[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Astounding Science-Fiction, January 1946.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
_Ara, the crow, was aware of the fact that he was a crow. This and this
alone made him different from his fellow crows. Because he recognized
the fact, it made him aware of the things that separated the crows from
the pheasants that abounded across the meadow--and he admired their
fine plumage and elegant ways._
_He began to scorn the idea of being a crow, and resented the attitude
of his fellows. They were satisfied to be crows, and could not
understand his resentment nor his desires, and they even scorned the
idea that he was above them because he wanted to be other than a crow.
In fact, they did not even understand his concept of being anything
else. They did not look up to him for thinking over their heads._
_He should have left them and made his way alone. But he wanted to
show them how much more he was than they, and so he decked himself in
the plumage of one of the pheasants and then started to lord it over
the rest of the crows...._
--_ÆSOP_
* * * * *
Wanniston fixed the other man with a piercing gaze. "Sorry," he said.
"Quite sorry. But it can not be done that way, you know. The whole
proposition was your idea."
"I know," said the other man. He inspected Wanniston's large,
well-proportioned frame, his strong features, and his absolute poise
and wondered how any man, with all to recommend him, could be so
utterly unsympathetic. The coldness in his face set him apart from
one of the Galactic Ones. "The proposition was sensible enough--yet I
failed. Even though I failed, my manipulations were properly done, you
will agree."
Wanniston nodded.
"Where did I fail?"
"You struck a snag."
"It was not my fault."
"Are you crawling?" snapped Wanniston.
"Perhaps," said the other man bitterly. "I want to know how I failed."
Wanniston smiled deprecatorily. "Lincoln, you failed because you
neglected to take everything into account. Before you succeed--before
you can hope to plan without failure, you must learn to take everything
into account."
"One cannot take everything into account."
"Yes, one can. It is quite possible--if you know how."
"Everything's easy," said Lincoln sourly, "once you know how."
"Certainly," laughed Wanniston.
"And because I made a mistake, I failed."
"Had you taken everything into account, you would have known that you
could never succeed. You wouldn't have started, and now you wouldn't be
a complete and broken failure."
"You may well gloat."
"I'm not gloating."
"I believe that," admitted Lincoln. "But that changes nothing."
"You understand our position, Lincoln. If we prevented you from trying,
well, you might have succeeded, and we'd never know the benefits of
your success. It was your idea, and you wanted to try. But don't feel
too broken. Others have tried."
"Small consolation. Knowing that another man is starving will not put
food in my _belly_." Lincoln stood up, dusted off his jacket, and left
the office.
The report of a pistol echoed and re-echoed up and down the corridor,
reverberating and hushing until it could be mistaken for a wild cackle
of laughter.
* * * * *
Wanniston went into the small office beside his own, through an
interconnecting door. The key to the outer door hung in the lock by the
tongue, and the office was a sharp contrast to his spotless business
office. Here was no clean desk, no bookcase bulging with erudition,
no deep-pile carpet. Instead, the place was a litter of complicated
equipment. Not messy, in the dirty sense of the word, but the standard
neglect of any laboratory. Delicate instruments stood on the floor,
a box was partly filled with discarded parts, and several pieces of
partly disassembled apparatus lined the walls. On the desk, which was
the cleanest spot in the room, there stood a small cabinet. It was not
the precisely finished cabinet that comes with commercial equipment,
but strictly functional. There was no pattern to the dials--at least
there had been no attempt to arrange the controls in sensible pattern.
They stuck out wherever they were needed--and the sides and top each
had a knob or two.
Wanniston slid the headpiece over his temples and snapped the main
switch. A split-second timer kicked in for less than one-tenth of a
second, waited for ten seconds, and then repeated the dose. Four times
it followed the sequence of keying the machine for a period of less
than a tenth of a second, following with a ten-second pause. Finally it
gave Wanniston a full one-second charge and then ceased.
The financier removed the temple set and sat thinking for a moment.
There was a bit of resentment at the machine--not resentment, exactly,
but a slight feeling of annoyance that he must take such microscopic
doses of the machine.
He knew the story of Andrew Tremaine and how the publisher's attempts
to use the machine had resulted in self-destruction because it had
been too good. But, smiled Wanniston, he really had no intention of
trying to lift the whole race to the level of the Ambassador of the
Galactic Ones, the emissary Gerd Lel Rayne. Rayne had told him.
Not the complete story, of course. Rayne could never tell that. Nor if
he did, Wanniston could not have understood it. But he did know that
Tremaine had developed such a machine and had energized his mind with
disastrous results.
Obviously, Tremaine could not have gone on living after that. Tremaine
was pretty much of an extrovert who loved people and wanted them all
to advance rapidly. Wanniston was self-centered and introverted and
wanted nothing more than to run the show himself. Tremaine could not
live in a world alone--and with his energized brain, he was in a world
alone. Gerd Lel Rayne could be his only friend, he and Gaya, and their
friendship must necessarily be one kept under cover. But Wanniston
could, did, and liked a world alone. He had no intention of letting the
world know.
That would be disastrous.
The world would rush to the machine, to partake of its offerings, in
order to gain the benefit of the increased intelligence. They would not
count the cost--and the cost was great.
The machine produced sterility.
So much for general usage.
But for individual usage? That was another matter. He would use it for
himself alone and forget progeny. Wanniston wanted to run the show.
He felt entitled to have a hand in it, for he knew that he was better
equipped, mentally, to handle the complex problems of running the world
than many others. He was aware of man's weaknesses. They were all glad
to be just human, but it took a higher intellect to understand that
there was something better than just being human.
Wanniston knew that, and Wanniston was going to do something about it.
Wanniston, by knowing that there was something higher, and by being
just that slight bit higher himself, was going to go all the way and
make himself Gerd Lel Rayne's mental equal. He believed that he might
even surpass the 260-odd I.Q. possessed by the emissary of the Galactic
Ones, for he knew that Rayne was merely the lowest link in a long chain
that led right up to the Grand Galactic Council.
"Wait until you see me kid brudder," grinned Wanniston. His lips were
thin as he grinned, and there was more sardonicism than genuine humor
in the situation.
* * * * *
Gerd Lel Rayne smiled amicably as Wanniston entered. "Good morning,"
he said with a booming, easy voice. The emissary was a large man, a
living embodiment of poise and good will. "I sent for you, John. You're
heading for trouble."
"It's my trouble," answered Wanniston.