. The center
component was a circularly polarized, ultra-high frequency wave
of five centimeter waves, modulated with the keying signals of the
teletype coupling machine. The outer component was a radially polarized
wave of one centimeter waves. A radio frequency armor.
It was hurled at the sky, a concentric wave, out of a reflector, by a
thousand kilowatt transmitter. The wave seared against the Venusian
Heaviside Layer. The outer component bored at the ionization. It
chewed and it bit. It fought and it struggled. It destroyed ionization
by electronically shorting the ionization. And, as is the case with
strife, it lost heavily in the encounter. The beam was resisted
fiercely. Infiltrations of ionization tore at the central component,
stripping and trying to beat it down.
But man triumphed over nature! The megawatt of energy that came in
a tight beam from the building at Northern Landing emerged from the
Heaviside Layer as a weak, piffling signal. It wavered and it crackled.
It wanted desperately to lie down and sleep. Its directional qualities
were impaired, and it wabbled badly. It arrived at the relay station
tired and worn.
One million watts of ultra-high frequency energy at the start, it was
measurable in microvolts when it reached the relay station, only five
hundred miles above the city of Northern Landing.
The signal, as weak and as wabbly as it was, was taken in by eager
receptors. It was amplified. It was dehashed, de-staticked, and
deloused. And once again, one hundred decibels stronger and infinitely
cleaner, the signal was hurled out on a tight beam from a gigantic
parabolic reflector.
Across sixty-seven million miles of space went the signal. Across
the orbit of Venus it went in a vast chord. It arrived at the Venus
Equilateral Station with less trouble than the original transmission
through the Heaviside Layer. The signal was amplified and demodulated.
It went into a decoupler machine where the messages were sorted
mechanically and sent, each to the proper channel, into other coupler
machines. Beams from Venus Equilateral were directed at Mars and at
Terra.
The Terra beam ended at Luna. Here it again was placed in the
two-component beam and from Luna it punched down at Terra's Layer. It
emerged into the atmosphere of Terra, as weak and as tired as it had
been when it had come out of the Venus Layer. It entered a station in
the Bahamas, was stripped of the interference, and put upon the land
beams. It entered decoupling machines that sorted the messages as to
destination. These various beams spread out across the face of Terra,
the one carrying Korvus' message finally coming into a station at Ten
Mile Road and Woodward. From this station at the outskirts of Detroit,
it went upon land wires downtown to the International Hotel.
The teletype machine in the office of the hotel began to click rapidly.
The message to Wilneda was arriving.
And fifty-five minutes after the operator told Korvus that less than an
hour would ensue, Wilneda was saying, humorously, "So, Korvus was drunk
again last night--"
* * * * *
Completion of Korvus' message to Wilneda completes also one phase of
the tale at hand. It is not important. There were a hundred and fifty
other messages that might have been accompanied in the same manner,
each as interesting to the person who likes the explanation of the
interplanetary communication service. But this is not a technical
journal. A more complete explanation of the various phases that a
message goes through in leaving a city on Venus to go to Terra may be
found in the Communications Technical Review, Volume XXVII, Number 8,
pages 411 to 716. Readers more interested in the technical aspects are
referred to the article.
But it so happens that Korvus' message was picked out of a hundred-odd
messages because of one thing only. At the time that Korvus' message
was in transit through the decoupler machines at Venus Equilateral
Relay Station, something of a material nature was entering the air lock
of the station.
It was an unexpected visit.
Don Channing looked up at the indicator panel in his office and frowned
in puzzlement. He punched a buzzer and spoke into the communicator on
his desk.
"Find out who that is, will you, Arden?"
"He isn't expected," came back the voice of Arden Westland.
"I know that. But I've been expecting someone ever since John Walters
retired last week. You know why."
"You hope to get his job," said the girl in an amused voice. "I hope
you do. So that someone else will sit around all day trying to make you
retire so that he can have your job!"
"Now look, Arden, I've never tried to make Walters retire."
"No, but when the word came that he was thinking of it, you began to
think about taking over. Don't worry, I don't blame you." There was
quite a protracted silence, and then her voice returned. "The visitor
is a gentleman by the name of Francis Burbank. He came out in a flitter
with a chauffeur and all."
"Big shot, hey?"
"Take it easy. He's coming up the office now."
"I gather that he desires audience with me?" asked Don.
"I think that he is here to lay down the law! You'll have to get out of
Walters' office, if his appearance is any guide."
* * * * *
There was some more silence. The communicator was turned off at the
other end, which made Channing fume. He would have preferred to hear
the interchange of words between his secretary and the newcomer. Then,
instead of having the man announced, the door opened abruptly and the
stranger entered. He came to the point immediately.
"You're Don Channing? Acting Director of Interplanetary Communications?"
"I am."
"Then I have some news for you, Dr. Channing. I have been appointed
Director by the Interplanetary Communications Commission. You are to
resume your position as Electronics Engineer."
"Oh?" said Channing. His face fell. "I sort of believed that I would be
offered that position."
"There was a discussion of that procedure. However, the Commission
decided that a man of more commercial training would better fill the
position. The Communications Division has been operating at too small
a profit. They felt that a man of commercial experience could cut
expenses and so on to good effect. You understand their reasoning, of
course," said Burbank.
"Not exactly."
"Well, it is like this. They know that a scientist is not usually a
man to consider the cost of experimentation. They build thousand-ton
cyclotrons to convert a penny's worth of lead into one and one-tenth
cents' worth of lead and gold. And they use three hundred dollars'
worth of power and a million-dollar machine to do it with.
"They feel that a man with training like that will not know the real
meaning of the phrase, 'cutting expenses.' A new broom sweeps clean,
Dr. Channing. There must be many places where a man of commercial
experience can cut expenses. I, as Director, shall do so."
"I wish you luck," said Channing.
"Then there is no hard feeling?"
"I can't say that. It is probably not your fault. I cannot feel against
you, but I do feel sort of let down at the decision of the Commission.
I have had experience in this job."
"The Commission may appoint you to follow me. If your work shows a
grasp of commercial operations, I shall so recommend."
"Thanks," said Channing dryly. "May I buy you a drink?"
"I never drink. And I do not believe in it. If it were mine to say, I'd
prohibit liquor from the premises. Venus Equilateral would be better
off without it."
Don Channing snapped the communicator. "Miss Westland, will you come
in?"
She entered, puzzlement on her face.
"This is Mr. Burbank. His position places him in control of this
office. You will, in the future, report to him directly. The report on
the operations, engineering projects, and so on that I was to send
in to the Commission this morning will, therefore, be placed in Mr.
Burbank's hands as soon as possible."
"Yes, Dr. Channing." Her eyes held a twinkle, but there was concern and
sympathy in them, too. "Shall I get them immediately?"
"They are ready?"
"I was about to put them on the tape when you called."
"Then give them to Mr. Burbank." Channing turned to Burbank. "Miss
Westland will hand you the reports I mentioned. They are complete and
precise. A perusal of them will put you in grasp of the situation here
at Venus Equilateral better than will an all-afternoon conference. I'll
have Miss Westland haul my junk out of here. You may consider this as
your office, it having been used by Walters. And, in the meantime, I've
got to check up on some experiments down on the ninth level." Channing
paused, "You'll excuse me?"
"Yes, if Miss Westland knows where to find you."
"She will. I'll inform her of my whereabouts."
"I may want to consult you after I read the reports."
"That will be all right. The autocall can find me anywhere on Venus
Equilateral, if I'm not at the place Miss Westland calls."
* * * * *
Don Channing stopped at Arden's desk. "I'm booted," he told her.
"Leaving Venus Equilateral?" she asked with concern.
"No, blond and beautiful, I'm just shunted back to my own office."
"Can't I go with you?" pleaded the girl.
"Nope. You are to stay here and be a nice, good-looking Mata Hari. This
bird seems to think that he can run Interplanetary Communications like
a bus or a factory. I know the type, and the first thing he'll do is
to run Interplanetary Communications into a snarl. Keep me informed of
anything complicated, will you?"
"Sure. And where are you going now?"
"I'm going down and get Walt Franks. We're going to inspect the
transparency of a new type of glass."
"I didn't know that optical investigations come under your
jurisdiction."
"This investigation will consist of a visit to the ninth level."
"Can't you take me along?"
"Not today," he grinned. "Your new boss does not believe in the
evils of looking through the bottom of a glass. We must behave with
decor. We must forget fun. We are now operating under a man who will
commercialize electronics to a fine art."
"Don't get stewed. He may want to know where the electrons are kept."
"I'm not going to drink that much. Walt and I need a discussion," he
said. "And in the meantime, haul my spinach out of the office, will
you, and take it back to the electronics office. I'll be needing it
back there."
"O.K., Don," she said. "I'll see you later."
Channing left to go to the ninth level. He stopped long enough to
collect Walt Franks.
Over a tall glass of beer, Channing told Franks of Burbank's visit. And
why.
Only one thing stuck in Franks' mind. "Did you say that he might close
Joe's?" asked Franks.
"He said that if it were in his power to do so, he would."
"Heaven forbid. Where will we go to be alone?"
"Alone?" snorted Channing. The barroom was half filled with people,
being the only drinking establishment for sixty-odd million miles.
"Well, you know what I mean."
"I could smuggle in a few cases of beer," suggested Don.
"Couldn't we smuggle him out?"
"That would be desirable. But I think he is here to stay. Darn it all,
why do they have to appoint some confounded political pal to a job like
this? I'm telling you, Walt, he must weigh two hundred if he weighs a
pound. He holds his stomach on his lap when he sits down."
Walt looked up and down Channing's slender figure. "Well, he won't be
holding Westland on his lap if it is filled with stomach."
"I never hold Westland on my lap--"
"No?"
"--during working hours!" finished Channing. He grinned at Franks and
ordered another beer. "And how is the Office of Beam Control going to
make out under the new regime?"
"I'll answer that after I see how the new regime treats the Office of
Beam Control," answered Franks. "I doubt that he can do much to bugger
things up in my office. There aren't many cheaper ways to direct a
beam, you know."
"Yeah. You're safe."
"But what I can't understand is why they didn't continue you in that
job. You've been handling the business ever since last December when
Walters got sick. You've been doing all right."
"Doing all right just means that I've been carrying over Walters'
methods and ideas. What the Commission wants, apparently, is something
new. Ergo the new broom."
"Personally, I like that one about the old shoes being more
comfortable," said Franks. "If you say the word, Don, I'll slip him a
dose of high voltage. That should fix him."
"I think that the better way would be to work for the bird. Then when
he goes, I'll have his recommendation."
"Phooey," snorted Franks. "They'll just appoint another political
pal. They've tried it before and they'll try it again. I wonder what
precinct he carries."
* * * * *
The telephone rang in the bar, and the bartender, after answering,
motioned to Walt Franks. "You're wanted in your office," said the
bartender. "And besides," he told Channing, "if I'm going to get lunch
for three thousand people, you'd better trot along, too. It's nearly
eleven o'clock, you know, and the first batch of five hundred will be
coming in."
He wasn't quite accurate as to the figures. The complement of Venus
Equilateral was just shy of twenty-seven hundred. They worked in three
eight-hour shifts, about nine hundred to a shift. They had their lunch
and dinner hours staggered so that at no time was there more than about
two hundred people in the big lunchroom. The bar, it may be mentioned,
was in a smaller room at one end of the much larger cafeteria.
Venus Equilateral Relay Station was a modern miracle of engineering
if you liked to believe the books. Actually, Venus Equilateral was an
asteroid that had been shoved into its orbit about the Sun, forming a
practical demonstration of the equilateral triangle solution of the
Three Moving Bodies. It was a long cylinder, about three miles in
length by about a mile in diameter.
There was little of the original asteroid. At the present time, most of
the original rock had been discarded to make room for the ever-growing
personnel and material that were needed to operate the relay station.
What had been an asteroid with machinery was now a huge pile of
machinery with people. The insides, formerly of spongy rock, were now
neatly cubed off into offices, rooms, hallways, and so on, divided by
sheets of steel. The outer surface, once rugged and forbidding, was
now almost all shiny steel. The small asteroid, a tiny thing, was far
smaller than the present relay station, the station having overflowed
the asteroid soon after men found that uninterrupted communication was
possible between the worlds.
Now, the man-made asteroid carried twenty-seven hundred people. There
were stores, offices, places of recreation, churches, marriages,
deaths, and everything but taxes. Judging by its population, it was a
small town.
Venus Equilateral rotated about its axis. On the inner surface of
the shell were the homes of the people--not cottages, but apartmental
cubicles, one, two, three, six rooms. The rotation made a little more
than one Earth G of artificial gravity. Above this outer shell of
apartments, the offices began. Offices, recreation centers, and so on.
Up in the central portion where the gravity was nil or near-nil, the
automatic machinery was placed. The gyroscopes and the beam finders,
the storerooms, the air plants, the hydroponic farms, and all other
things that needed little or no gravity for well-being.
This was the Venus Equilateral Relay Station, sixty degrees ahead of
the planet Venus, on Venus' orbit. Often closer to Terra than Venus,
the relay station offered a perfect place to relay messages through
whenever Mars or Terra were on the other side of the Sun. It was seldom
idle, for it was seldom that both Mars and Terra were in such position
that direct communication between the three planets was possible.
This was the center of Interplanetary Communications. This was the
main office. It was the heart of the system's communication line, and
as such, it was well manned. Orders for everything emanated from Venus
Equilateral. It was a delicate proposition, Venus Equilateral was, and
hence the present-on-all-occasions official capacities and office staff.
This was the organization that Don Channing hoped to direct. A closed
corporation with one purpose in mind, interplanetary communication!
Channing wondered if the summons for Walt Franks was an official one.
Returning to the electronics office, Don punched the communicator and
asked: "Is Walt in there?"
Arden's voice came back: "No, but Burbank is in Franks' office. Wanna
listen?"
"Eavesdropper! Using the communicator?"
"Sure."
"Better shut it off," warned Don. "Burbank isn't foolish, you know,
and there are pilot lights and warning flags on those things to tell
if someone has the key open. I wouldn't want to see you fired for
listening-in."
"All right, but it was getting interesting."
"If I'm betting on the right horse," said Channing, "this will be
interesting for all before it is finished!"
* * * * *
Seven days went by in monotonous procession. Seven days in a world of
constant climate. One week marked only by the changing of work shifts
and the clocks that marked off the eight-hour periods. Seven days
unmarred by rain or cold or heat. Seven days of uninterrupted sunshine
that flickered in and out of the sealed viewports with eye-searing
brilliance, coming and going as the station rotated.
But in the front offices, things were not as serene. No monotony
to become irksome. Not that monotony ever set in seriously
in the engineering department, but that sacred sanctum of
all-things-that-didn't-behave-as-they-should found that even their
usual turmoil was worse. There was nothing that a person could set
his finger on directly. It was more of a quiet, undercover nature. On
Monday Burbank sent around a communique removing the option of free
messages for the personnel. On Tuesday he remanded the years-long
custom of permitting the supply ships to carry, free, packages from
friends at home. On Wednesday, Francis Burbank decided that there
should be a curfew on the one and only beer emporium. That was made
after he found that curtailing all sorts of alcoholics might easily
lead to a more moral problem; there being little enough to do with
one's spare time. On Thursday, he set up a stiff-necked staff of
censors for the moving picture house. On Friday, he put a tax on
cigarettes and candy. On Saturday, he installed time clocks in all the
laboratories and professional offices, where previous to his coming,
men had come for work a half hour late and worked an hour overtime at
night.
On Sunday, he ran into trouble!
Don Channing stormed into the Director's office with a scowl on his
face.
"Look," he said, "for years and years we have felt that any man, woman,
or child that was willing to come out here was worth all the freedom
and consideration that we could give them. What about this damned tax
on cigarettes? And candy? And who told you to stop our folks from
telling their folks that they are still in good health? And why stop
them from sending packages of candy, cake, mementoes, clothing, soap,
mosquito dope, liquor, or anything else? Why shut off our beer half the
day? Did you ever think that a curfew is something that can be applied
only when time is one and the same for all? On Venus Equilateral,
Mr. Burbank, six o'clock in the evening is two hours after dinner
for one group, two hours after going to work for the second group,
and mid-sleep for the third. Then this matter of cutting all love
scenes, drinking, female vampires, banditry, bedroom items, murders,
and sweater girls out of the movies? We are a selected group and well
prepared to take care of our morality. Any man or woman going offside
would be heaved out quick. Why, after years of personal freedom, do we
find ourselves under the authority of a veritable dictatorship?"
Francis Burbank was not touched. "I'll trouble you to keep to your own
laboratory," he told Channing. "Perhaps your own laxity in matters of
this sort is the reason why the Commission preferred someone better
prepared. You speak of many things. There will be more to come. I'll
answer some of your questions. Why should we permit our profits to be
eaten up by people sending messages, cost-free, to their acquaintances
all over the minor planets? Why should valuable space for valuable
supplies be taken up with personal favors between friends? And if the
personnel wants to smoke and drink, let them pay for the privilege! It
will help to pay for the high price of shipping the useless items out
from the nearest planet--as well as saving of precious storage space!"
"But you're breeding ill will among the employees," objected Channing.
"Any that prefer to do so may leave!" snapped Burbank.
"You may find it difficult to hire people to spend their lives in a
place that offers no sight of a sky or a breath of fresh air. The
people here may go home to their own planets to find that the smell of
fresh, spring air is more desirable than a climate that never varies
from the personal optimum. I wonder, occasionally, if it might not be
possible to instigate some sort of cold snap or a rainy season just for
the purpose of bringing to the members of Venus Equilateral some of
the surprises that are to be found in Chicago or New York. Hell, even
Canalopolis has an occasional rainstorm!"
"Return to your laboratory," said Burbank coldly. "And let me run the
station. Why should we spend useless money to pamper people? I don't
care if Canalopolis does have an occasional storm, we are not on Mars,
we are in Venus Equilateral. You tend to your end of the business and
I'll do as I deem fitting for the station!"
* * * * *
Channing mentally threw up his hands and literally stalked out of the
office. Here was a close-knit organization being shot full of holes
by a screwball. He stamped down to the ninth level and beat upon the
closed door of Joe's. The door remained closed.
Channing beat with his knuckles until they bled. Finally a door popped
open down the hallway fifty yards and a man looked out. His head popped
in again, and within thirty seconds the door to Joe's opened and
admitted Channing.
Joe slapped the door shut behind Channing quickly.
"Whatinhell are you operating, Joe--a speakeasy?"
"The next time you want in," Joe informed him, "knock on 902 twice, 914
once, and then here four times. We'll let you in. And now, don't say
anything too loud." Joe put a finger to his lips and winked broadly.
"Even the walls listen," he said in a stage whisper.
He led Channing into the room and put on the light. There was a flurry
of people who tried to hide their glasses under the table. "Never
mind," called Joe. "It's only Dr. Channing."
The room relaxed.
"I want something stiff," Channing told Joe. "I've just gone three
rounds with His Nibs and came out cold."
Some people within earshot asked about it. Channing explained what had
transpired. The people seemed satisfied that Channing had done his best
for them. The room relaxed into routine.
The signal knock came on the door and was opened to admit Walt Franks
and Arden Westland. Franks looked as though he had been given a stiff
workout in a cement mixer.
"Scotch," said Arden. "And a glass of brew for the lady."
"What happened to him?"
"He's been trying to keep to Burbank's latest suggestions."
"You've been working too hard," Channing chided him gently. "This is
the wrong time to mention it, I suppose, but did that beam slippage
have anything to do with your condition--or was it vice versa?"
"You know that I haven't anything to do with the beam controls
personally," said Franks. He straightened up and faced Channing
defiantly.
"Don't get mad. What was it?"
"Mastermind, up there, called me in to see if there were some manner
or means of tightening the beam. I told him, sure, we could hold the
beam to practically nothing. He asked me why we didn't hold the beam
to a parallel and save the dispersed power. He claimed that we could
reduce power by two to one if more of it came into the station instead
of being smeared all over the firmament. I, foolishly, agreed with him.
He's right. You could. But only if everything is immobilized. I've been
trying to work out some means of controlling the beam magnetically so
that it would compensate for the normal variations due to magnetic
influences. So far I've failed."
"It can't be done. I know, because I worked on the problem for three
years with some of the best brains in the system. To date, it is
impossible."
* * * * *
A click attracted their attention. It was the pneumatic tube. A
cylinder dropped out of the tube, and Joe opened it and handed the
inclosed paper to Franks.
He read:
Walt: I'm sending this to you at Joe's because I know that is where
you are and I think that you should get this real quick.
Helen S.
Walt smiled wearily and said: "A good secretary is a thing of beauty. A
thing of beauty is admired and is a joy forever. Helen is both. She is
a jewel."
"Yeah, we know. What does the letter say?"
"It is another communique from our doting boss. He is removing from my
control the odd three hundred men I've got working on Beam Control. He
is to assume the responsibility for them himself. I'm practically out
of a job!"
"Make that two Scotches," Channing told Joe.
"Make it three," chimed in Arden. "I've got to work for him, too!"
"Is that so bad?" asked Channing. "All you've got to do is to listen
carefully and do as you're told. We have to answer to the bird, too."
"Yeah," said Arden, "but you fellows don't have to listen to a dopey
guy ask foolish questions all day. It's driving me silly."
"What I'd like to know," murmured Franks, "is what is the idea of
pulling me off the job? Nuts, I've been on Beam Control for years. I've
got the finest crew of men anywhere. They can actually foresee a shift
and compensate for it, I think. I picked 'em myself and I've been proud
of my outfit. Now," he said brokenly, "I've got no outfit. In fact, I
have darned little crew left at all. Only my dozen lab members. I'll
have to go back to swinging a meter myself before this is over."
It was quite a comedown. From the master of over three hundred highly
paid, highly prized, intelligent technicians, Walt Franks was now the
superintendent of one dozen laboratory technicians. It was a definite
cut in his status with Communications.
Channing finished his drink and, seeing that Franks' attention was
elsewhere, he told Arden: "Thanks for taking care of him, but don't use
all your sympathy on him. I feel that I'm going to need your shoulder
to cry on before long."
"Any time you want a soft shoulder," said Arden generously, "let me
know. I'll come a-running."
Channing went out. He roamed nervously all the rest of the day. He
visited the bar several times, but the general air of the place
depressed him. From a place of recreation, laughter, and pleasantry,
Joe's place had changed to a room for reminiscences and remorse, a
place to drown one's troubles--or poison them--or to preserve them in
alcohol.
He went to see the local moving picture, a piece advertised as being
one of the best mystery thrillers since DeMille. He found that all
of the interesting parts were cut out and that the only thing that
remained was a rather disjointed portrayal of a portly detective
finding meaningless clues and ultimately the criminal. There was a
suggestion at the end, that the detective and the criminal had fought
it out, but whether it was with pistols, field pieces, knives, cream
puffs, or words was left up to the imagination. It was also to be
assumed that he and the heroine, who went into a partial blackout every
time she sat down, finally got acquainted enough to hold hands after
the picture.
Channing stormed out of the theater after seeing the above and finding
that the only cartoon had been barred because it showed an innocuous
cow without benefit of shorts.
* * * * *
He troubled Joe for a bottle of the best and took to his apartment
in disappointment. By eight o'clock in the evening, Don Channing was
asleep with all of his clothing on. The bed rolled and refused to stay
on an even keel, but Channing found a necktie and tied himself securely
in the bed and died off in a beautiful, boiled cloud.
He awoke to the tune of a beautiful hangover. He gulped seven glasses
of water and staggered to the shower. Fifteen minutes of iced needles,
and some coffee brought him part way back to his own, cheerful self. He
headed down the hall toward the elevator.
He found a note in his office directing him to appear at a conference
in Burbank's office. Groaning in anguish, Don went to the Director's
office expecting the worst.
It was bad. In fact, it was enough to drive everyone in the conference
to drink. Burbank asked opinions on everything, and then tore the
opinions apart with little regard to their validity. He expressed his
own opinion many times, which was a disgusted sense of the personnel's
inability to do anything of real value.
"Certainly," he stormed, "I know you are operating. But have there
been any new developments coming out of your laboratory, Mr. Channing?"
Someone was about to tell Burbank that Channing had a doctor's degree,
but Don shook his head.
"We've been working on a lot of small items," said Channing. "I cannot
say whether there has been any one big thing that we could point to. As
we make developments, we put them into service. Added together, they
make quite an honest effort."
"What, for instance?" stormed Burbank.
"The last one was the coupler machine improvement that permitted better
than a thousand words per minute."
"Up to that time the best wordage was something like eight hundred
words," said Burbank. "I think that you have been resting too long
on your laurels. Unless you can bring me something big enough to
advertise, I shall have to take measures.
"Now you, Mr. Warren," continued Burbank. "You are the man who is
supposed to be superintendent of maintenance. May I ask why the outer
hull is not painted?"
"Because it would be a waste of paint," said Warren. "Figure out the
acreage of a surface of a cylinder three miles long and a mile in
diameter. It is almost eleven square miles! Eleven square miles to
paint from scaffolding hung from the outside itself."
"Use bos'ns' chairs," snapped Burbank.
"A bos'n's chair would be worthless," Warren informed Burbank. "You
must remember that to anyone trying to operate on the outer hull, the
outer hull is a ceiling and directly overhead.
"Another thing," said Warren, "you paint that hull and you'll run this
station by yourself. Why d'ye think we have it shiny?"
"If we paint the hull," persisted Burbank, "it will be more presentable
than that nondescript steel color."
"That steel color is as shiny as we could make it," growled Warren. "We
want to get rid of as much radiated heat as we can. You slap a coat of
any kind of paint on that hull and you'll have plenty of heat in here."
"Ah, that sounds interesting. We'll save heating costs--"
"You idiot," snapped Warren. "You fool. Sure we'll have heat in here.
We'll save some heating costs. But do you realize that we'd have no
opportunity to control it? We're on a safe margin now. We radiate
just a little more than we receive. We make up the rest by artificial
heating. But there have been occasions when it became necessary to
dissipate a lot of energy in here for one reason or another, and then
we've had to shut off the fires. What would happen if we couldn't cool
the damned coffee can? We'd roast the first time that we got a new
employee with a body temperature a half degree above normal!"
"You're being openly rebellious," Burbank warned him.
"So I am. And if you persist in your attempt to make this place
presentable, you'll find me and my gang outright mutinous! Good day,
sir!"
He stormed out of the office and slammed the door.
"Take a note, Miss Westland. Interplanetary Communications Commission,
Terra. Gentlemen: Michael Warren, superintendent of maintenance at
Venus Equilateral, has proven to be unreceptive to certain suggestions
as to the appearance and/or operation of Venus Equilateral. It is my
request that he be replaced immediately. Signed, Francis Burbank,
Director." He paused to see what effect that message had upon the faces
of the men around the table. "Send that by special delivery!"
Johnny Billings opened his mouth to say something, but shut it with
a snap. Westland looked up at Burbank, but she said nothing. Arden
gave Channing a sly smile, and Channing smiled back. There were grins
about the table, too, for everyone recognized the boner. Burbank had
just sent a letter from the interworld communications relay station by
special delivery _mail_. It would not get to Terra for better than two
weeks; a use of the station's facilities would have the message in the
hands of the Commission within the hour.
"That will be all, gentlemen." Burbank smiled smugly. "Our next
conference will be next Monday morning!"
* * * * *
"Mr. Channing," chortled the pleasant voice of Arden Westland. "Now
that the trifling influence of the boss versus secretary taboo is off,
will you have the pleasure of buying me a drink?"
"Can you repeat that word for word and explain it?" grinned Don.
"A man isn't supposed to make eyes at his secretary. A gal ain't
supposed to seduce her boss. Now that you are no longer Acting
Director, and I no longer your stenog, how about some sociability?"
"I never thought that I'd be propositioned by a typewriter jockey,"
said Channing, "but I'll do it. What time is it? Do we do it openly, or
must we sneak over to the apartment and snaffle a snort on the sly?"
"We snaffle. That is, if you trust me in your apartment."
"I'm scared to death," Channing informed her. "But if I should fail to
defend my honor, we must remember that it is no true failure if I try
and fail!"
"That sounds like a nice alibi," said Arden with a smile. "Or a
come-on. I don't know which. Or, Mr. Channing, am I being told that my
advances might not be welcome?"
"We shall see," Channing said. "We'll have to make a careful study
of the matter. I cannot make any statements without first making a
thorough investigation under all sorts of conditions. Here we are. You
will precede me through the door, please."
"Why?" asked Arden.
"So that you cannot back out at the last possible moment. Once I get
you inside, I'll think about keeping you there!"
"As long as you have some illegal fluid, I'll stay." She tried to leer
at Don but failed because she had had all too little experience in
leering. "Bring it on!"
"Here's to the good old days," toasted Don as the drinks were raised.
"Nope. Here's to the future," proposed Arden. "Those good old days--all
they were was old. If you were back in them, you'd still have to have
the pleasure of meeting Burbank."
"_Grrrr_," growled Channing. "That name is never mentioned in this
household."
"You haven't a pix of the old bird turned to the wall, have you?"
asked Arden.
"I tossed it out."
"We'll drink to that." They drained glasses. "And we'll have another!"
"I need another," said Channing. "Can you imagine that buzzard asking
me to invent something big in seven days?"
"Sure. By the same reasoning that he uses to send a letter from
Equilateral Station instead of just slipping it in on the Terra beam.
Faulty."
"Phony."
The door opened abruptly and Walt Franks entered. "D'ja hear the
latest?" he asked breathlessly.
"No," said Channing. He was reaching for another glass automatically.
He poured, and Walt watched the amber fluid creep up the glass, led by
a sheet of white foam.
"Then look!" Walt handed Channing an official envelope. It was a
regular notice to the effect that there had been eleven failures of
service through Venus Equilateral.
"Eleven! What makes?"
"Mastermind."
"What's he done?"
"Remember the removal of my jurisdiction over the beam control
operators? Well, in the last ten days, Burbank has installed some new
features to cut expenses. I think that he hopes to lay off a couple of
hundred men."
"What's he doing, do you know?"
"He's shortening the dispersion. He intends to cut the power by
slamming more of the widespread beam into the receptor. The tighter
beam makes aiming more difficult, you know, because at seventy million
miles, every time little Joey on Mars swings his toy horseshoe magnet
on the end of his string, the beam wabbles. And at seventy million
miles, how much wabbling does it take to send a narrow beam clear off
the target?"
"The normal dispersion of the beam from Venus is over a thousand miles
wide. It gyrates and wabbles through most of that arc. That is why we
picked that particular dispersion. If we could have pointed the thing
like an arrow, we'd have kept the dispersion down."
"Right. And he's tightened the beam to less than a hundred miles
dispersion. Now, every time that a sunspot gets hit amidships with
a lady sunspot, the beam goes off on a tangent. We've lost the beam
eleven times in a week. That's more times than I've lost it in three
years!"
"O.K.," said Channing. "So what? Mastermind is responsible. We'll sit
tight and wait for developments. In any display of abilities, we can
spike Mr. Burbank. Have another drink?"
"Got any more? If you're out, I've got a couple of cases cached
underneath the bed in my apartment."
"I've plenty," said Channing. "And I'll need plenty. I have exactly
twenty-two hours left in which to produce something comparable to the
telephone, the electric light, the airplane, or the expanding Universe!
Phooey. Pour me another, Arden."
* * * * *
A knock at the door; a feminine voice interrupted simultaneously. "May
I come in?"
It was Walt's secretary. She looked worried. In one hand she waved
another letter.
"Another communique?" asked Channing.
"Worse. Notice that for the last three hours, there have been less than
twelve percent of messages relayed!"
"Five minutes' operation out of an hour," said Channing. "Where's that
from?"
"Came out on the Terra beam. It's marked number seventeen, so I guess
that sixteen other tries have been made."
"What has Mastermind tried this time?" stormed Channing. He tore out of
the room and headed for the Director's office on a dead run. On the
way, he hit his shoulder on the door, caromed off the opposite wall,
righted himself, and was gone in a flurry of flying feet. Three heads
popped out of doors to see who was making the noise.
Channing skidded into Burbank's office on his heels. "What gives?" he
snapped. "D'ye realize that we've lost the beam? What have you been
doing?"
"It is a minor difficulty," said Burbank calmly. "We will iron it out
presently."
"Presently! Our charter doesn't permit interruptions of service of this
magnitude. I ask again: What are you doing?"
"You, as electronics engineer, have no right to question me. I repeat,
we shall iron out the difficulty presently."
Channing snorted and tore out of Burbank's office. He headed for the
Office of Beam Control, turned the corner on one foot, and slammed the
door in roughly.
"Chuck!" he yelled. "Chuck Thomas! Where are you?"
No answer. Channing left the beam office and headed for the master
control panels, out near the air lock end of Venus Equilateral. He
found Thomas stewing over a complicated piece of apparatus.
"Chuck, for the love of Michael, what in the devil is going on?"
"Thought you knew," answered Thomas. "Burbank had the crew install
photoelectric mosaic banks. Instead of having a crew of beam-control
operators, he intends to use the photomosaics to keep Venus, Terra, and
Mars on the beam."
"Great sniveling Scott. They tried that in the last century and tossed
it out three days later. Where's the crew now?"
"Packing for home. They've been laid off!"
"Get 'em back! Put 'em to work. Turn off those darned photomosaics and
use the manual again. We've lost every beam we ever had."
* * * * *
A sarcastic voice came in at this point. "For what reason do you
interfere with my improvements?" sneered the voice. "Could it be that
you are accepting graft from the employees to keep them on the job by
preventing the installation of superior equipment?"
Channing turned on his toe and let Burbank have one. It was a neat job,
coming up at the right time and connecting sweetly. Burbank went over
on his head.
"Get going," Channing snapped at Thomas.
Charles Thomas was not a small man himself, but after considering
Channing's one ninety, he decided to comply. He left.
Channing shook Burbank's shoulder. He slapped the man's face. Eyes
opened; accusing eyes, rendered mute by a very sore jaw, tongue, and
throat.
"Now listen," snapped Channing. "Listen to every word! Mosaic directors
are useless. Have you any reason why? It is because of the lag. At
planetary distances, light takes an appreciable time to reach your
planet. The beam wabbles, swerves out of line because of intervening
factors; varying magnetic fields, even the bending of light due to
gravitational fields will make the beam swerve microscopically. But,
Burbank, a microscopic discrepancy is all that is needed to bust things
wide open. You've got to have experienced men to operate the beam
controls. Men who can think. Men who can, from experience, reason that
this fluctuation will not last, but will swing back in a few seconds,
or that this type of swerving will increase in magnitude for a
half-hour, maintain the status, and then return, pass through zero and
find the same level on the minus side.
"Since light and centimeter waves are not exactly alike in performance,
a field that will swerve one may not affect the other. Ergo your
photomosaic is useless. The photoelectric mosaic is a brilliant gadget
for keeping a plane in a spotlight or for aiming a sixteen-inch gun,
but it is worthless for anything over a couple of million miles.
"So I've called the men back to their stations. And don't try anything
foolish again without consulting the men who are paid to think!"
Channing got up and left. As he strode down the stairs to the apartment
level, he met many of the men who had been laid off. None of them said
a word, but all of them wore bright, knowing smiles.
* * * * *
Monday morning! Burbank was himself again. The rebuff given him by
Don Channing had worn off and he was sparkling with ideas. He speared
Franks with the glitter in his eye and said: "If our beams are always
on the center, why is it necessary to use multiplex-diversity?"
Franks smiled. "You're mistaken," he told Burbank. "They're not always
on the button. They vary. Therefore we use diversity transmission so
that if one beam fails momentarily, one of the other beams will bring
the signal in. It is analogous to tying five or six ropes onto a
hoisted stone. If one breaks, you have the others."
"You have them running all the time, then?"
"Certainly. At several minutes of time-lag in transmission, to try
and establish a beam failure of a few seconds' duration is utter
foolishness."
"And you disperse the beam to a thousand miles wide to keep the beam
centered at any variation?" Burbank shot at Channing.
"Not for any variation. Make that any _normal_ gyration and I'll buy
it."
"Then why don't we disperse the beam to two or three thousand miles and
do away with diversity transmission?" asked Burbank triumphantly.
"Ever heard of fading?" asked Channing with a grin. "Your signal comes
and goes. Not gyration, it just gets weaker. It fails for want of
something to eat, I guess, and takes off after a wandering cosmic ray.
At any rate, there are many times per minute that one beam will be
right on the nose and yet so weak that our strippers cannot clean it
enough to make it usable. Then the diversity system comes in handy. Our
coupling detectors automatically select the proper signal channel. It
takes the one that is the strongest and subdues the rest within itself."
"Complicated?"
"It was done in the heyday of radio--1935 or so. Your two channels
come in to a common detector. Automatic volume control voltage
comes from the single detector and is applied to all channels. This
voltage is proper for the strongest channel, but is too high for the
ones receiving the weaker signal, blocking them by rendering them
insensitive. When the strong channel fades and the weak channel rises,
the detector follows down until the two signal channels are equal and
then it rises with the stronger channel."
"I see," said Burbank. "Has anything been done about fading?"
"It is like the weather, according to Mark Twain," smiled Channing.
"'Everybody talks about it, but nobody does anything about it.' About
all we've learned is that we can cuss it out and it doesn't cuss back."
"I think it should be tried," said Burbank.
"If you'll pardon me, it has been tried. The first installation at
Venus Equilateral was made that way. It didn't work, though we used
more power than all of our diversity transmitter together. Sorry."
"Have you anything to report?" Burbank asked Channing.
"Nothing. I've been more than busy investigating the trouble we've had
in keeping the beams centered."
Burbank said nothing. He was stopped. He hoped that the secret of his
failure was not generally known, but he knew at the same time that when
three hundred men are aware of something interesting, some of them will
see to it that all others involved will surely know. He looked at the
faces of the men around the table and saw suppressed mirth in every one
of them. Burbank writhed in inward anger. He was a good poker player.
He didn't show it at all.
He then went on to other problems. He ironed some out, others he
shelved for the time being. Burbank was a good businessman, give him
credit. But like so many other businessmen, Burbank had the firm
conviction that if he had the time to spare and at the same time was
free of the worries and paper work of his position, he could step into
the laboratory and show the engineers how to make things hum. He was
infuriated every time he saw one of the engineering staff sitting with
hands behind head, lost in a gazy, unreal land of deep thought. Though
he knew better, he was often tempted to raise hell because the man was
obviously loafing.
But give him credit. He could handle business angles to perfection.
In spite of his tangle over the beam control, he had rebounded
excellently and had ironed out all of the complaints that had poured
in. Ironed it out to the satisfaction of the injured party as well as
the Interplanetary Communications Commission, who were interested in
anything that cost money.
He dismissed the conference and went to thinking. And he assumed the
same pose that infuriated him in other men under him; hands behind
head, feet upon desk.
* * * * *
The moving picture theater was dark. The hero reached longing arms
to the heroine, and there was a sort of magnetic attraction. They
approached one another. But the spark misfired. It was blacked out with
a nice slice of utter blackness that came from the screen and spread
its lightlessness all over the theater. In the ensuing darkness, there
were several osculations that were more personal and more satisfying
than the censored clinch. The lights flashed on and several male heads
moved back hastily. Female lips smiled happily. Some of them parted in
speech.