“Don’t joke with me. What am I to do? I can’t entertain her. She’s a Policy Maker—I wouldn’t know what to say to her.”
“Suppose she is on the Policy Board. She’s human, ain’t she? Our home is all right, isn’t it? Go down and buy yourself a new gown—then you’ll feel fit for anything.”
Instead of brightening up, she began to cry. He took her in his arms, and said, “There, there! What’s the trouble? Did I say something wrong?”
She stopped and dabbed at her eyes. “No. Just nerves, I guess. I’m all right.”
“You startled me. You never did anything like that before.”
“No. But I never had a baby before, either.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Well, cry, if it makes you feel better. But don’t let this old fossil get under your skin, kid. You don’t have to receive her, you know. I’ll call her and tell her you can’t.”
She seemed quite recovered from her unease. “No, don’t do that. I’d really like to see her. I’m curious and I’m flattered.”
They had discussed with each other the question as to whether Madame Espartero Carvala had intended to call on both of them, or Phyllis only. Felix was reluctant to be present if his presence was not expected; he was equally reluctant to fail to show proper urbanity by not being present to receive a distinguished visitor. As he pointed out to Phyllis, it was his home as well as hers.
He telephoned Mordan, since he knew that Mordan was much closer to such mighty and remote people than himself. Mordan gave him no help. “She’s a rule unto herself, Felix. She’s quite capable of breaking every custom of polite conduct, if she chooses.”
“Any idea why she’s coming?”
“Not the slightest. Sorry.” Mordan himself wondered, but was honest enough to admit that his guesses were unsound—no data; he simply did not understand the old girl, and knew it.
Madame Espartero Carvala settled the matter herself. She came stumping in, supporting herself with a heavy cane. Clutched in her left hand was a lighted cigar. Hamilton approached her, bowed, “Madame—” he began.
She peered at him. “You’re Hamilton Felix. Where’s your wife?”
“If Madame will come with me.” He attempted to offer her his arm for support.
“I can manage,” she said rather ungraciously. Nevertheless she clamped the cigar in her teeth and took his arm. He was amazed to find how little she weighed, judging by the pressure on his arm—but the grip of her fingers was firm. Once in the lounging room, in the presence of Phyllis, she said, “Come here, child. Let me look at you.”
Hamilton stood by foolishly, not knowing whether to seat himself or leave. The old lady turned, noticing that he was still there and said, “You were very gracious to escort me in to your wife. I thank you.” The formal politeness of the words were oddly at variance with her first, brittle remarks, but they were not delivered in warm tones. Felix realized that he had been clearly and unmistakably dismissed. He got out.
He went to his retiring room, selected a scrollscript, fitted it into the reader, and prepared to kill time until Carvala should leave. But he found himself unable to fix his attention on the story he selected. He found that he had used the rewind button three times and still had no notion of how the story started.
Damn! He thought—I might as well have gone to the office.
For he had an office—now. The thought made him smile a little. He was the man who was never going to be tied down, who had split his profits with a man-of-affairs rather than be troubled with business worries. Yet here he was, married, an expectant father, actually living at the same address as his wife, and—possessing an office! True, the office had nothing to do with his business affairs.
He found himself actually engaged in the Great Research which Mordan had promised. Carruthers Alfred, former member of the Board of Policy until he had retired to pursue his studies, had been co-opted as instigator for the enlarged project. He in turn had co-opted Hamilton. He had protested to Carruthers that he was no synthesist, nor scientist. Nevertheless Carruthers wanted him. “You have an erratic and unorthodox imagination,” he had said. “This job calls for imagination, the more heterodox the better. You needn’t do routine research, if you don’t want to—plenty of patient technicians for that.”
Felix suspected that Mordan had had something to do with his selection, but did not press him about it. Mordan, Hamilton knew, had an over-rated opinion of his ability. He esteemed himself as a second-rater, a competent and high-powered man, but a second-rater nonetheless. That chart that Mordan talked about—you could not compress a man into a diagram and hang him on a wall. He was not that chart. And didn’t he know more about himself, from sitting on the inside, than any genetic technician could learn by peering down the double barrel of a ’scope?
But he had to admit he was glad that he had been invited into the project—it interested him. He had realized quite early that the enlarged project had not been taken up just to circumvent his balkiness—the transcript of authorization had shown him that. But he did not feel cheated—Mordan had delivered everything that he had promised, and Felix had become interested in the project for its own sake—both projects. Both the great public project of the Great Research and the private matter of himself, Phyllis, and their child to come.
He wondered what the little tyke would be like.
Mordan seemed confident that he knew. He had shown them the diploid chromosome chart resulting from their carefully chosen gametes and had expounded on just how the characteristics of the two parents would be combined in the child. Felix was not so sure; in spite of his own reasonably thorough knowledge of genetic theory and technique he was not convinced that all of a human being’s multifold complexity could be wrapped up in a little blob of protoplasm smaller than a pin point. It was not reasonable. There had to be more to a man than that.
Mordan had seemed to find it highly desirable that he and Phyllis possessed so many Mendelian characteristics in common. It not only, he pointed out, made the task of selection of gametes much simpler and shorter, but also insured reinforcement of those characteristics, genetically. Paired genes would be similar, instead of opposed.
On the other hand, Hamilton found that Mordan favored the alliance of Monroe-Alpha and Hartnett Marion, although they were obviously as dissimilar as two persons could well be. Hamilton pointed out the inconsistency in reasoning. Mordan had been unperturbed.
“Each genetic case is a discrete individual. No rule in genetics is invariable. They complement each other.”
It was certainly obvious that Marion had made Cliff happy, happier than Felix had ever seen him.
The big dope.
He had long been of the opinion that what Cliff needed was a keeper, to lead him around on a string, fetch him indoors when it rained, and tickle him when he pouted. (Not that the opinion subtracted from his very real devotion to his friend.)
Marion seemed to qualify on all counts. She hardly let him out of her sight.
She worked with him, under the euphemistic title of “special secretary.”
“‘Special secretary’?” Hamilton said, when Monroe-Alpha told him about it. “What does she do? Is she a mathematician?”
“Not at all. She doesn’t know a thing about mathematics—but she thinks I’m wonderful!” He grinned boyishly—Hamilton was startled to see how it changed his face. “Who am I to contradict her?”
“Cliff, if you keep that up, you’ll have a sense of humor yet.”
“She thinks I have one now.”
“Perhaps you have. I knew a man who raised warthogs once. He said they made the flowers more beautiful.”
“Why did he think that?” Monroe-Alpha was puzzled and interested.
“Never mind. Just what is it that Marion does?”
“Oh, a lot of little things. Keeps track of things I forget, brings me a cup of tea in the afternoon. Mostly she’s just here when I want her. When a concept won’t come straight and my head feels tired, I look up a
nd there’s Molly, just sitting there, looking at me. Maybe she’s been reading, but when I look up I don’t have to say anything—she’s looking back at me. I tell you it helps, I never get tired anymore.” He smiled again.
Hamilton realized with sudden insight that there never had been anything wrong with Monroe-Alpha except that the poor boob had never been happy. He had no defenses against the world—until now. Marion had enough for both of them.
He had wanted to ask Cliff what Hazel thought of the new arrangements, but hesitated to do so, despite their close friendship. Monroe-Alpha brought it up himself. “You know, Felix, I was a little worried about Hazel.”
“So?”
“Yes. I know she had said she wanted to enter a divorce, but I hadn’t quite believed her.”
“Why not?” Felix had inquired blandly.
Monroe-Alpha had colored. “Now, Felix, you’re just trying to get me mixed up. Anyhow, she seemed positively relieved when I told her about Marion and me. She wants to take up dancing again.”
Felix thought with regret that it was a mistake for an artist, once retired, to attempt a comeback. But Cliff’s next words made him realize he had been hasty. “It was Thorgsen’s idea—”
“Thorgsen? Your boss?”
“Yes. He had been telling her about the outstations, particularly the ones on Pluto, of course, but he mentioned Mars and the rest, I suppose. They don’t get much recreation, other than canned shows and reading.” Hamilton knew what he meant, although he had never thought much about it. With the exception of the tourist cities on Luna there was nothing to attract human beings to the other planets, save for exploration and research. The devoted few who put up with the unearthly hardships necessarily lived a monklike existence. Luna was a special case, naturally; being practically in Earth’s front yard and an easy jump, it was as popular for romantic holidays as Southpole had once been.
“She got the idea, or Thorgsen suggested it to her, of getting together a diversified travelling troupe to play a circuit of all the outposts.”
“It doesn’t sound commercial.”
“It doesn’t have to be. Thorgsen took the matter up for subsidy. He argued that, if research and exploration were necessary, then morale of the personnel involved was a government matter, in spite of the longstanding policy against government participation in the entertainment business, luxury business, or fine arts.”
Hamilton whistled. “Nice going! Why, that principle was almost as rock solid as civil rights.”
“Yes, but it was a matter of constitution. And the Planners are no fools. They don’t necessarily follow precedent. Look at this job we’re on.”
“Yes, surely. Matter of fact, that was what I dropped in to see you about. I wanted to see how you were getting along.” At the time of this conversation Hamilton was feeling his way into the whole picture of the Great Research. Carruthers had given him no fixed instructions, but had told him to spend a few weeks sizing up the problem.
The phase of the research occupying Monroe-Alpha’s attention—Thorgsen’s project, the Grand Eidouraniun—was much further advanced than any other aspect of the whole project, since it had been conceived originally as a separate matter before the Great Research, which included it, had been thought of. Monroe-Alpha had come into it rather late, but Hamilton had assumed that his friend would be the dominant figure in it. This, Monroe-Alpha maintained, was not true.
“Hargrave is much more fitted for this sort of work than I am. I take my directions from him—myself, and about sixty others.”
“How come? I thought you were tops in the numbers racket.”
“I have my specialty and Hargrave knows how to make the best use of it. You apparently have no idea of how diversified and specialized mathematics is, Felix. I remember a congress I attended last year—more than a thousand present, but there weren’t more than a dozen men there I could really talk to, or understand.”
“Hmmm… What does Thorgsen do?”
“Well, naturally, he isn’t much use in design—he’s an astrophysicist, or, more properly, a cosmic metrician. But he keeps in touch and his suggestions are always practical.”
“I see. Well—got everything you want?”
“Yes,” admitted Monroe-Alpha, “unless you should happen to have concealed, somewhere about your person, a hypersphere, a hypersurface, and some four-dimensional liquid, suitable for fine lubrication.”
“Thanks. You can hand me back my leg now. I see I’ve been wrong again—you are acquiring a sense of humor.”
“I am quite serious about it,” Cliff answered without cracking a smile, “even though I haven’t the slightest idea where I could find such nor how I could manipulate it if I did.”
“For why? Give.”
“I would like to set up a four-dimensional integrator to integrate from the solid surface of a four-dimensional cam. It would greatly shorten our work if we could do such a thing. The irony of it is that I can describe the thing I want to build, in mathematical symbology, quite nicely. It would do work, which we now have to do with ordinary ball-and-plane integrators and ordinary three-dimensional cams, in one operation whereas the system we use calls for an endless series of operations. It’s a little maddening—the theory is so neat and the results are so unsatisfactory.”
“I grieve for you,” Hamilton had answered, “but you had better take it up with Hargrave.”
He had left soon after that. It was evident that those human calculating machines needed nothing from him, and that they knew what they were doing. The project was important, damned important, he thought it was—to investigate what the Universe had been and what it would become. But it was certainly a long-distance matter and he himself would never live to see the end of it. Cliff had told him with a perfectly straight face that they hoped to check their preliminary calculations in a matter of three or three and a half centuries. After that they could hope to build a really worthwhile machine which might tell them things they did not already know.
So he dismissed the matter. He admired the sort of intellectual detachment which would permit men to work on such a scale, but it was not his horse.
The Great Research in its opening phases seemed to fall into half a dozen major projects, some of which interested him more than others because they gave some hope of producing results during his lifetime. Some, however, were almost as colossal as the building of the Grand Eidouraniun. The distribution of life through the physical universe, for example, and the possibility that other, non-human intelligences existed somewhere. If there were such, then it was possible, with an extremely high degree of mathematical probability, that some of them, at least, were more advanced than men.
In which case they might give Man a “leg up” in his philosophical education. They might have discovered “Why” as well as “How.”
It had been pointed out that it might be extremely dangerous, psychologically, for human beings to encounter such superior creatures. There had been the tragic case of the Australian Aborigines in not too remote historical times—demoralized and finally exterminated by their own sense of inferiority in the presence of the colonizing Anglish.
The investigators serenely accepted the danger; they were not so constituted as to be able to do otherwise.
Hamilton was not sure it was a danger. To some it might be, but he himself could not conceive of a man such as Mordan, for example, losing his morale under any circumstances. In any case it was a long distance project. First they must reach the stars, which required inventing and building a starship. That would take a bit of doing. The great ships which plied the lonely reaches between the planets were simply not fast enough. Some new drive must be found, if the trips were not to take generations for each leg.
That they would find life elsewhere in the universe he was quite sure, although a millennia of exploration might intervene. After all, he considered, the universe was roomy! It had taken Europeans four centuries to spread throughout the two continents of the “New World”—
what about a galaxy!
But Life they would find. It was not only an inner conviction; it was just short of scientific fact, for it was a tight inference of only one stage from established fact. Arrhenius the Great had set forth the brilliant speculation, sometime around the beginning of the XXth century, that life-potent spores might be carried from planet to planet, from star to star, pushed along by light pressure. The optimum size for motes to be carried along by light pressure happens to be on the same order as the sizes of bacilli. And bacilli spores are practically unkillable—heat, cold, radiation, time—they sleep through it until lodged in a favorable environment.
Arrhenius calculated that spores could drift to Alpha Centauri in around nine thousand years—a mere cosmic blink of the eye.
If Arrhenius were right, then the universe was populated, not just the earth. It mattered not whether life had originated first on earth, first elsewhere, or in many different neighborhoods, once started it had to spread. Millions of years before spaceships it had spread—if Arrhenius were right. For spores alone, lodging and multiplying, would infect an entire planet with whatever forms of life were suited to that planet. Protoplasm is protean; any simple protoplasm can become any complex form of life under mutation and selection.
Arrhenius had been spectacularly vindicated, in part, in the early days of interplanetary exploration. Life had been found on all the planets, save Mercury and Pluto; even on Pluto there were signs of feeble, primitive life in the past. Furthermore, protoplasm seemed to be much the same wherever found—incredibly varied but presumably related. It was disappointing not to have found recognizable intelligence in the solar system—it would have been nice to have had neighbors! (The poor degenerate starveling descendants of the once-mighty Builders of Mars can hardly be described as intelligent—except in charity. A half-witted dog could cheat them at cards.)
But the most startling and satisfying vindication of Arrhenius lay in the fact that spores had been trapped out in space itself, in the supposedly-sterile raw vacuum of space!
Hamilton admitted that he did not expect the search for other living intelligences to bear fruit during his tenure on Terra, unless they got a hump on themselves in dreaming up that starship and then hit the jackpot on the first or second try. And again it was not his forte—he might cook up a few gadgets for them as auxiliary mechanicals in making the ship more livable, but for the key problem, motive power, he was about twenty years too late in specializing. No, keep in touch, kibitz a little, and report to Carruthers—that was all he could do.