The 34th Golden Age of Science Fiction: C.M. Kornbluth Page 9

  “Actually the properties you seek in your carbides do not appear when you turn out a batch fresh from your crucible. There is the complicated business of ageing, in which the carbide spends a certain time at a certain temperature. Two more variables. And in some cases the ageing should be conducted in a special atmosphere—perhaps helium or argon. Another variable! And secondary properties must be considered. For example, the standard ceramic bond to metal is obtained by heating both parts to red heat and plunging them into liquid air. There are carbides that may have every other desirable property but which cannot take such a drastic thermal shock.”

  MacIlheny, in the front row, was looking at his watch. Time for the windup. “I hope I’ve given you an idea of what we’re up against. But I hope I haven’t given you an idea that the problem’s uncrackable in a less-than-infinite amount of time, because it isn’t. Experiments in some number must be made, but mathematics comes to the aid of the researcher to tell him when he’s on the right track and when he’s going astray. With the aid of the theory of least squares, plenty of sweat, and a little dumb luck I hope before long to be able to report to you that I’ve developed a material which can take the heat and thrust of any escape-velocity fuel which may some day come along.”

  The applause was generous.

  “We have the privilege tonight,” MacIlheny was saying, “of being the first audience in this area to see the new space-flight film Pirates of the Void—” There were a few ironical cheers. “—through the kindness of Mr. Riefenstahl of United Productions’ promotion staff. Audience comment cards will be available on the way out. I think it would be only fair and courteous if all of us made it a point to get one and fill it out, giving our—serious—opinion of the movie. And I’d like to add that Sokol Hall has made two projection machines available to us, so that this time there will be no interruption for changing between reels.” The cheers at that were not ironical.

  “I’m gonna the men’s room,” Clifton announced, and left.

  “Cliff don’ like movies much,” Lilly announced proudly. “He’ll be back.”

  The lights went out and Pirates of the Void went on with a fanfare and the United Productions monogram.

  The film, thought Novak as he watched, was another case of the public’s faith that space flight is an impossibility. It was a fable in which the actors wore odd garments: the men, shiny overalls; and the women, shiny shorts and bras. The time was far in the future—far enough for there to be pirates of space and a Space Navy of the United World to battle them. Space flight tomorrow, but never space flight today. But MacIlheny had a fuel and knew its performance.

  He leaned back, wishing he could smoke, and saw Marsha Denny’s problem unfold. Marsha was a nurse in the Space Navy and she had a brother (but there was a plant indicating that he wasn’t really her brother, though she didn’t yet know that), in the Pirate Fleet, high up. She was in love with Lawrence Malone, who took the part of the muscular G-2 of the Space Navy and had assigned himself the mission of penetrating the Pirate Fleet in the guise of a deserter from the regulars.

  Somehow fifteen minutes of it passed, and Lilly leaned across the seat between them. “Mike,” she asked worriedly, “you mind doing somet’ing for me? You go and find Cliff? He’s gone an awful long time.”

  “Why, sure,” he whispered. “Glad to get out of here.”

  He slipped from the dark auditorium and promptly lit a cigarette. Men’s Room, said a sign with an arrow. He followed it to a big, empty washroom with six booths. One of the doors was closed.

  “Cliff?” he called, embarrassed. There was no answer.

  Cliff must be in the corridor somewhere. His eye was caught by the shine of gold on the corner of a washstand. A wedding band—Cliff’s wedding band? Slipped it off before he washed his hands? There was no engraving in it and he didn’t remember what Cliff’s ring looked like; just that he wore one.

  Maybe—

  “Mister,” he said to the closed door, “I found a gold ring on the washstand. You lose it?”

  There was no answer. A thread of crimson blood snaked from under the closed door, slowly over the tiled floor, seeking a bright brass drain.

  I understand in these cloak-and-dagger things they kill you if you find out too much.

  PART TWO

  FOREWORD

  The mock-up Moon rocket being built by the American Society for Space Flight is nearing completion, but Clifton’s murder complicates the final details and Michael Novak takes over. From here on it is success or failure for the Society—with the espionage net drawing tighter about Novak’s neck every hour.

  Michael Novak, ceramic engineer, working in the Nuclear Energy for the Propulsion of Aircraft (NEPA), Division of the U.S. Atomic Energy Commission, is inexplicably transferred to the Argonne National Laboratory in Chicago where his particular talents are entirely wasted in the field of pure nuclear theory. Attempting in vain to get a suitable transfer he forcibly resigns and attempts to get a job elsewhere. The fact that he had struck the Research Director when handing in his resignation goes against him wherever he applies, and he is getting more than despondent when he receives a curious letter from a Los Angeles office offering him full-time work in refractories research and development with high-altitude jet aircraft.

  Intrigued by the apparent mystery he travels to Los Angeles and is appalled to find that the office belongs to an obscure amateur organisation known as the American Society for Space Flight. He meets Mr. Friml, the Secretary, and Mr. MacIlheny the President, who assure him that the Society has a progressive programme of development, plus laboratories and a proving ground and unlimited capital, but refuse to disclose where their funds are obtained. Sceptical but still intrigued, Novak goes with Friml to the Society’s launching ground and is amazed to find a full-scale steel mock-up of a space ship standing on the field.

  He is introduced to Clifton the engineer in charge of construction and Friml explains that the one thing lacking is a suitable fuel. He has already been to see Daniel Holland, chief of the U.S. Atomic Energy Commission, in Washington, but the Government were not interested in producing a fuel for the Society. Their plan, states Friml, is to complete the ship and then the Government would be forced to do something about the propulsion unit before any other World power became too interested in the project.

  Novak accepts the position, is assigned a workshop and laboratory, and commences work on the firing chambers and throat linings for the Prototype, as the rocket had been named. He soon finds out that most of the ‘technicians’ working on the project are part-time enthusiasts, and meets Amelia Stuart, daughter of the chief of Western Aircraft, who, apart from being attractive, also holds numerous scientific degrees.

  Studying the plans for the fuel chambers, Novak gets the idea that the Society is being financed by foreign backers and tells his suspicions to Clifton. The two of them make a report to Anheier of the A.E.C. Security Office in the local Federal Building, who seems to know more about everyone concerned in the space project than could be expected. He infers that they mind their own business.

  In the evening, having spent a pleasant afternoon with Clifton and his wife Lilly at their home, Novak goes with them to a meeting of the Rocket Society where he is introduced and makes a speech. During the science fiction film which follows Cliff leaves Lilly and Novak for a few minutes. As he doesn’t return Novak goes to look for him. He finds Cliff’s gold ring on a basin in the washroom and is then horrified to discover a thread of crimson blood seeping under a closed toilet door.

  VII.

  Novak fell on his hands and knees to peer through the six-inch gap between the bottom of the door and the floor. He saw two shod feet, oddly lax, a dangling hand, a little pool of blood, and a small pistol.

  He went to pieces and pounded on the door, shouting. It was latched. Novak darted from the washroom to the main hall; Anheier was there, who didn’t believe
there was anything to their story. He blundered into the darkness where, on the screen, two silvery space ships of the impossible future were slashing at each other with many-coloured rays that cracked and roared on the sound track.

  “Anheier!” Novak yelled hysterically. “Where are you?” Dark heads turned to stare at him. Somebody stumbled his way across a row of knees and hurried to him.

  “Dr. Novak?” asked the Security man. “What’s the matter?” People shushed them loudly, and Anheier took Novak’s arm, drawing him into the corridor.

  Novak said: “There’s somebody in a booth in the washroom. I saw blood. And a gun. I’m afraid it’s Clifton.”

  Anheier hurried down the corridor without a word. In the washroom he went into an adjoining booth and climbed up on its bowl to peer over the partition.

  “Bad,” he said flatly, hopping down. He took a long nail file from his pocket, inserted it between the door edge and jamb and flipped up the latch. The door swung open outwards. “Don’t touch anything,” Anheier said.

  Clifton was in the booth. His clothes were arranged. He was sprawled on the seat with his head down on his chest and his shoulders against the rear wall. There was a great hole in the back of his head, below the crown.

  “Get to a phone,” Anheier said. “Call the city police and report a homicide here.”

  Novak remembered a pay phone in the lobby downstairs and ran. Just like a magazine cartoon he crazily thought, when he found a woman talking in it on the other side of the folding glass door. He rapped on the glass imperatively and the woman turned. It was Amy Stuart. She smiled recognition, spoke another few words into the phone, and decisively hung up.

  “I’m sorry to be such a gossip,” she said, “but that bloody movie—”

  “Thanks,” he said hastily, and ducked into the phone booth. He saw Lilly coming down the stairs, looking more than a little worried.

  The police switchboard took his call with glacial calm and said not to do anything, there would be a car there in less than five minutes.

  Lilly and the Stuart girl were waiting outside. “Mike,” Lilly burst out, “what’s wrong? I sent you out to look for Cliff, you come back and holler for that A.E.C. feller, and you run to the phone. You talk straight vit’ me please, Mike.”

  “Lilly,” he said, “Cliff’s dead. Shot to death. I’m—I’m sorry—”

  She said something in a foreign language and fainted on his arm. Amy Stuart said sharply: “Here. Into this chair.” He lugged her clumsily into a deep, leather club chair.

  “Was what you said true?” she demanded angrily, doing things to Lilly’s clothes.

  “Quite true,” he said. “There’s an A.E.C. Security man there now. I was calling the police. Do you know Mrs. Clifton?”

  “Fairly well. How horrible for her. They loved each other. What could have happened? What could have happened?” Her voice was shrill.

  “Take it easy,” he told her flatly. “I think you’re getting hysterical and that won’t do any good.”

  She swallowed. “Yes—I suppose I was.” She fussed efficiently over Lilly for a moment or two. “That’s all,” she said. “Nothing else you can do for a faint. God, how horrible for her! God, how I hate killers and killing. That bloody movie. World of tomorrow. Death rays flash the life out of five hundred people aboard a ship—call them Space Pirates and it’s all right. Call them Space Navy and it’s all right too, as long as you kill Space Pirates to match. They’re sitting up there laughing at it. What’ll they think when they come out and find somebody’s really dead? Who could have done it, Dr. Novak? It’s unbelievable.”

  “I believe it. Miss Stuart, what’ll we do with Mrs. Clifton? She and Cliff live alone—lived alone. Could you get a nurse—”

  “I’ll take her to my place. Father has a resident doctor. I think perhaps I’d better start now. The police would want to question her. It’d be inhuman.”

  “I think you’d better wait, Miss Stuart. It’s—homicide, after all.”

  “That’s absurd. All they could do is badger her out of her wits with questions, and what could she have to tell them about it?”

  “Look—poor little rich girl,” Novak snarled, angry, nasty, and scared. “Cliff was killed and I may be killed, too, if the cops don’t figure this thing out. I’m not going to handicap them by letting witnesses disappear. You just stay put, will you?”

  “Coward!” she flared.

  The argument was broken up by the arrival of four policemen from a radio car.

  Novak said to the one with stripes on his sleeve: “I’m Dr. Michael Novak. I found a man named August Clifton in the washroom, dead. An A.E.C. Security man I know was here, so I put it in his hands. He’s upstairs with Clifton now. This is Clifton’s wife.”

  “All right,” said the sergeant. “Homicide cars’ll be here any minute. Wykoff, you and Martinez keep people from leaving. Don’t let ’em use that phone. Sam, come with me.” He stumped up the stairs with a patrolman.

  It must have been Martinez, small and flat-faced, who asked Novak: “What’s going on here, anyway, Doc? Ain’t this the Cheskies’ place? We never have any trouble with the Cheskies.”

  “It’s rented for the night. By the American Society for Space Flight.”

  “Uh,” said Martinez doubtfully. “Borderline cases. Did the guy kill himself?”

  “He did not!”

  “Aw-right, Doc? You don’t have to get nasty just because I asked.” And Martinez, offended, joined Wykoff at the door. Novak knew he had sounded nasty, and wondered how close he was to hysteria himself.

  Anheier came down the stairs slowly, preoccupied. “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Clifton’s wife. I told her. And Miss Stuart. Mr. Anheier from the A.E.C. Security and Intelligence Office.”

  “Los Angeles regional agent in charge,” Anheier said automatically.

  “Mr. Anheier,” said the girl, “can’t I take Mrs. Clifton out of this? Before the other police and the reporters get here?”

  “I’m not in charge,” he said mildly, “but if you ask me it wouldn’t be a good idea at all. Best to take our medicine and get it over with. What do you two think of Clifton’s emotional stability?”

  “He was brilliant, but—” Amy Stuart began, and then shut her mouth with a snap. “Are you suggesting that he took his own life?” she asked coldly. “That’s quite incredible.”

  Anheier shrugged. “The sergeant thought so. It’s for the coroner to say finally, of course.”

  “Look,” said Novak, laboring to keep his voice reasonable. “You and I know damned well—”

  “Novak,” said Anheier. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  Novak stared at him and they went to the foot of the stairs. The Security man said quietly: “I know what you think. You think Clifton was murdered in connection with the—stuff—you told me this afternoon.”

  “I think there’s an espionage angle,” Novak said. “And I know you had your mind made up that Clifton and I were cranks. Man, doesn’t this change anything? He’s dead!”

  Anheier considered. “I’ll meet you halfway,” he said. “When you tell your story to the cops, keep it straight. Don’t babble to reporters about your suspicions. Just leave out your opinion that Clifton was murdered. If there’s an espionage angle, this is no time to give it to the papers.”

  “How does that add up to meeting me halfway?” Novak asked bitterly.

  “I want to see you after tonight’s fuss is over. I’ll fill you in on the big picture. Meanwhile, don’t prejudice our position with loose talk. Here’s Homicide now. Watch yourself.”

  Homicide was three sedans full of photographers, detectives, and uniformed police. Reporters and press photographers were at their heels. A Lieutenant Kahn was the big wheel. Novak watched Anheier brief Kahn calmly and competently and felt a charge of resentment. The
big picture—what was it? Perhaps smoothly meshing crews of agents were preparing tonight to seize members of a conspiracy ramified far beyond his small glimpse—

  The lieutenant was firing orders. “Nobody, but nobody, leaves the building until I say so. You, yank that press guy out of the phone booth; that line’s for us. Sergeant, make an announcement to the movie audience upstairs. Doc, bring Mrs. Clifton to and let her cry it out. I’ll want to talk to her later. No reporters past the stairs for now. Where’s this Novak? Come on, let’s view the remains.”

  Now there were two white-faced A.S.F.S.F. kids in the washroom as well as the radio-car sergeant and patrolman. The sergeant saluted and said: “They came in a minute ago, lieutenant. I hold them. Didn’t want a stampede.”

  “Good. Take them down to the lobby with a bull to watch them. Start taking your pictures, Ivy. Let’s go, you fingerprint men! Where’s Kelly? Dr. Novak, you found the body, didn’t you? Tell us just what happened while it’s still fresh in your mind.” A uniformed policeman stood at Novak’s elbow with an open stenographic pad.

  Don’t prejudice our position. Fine words; did they mean anything? Fumblingly, Novak went over it all, from Lilly’s first worried request to the end. Halfway through he remembered about the ring, went through his pockets, and produced it. Through it all, Anheier’s calm eyes were on him. In deference to the big picture and the unprejudiced position he said nothing about foreign powers, space-ship fuel, or espionage—and wondered if he was a fool.

  The scene blended into a slow nightmare that dragged on until 1:00 a.m. Parts of the nightmare were: glaring lights from the Homicide photographers’ power packs, Lilly conscious again and hysterical, Amy Stuart yelling at the police to leave her alone, Friml clutching him to ask shakily whether he thought Clifton had been embezzling, sly-eyed reporters hinting about him and Lilly, MacIlheny groaning that this would set back the A.S.F.S.F. ten years and telling his story to the police again and again and again.