Hanson paid no attention to the blueprint. "I thought you'd like to
know," he said softly, "that I've been unable to locate Maculay."
"Damn!" objected Redmond. Only one who understood what was in Redmond's
ambitious mind would know that the disappointment was very false.
"So I came to tell you and also to be curious."
"Curiosity killed a cat," said Redmond.
The doctor laughed. "It's created more kittens than the cats it's
killed. Is this still super-top secret or can you let an old man in on
it?"
Redmond glowed inwardly at the chance to show off before the doctor.
"According to the latest calculations," he said, "the generation of
negative space by the force-fields of diagravitic force takes the form
of a sphere. Obviously the proper shape for a spacecraft employing one
of these generators would be spherical. But we are using a converted
spacecraft of the torpedo shape, and I feel that--well, to generate a
sphere large enough to enclose the spacecraft in one gulp would produce
far too much power. So we are using two of them placed so that their
spherical fields produce a pattern something like two equal-sized soap
bubbles stuck together. The ship lies longwise through the centers of
the circles, since the generators are in the ship, of course."
Hanson nodded. His head bobbed gently, in a measured motion. He was
sitting with his back to the room, the window in front of him. He knew
that the reflection of the window was in his glasses and that Redmond
was watching this spot of light instead of watching the doctor's eyes.
Redmond continued to watch as he spoke.
"Within a week we shall have it finished," said Redmond. "Then the
stars shall be ours!"
Hanson continued to nod.
"Of course we have not tested the generators as yet. There is no known
way of dissipating the energy they develop. Since the realized energy
in this real space is sufficient to propel matter faster than the
velocity of light, the outpouring of energy must be paradoxically many
times the value of infinity."
Hanson continued to nod.
"This statement, of course, makes no sense," said Redmond, "because
of one of the definitions of infinity--which is that number which is
larger than the number of all numbers. Here we treat infinity as a
definite instead of an abstract, and by our equations we are permitted
to multiply infinity by integer numbers and come up with a real
answer--in a sort of abstract sense," said Redmond with a slight laugh.
It was 'Our Equations' now instead of 'Maculay's Equations'.
* * * * *
Hanson continued to nod and Redmond kept watching the spot on the
Doctor's glasses.
"However," said Redmond, "the fact is that the power output does not
exceed infinity at any time in this space. Not really, and therefore
the paradox is answered. It is merely apparent, if you follow me.
Actually, the spacecraft is not in real space and therefore it need not
have an infinite amount of energy to reach the speed of light. However,
there is no way of anchoring the generator on the planet while testing,
nor of dissipating the energy. So the only way to test the set-up is
to build a spacecraft and take off. If it does not work, we have the
standard drivers to get us back."
Hanson kept on nodding. His neck was getting a bit stiff, but he could
not stop.
"I've heard the argument that the generators may set up a
self-propagating field," said Redmond. "This is so much bosh. The
theory that the streak of energy that went through the solar system
some weeks ago was the wake of a supervelocity spacecraft seems to be
universal among the people who have studied the Equations. Ergo it
stands to reason that no destruction of the universe will obtain. We
are safe."
Hanson continued to nod.
Redmond smiled quietly.
The doctor said, "You've been working quite hard on this; you must be
tired."
Redmond laughed sarcastically. "You've been working harder, Doc. If
you've been expecting me to fall under your hypnotic spell with that
head-bobbing business, you're getting a stiff neck and no results.
You're an old fool with an unfounded horror of anything new. You should
view this sensibly; if another race can employ the spacedrive without
ruining the universe, so can we. Now why not let busy men alone to
work, while you go back to your mental cripples? Good day!"
Hanson fumed but it did no good. He was licked by animosity, disdain,
and complete lack of sympathy. There was nothing to do but leave. And
the doctor left, half-convinced that Redmond was right in assuming that
if one galactic race could use the negative-space drive, another could
do the same without fear. But he was only half-convinced; he wanted an
opinion from Maculay. There was more here than met the eye.
Some other race knew the secret and were using it. The human race knew
the secret and were about to try it. But the man who knew the real
answers had gone into a tizzy because of some errata, or factor that
was absolutely incompatible with life, liberty, and/or pursuit of
happiness.
Hanson grunted. All too often in the case of violent disagreement, all
parties were absolutely correct in their own mind, their own honest
belief. Maybe this was similar.
One theoretical man feared the results from an abstract analysis of
the computations. One mechanically-minded man could not appreciate the
possible dangers, but was happy to follow the plans since completion
meant fame and fortune for him. Both might be right. But....
* * * * *
Hanson shrugged unhappily; it was a bad spot to be in. Yet in the
course of his seventy years many problems had seemed insoluble until
some factor entered that changed the whole picture. And life itself
must have seen many crises, in which the motion of a hand in the wrong
direction would have caused the utter downfall of Humanity--_or_, he
thought bitterly, _perhaps we are the result of an ill-moved hand of
fate and might truly be great in mind as in work if some prehistoric
egomaniac hadn't kicked some unknown prop out from beneath us_.
Perhaps, too, his mind told him, it could have been some half-baked
do-gooder trying to help. As he, Jay Hanson, had attempted to help
Maculay. The fault was as much his as it was Redmond's. More--Redmond
could not help being what he was. Yet, neither could Hanson stand by
and see a man go to pieces.
In any case it was not a proposition of fixing the blame; to hell with
the blame and the responsibility. Fix it. Fix it. Fix it and forget the
fumbling finger that fouled it.
Hanson swore. He was helpless.
Yet for all of his efforts, he believed that something would happen to
avert this disaster. It hardly seemed possible that one man's act could
destroy the universe. Man's total effort was so puny. Inconsequential.
The ignorant savage could not destroy civilization.
But in the back of his mind, Hanson knew that a couple of lumps of
plutonium in the hands of an ignorant savage could destroy life beyond
the scope of the savage's experience; and mankind's scope was reaching
to the stars.
Still fretting, and still hoping for the answer, he headed home.
5
He was sitting in his office when the telephone rang on the following
morning. Hanson answered it slowly, prepared to stall any patient off
until he could regain some of his composure and his self-confidence.
"Hanson? Doc, this is Larimore."
"Larimore? Hi. What's up?"
"Doc, this job ain't good."
"What job?"
"_The Black Slash._"
"The what?"
Larimore chuckled. "If that yarn had turned up in the slush-pile, it
would have been bounced with a rejection slip. It's not good, Doc.
You've got no reason to write that bad, even though you've not written
me anything for a couple of years; you don't forget how. But this job
sounds like the half-baked efforts of a man convinced that he could
write but who lacks the basic fundamentals of story construction. Now--"
"What in the devil are you talking about?" demanded Hanson.
"Didn't you send me a yarn called _The Black Slash_?"
"I--" Hanson paused. Cautiously, he said: "By Edward Lomax?"
"Naturally. That's your pen name. It--"
"Wasn't the job timely?"
"Doc, you ought to know by now that every time something new and
frightening comes up, my desk is bombarded with a million stories about
it. The best get taken up. That streak of energy a couple of weeks ago
has brought fourteen stories so far, and some of them were damned good.
But yours--Say, Doc, how come you went to Venus? I thought that you
weren't allowed space-flight?"
Hanson paused and shook his head. Edward Lomax was his pen name. It was
the pen name supplied to Maculay in the explanation as to why Cliff
was in disfavor in the eyes of his fictitious uncle. And it was sort
of natural, too, that Maculay would try to write about this thing.
But Maculay, either as the renowned Clifford Maculay, or young Cliff
Maculay the black sheep, had never written a single line of fiction.
Maculay's pedantic papers were full of equations, qualifications,
cumbersome sentences, and inverted phrases--complete with the
everlasting 'However' enclosed between commas.
Hanson laughed shortly.
People do not expect a man to step up to his first piano, sit himself
down, and run through a faultless repertoire from Bach to Bebop. But
these same people nod their heads at a new author's writing and think
it is the first time he ever sat down to a typewriter--and then swear
that they will do likewise as soon as they get a couple of free hours.
Maculay was no exception, plus the fact that Hanson had given his mind
the false experience of writing to cover up many irregularities in
Maculay's past. Maculay believed he could write and had been writing;
actually he knew nothing of the techniques involved. It takes more than
a burning desire to see your words in print; it takes at the very least
some judgment as to which of your words you select for print plus the
ability to produce them in logical sequence. Maculay had tried.
But above all, Maculay had offered a lead--provided unwittingly by
Hanson himself. The doctor glowed inwardly, happily. He would now--
"You still there, Doc?"
"You bet. Where did that story come from, Larry?"
Larimore paused a moment. "A small town in the midlands of Venus a
couple of hundred miles from Melaxis." Then he exploded. "Hey. Weren't
you there? Why didn't you bring it back with you? What the hell goes
on--?"
Hanson said, "Larimore, this is a long story and probably a better one
than Maculay wrote. But it's important."
"I'm listening. Take off."
The doctor outlined the entire business over the telephone.
"My God," said Larimore. "Now what?"
"Now? It's easy. Send Maculay a special radiogram, addressed to Lomax,
stating that Modern Pictures wants the script for a full-length moving
picture at some fabulous price providing they can hire the author to
rewrite the thing into novel length. You have an option check for five
thousand dollars which will expire within ten days if the author is not
present in person at your office before that time."
"I get it. 'Twill be done."
Hanson sat back, relieved; this was the answer he was hoping for. It
had come and now all he had to do was to husband his strength until
Maculay could get home. Because when Maculay arrived, there would be a
big job to do.
* * * * *
He spent his time working slowly, resting often. He went to Larimore's
office and fitted it with his equipment, on the off-chance that
Maculay might be hard to handle. Hanson did not think Maculay would be
difficult to re-convert since the true personality was submerged by the
false character by mere hypnotic suggestion. It should be remarkably
easy. But the doctor wanted to take no chances.
He read Maculay's sorry attempt at fiction. It was not good fiction
but it interested Hanson because there was so much fact concealed
in its descriptive passages. Maculay, unable to think too deeply
about the negative space concept, or real and unreal space, and
variable-matrix wave mechanics, had treated the whole scientific
formulation with a touch of the ridiculous. Just as Cliff, upon hearing
of the streak of energy, had laughingly included it in a 'story'
because he was hypnotically unfitted to treat his opinion as anything
but fiction-fantasy, he was again concealing the truth behind a thin
disguise. It was all there.
All there, Hanson saw with a sour finality, but the solution. Maculay
had pulled the old gag of having the fabulous machine totally
destroyed, complete with its secret. A poor gag, and unfitted for
modern writing, especially unfitted for application to fact. For, in
fact, this was not a story; it was the truth, told by a man who must
tell it as fiction since the truth literally hurt him. But there was no
true solution, and once the negative-gravitic generators were started,
the unreal root of negative space would spread to engulf the universe.
This 'story' of Maculay's convinced--or rather pinned the last doubt
down--Hanson that his guess-work was right. But handing such a story
to any official as true data would get the doctor nothing but a
horselaugh--at the least--and possibly a trip to the looney-bin for
observation.
However, he would have the truth at hand soon enough. Maculay would
know what steps to take.
Even if Maculay ordered everything to stop, while the answer was found.
* * * * *
Hanson was working in Larimore's office when Maculay came in with his
bride.
The doctor looked at them both; he nodded affably.
"Doc!" roared Maculay cheerfully. "What in hell are you doing here?"
"Came to kiss the bride," said Hanson. "And she looks lovely enough to
kiss."
"Go ahead," said Maculay; "I'll permit you eight seconds."
Hanson smiled at Ava, but shook his head. "I've got one more thing
on my mind," he said quietly. "Cliff, what do you know of Maculay's
Equations?"
"He's an uncle of mine," started Maculay. "He came up against a tough
one. He found a way to exceed the speed of light--but doing it would
destroy universal space by a sustained and spreading cancellation. It--"
"Maculay, what would you do if you were _The_ Clifford Maculay?"
"Go fishing."
Hanson touched a button at his elbow. There was a soundless flash of
brilliant light as the photoflash bulb planted in the desk lamp flared.
Then as Maculay stood, tense with shock, Hanson said, in a forceful
tone: "Clifford Maculay, the hypnotic suggestion that I gave you before
must cease. I order it to stop; I order you released. You are once more
Doctor Clifford Maculay, who must--"
The jovial smile faded from Maculay's face. The twinkle in his eye
changed to a calculating glitter, and the lines of Maculay's face
hardened. "Hanson," he snapped, "what has been going on?"
"You've been on vacation," said the doctor. "And while you were
traipsing all over Venus, Redmond has opened your secret file and is
starting to build a supervelocity spacecraft. You must put a stop to
it."
Maculay looked startled for a moment. Then he said: "Redmond is a
pompous sort of juvenile jackass, I admit, but he isn't that stupid."
"I've seen his installation."
Maculay shrugged. "I'm not a jealous man, Doc. I've had my day; I've
done my work; I've laid my cornerstone. I've even been stumped. Now if
Redmond can solve the problem that had me licked, I'll be the last man
on earth to deny him his triumph."
"Clifford, from all I've heard about this, total destruction will
result if any man energizes a volume of negative space."
"Quite right," said Maculay. And as he said it, his eyes clouded and he
winced gently.
"Redmond has added nothing to your calculations."
Maculay stood up with a dry smile. "As a physician you are Number One
on earth. As a psychiatrist you are tops. I know what you've done and
it's been good. I hope," he added slyly, "that she likes me as well
this way as she did the other way--or can you change her too? Or," he
continued with growing comprehension, "is it 'change her back, too'?"
"Back."
"Good. So as a witch-doctor you're tops in any jungle. But as a
physicist, you don't know a gravitino from a vocal fricative."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning that before any judgment is cast, I shall have to see the
evidence."