Beyond This Horizon

  “That noise—it startled me. I never fired.”

  “Really? Say, that’s great. I see I hadn’t half realized the advantages of this gadget. It’s a psychological weapon, Cliff.”

  “It’s noisy.”

  “It’s more than that. It’s a terror weapon. You wouldn’t even have to hit with your first shot. Your man would be so startled you’d have time to get him with the second shot. And that isn’t all. Think…the braves around town are used to putting a man to sleep with a bolt that doesn’t even muss his hair. This thing’s bloody. You saw what happened to that piece of vitrolith. Think what a man’s face will look like after it stops one of those slugs. Why a necrocosmetician would have to use a stereo-sculp to produce a reasonable facsimile for his friends to admire. Who wants to stand up to that kind of fire?”

  “Maybe you’re right. I still say it’s noisy. Let’s go to dinner.”

  “Good idea. Say—you’ve got a new nail tint haven’t you? I like it.”

  Monroe-Alpha spread his fingers. “It is smart, isn’t it? Mauve Iridescent it’s called. Care to try some?”

  “No, thank you. I’m too dark for it, I’m afraid. But it goes well with your skin.”

  They ate in the pay-restaurant Hamilton had discovered. Monroe-Alpha automatically asked for a private room when they entered; Hamilton, at the same moment, demanded a table in the ring. They compromised on a balcony booth, semi-private, from which Hamilton could amuse himself by staring down at the crowd in the ring.

  Hamilton had ordered the meal earlier in the day, which was the point which had caused his friend to consent to venture out. It was served promptly. “What is it?” Monroe-Alpha demanded suspiciously.

  “Bouillabaisse. It’s halfway between a soup and a stew. More than a dozen kinds of fish, white wine, and the Great Egg alone knows how many sorts of herbs and spices. All natural foods.”

  “It must be terribly expensive.”

  “It’s a creative art and it’s a pleasure to pay for it. Don’t worry your head about it. You know I can’t help making money.”

  “Yes, I know. I never could understand why you take so much interest in games. Of course, it pays well.”

  “You don’t understand me. I’m not interested in games. Have you ever seen me waste a slug or a credit on one of my own gadgets—or any other? I haven’t played a game since I was a boy. For me, it is already well established that one horse can run faster than another, that the ball falls either on red or on black, and that three of a kind beats two pair. It’s that I can’t see the silly toys that people play with without thinking of one a little more complicated and mysterious. If I am bored and have nothing better to do, I may sketch one and dispatch it to my agent. Presently in comes some more money.” He shrugged.

  “What are you interested in?”

  “People. Eat your soup.”

  Monroe-Alpha tasted the mess cautiously, looked surprised, and really went to work on it. Hamilton looked pleased, and undertook to catch up.

  “Felix—”

  “Yes, Cliff.”

  “Why did you group me in the ninety-eight?”

  “The ninety-eight? Oh, you mean the sourpuss survey. Shucks, pal, you rated it. If you are gay and merry-merry-be behind that death mask, you conceal it well.”

  “I’ve nothing to be unhappy about.”

  “No, not to my knowledge. But you don’t look happy.”

  They ate in silence for a few minutes more. Monroe-Alpha spoke again. “It’s true, you know. I’m not.”

  “Not what?”

  “Not happy.”

  “So? Mmmm…why not?”

  “I don’t know. If I did I could do something about it. My family psychiatrist doesn’t seem to be able to get at the reason.”

  “You’re on the wrong frequency. A psychiatrist is the last man to see about a thing like that. They know everything about a man, except what he is and what makes him tick. Besides, did you ever see a worry-doctor that was sane himself? There aren’t two in the country who can count their own fingers and get the same answer twice running.”

  “It’s true that he hasn’t been able to help me much.”

  “Of course not. Why? Because he will start with the assumption that there is something wrong with you. He can’t find it, so he’s stuck. It doesn’t occur to him that there might be nothing wrong with you and that might be what was wrong.”

  The other man looked weary. “I don’t understand you. But he does claim to be following a clue.”

  “What sort?”

  “Well… I’m a deviant, you know.”

  “Yes, I know,” Hamilton answered shortly. He was reasonably familiar with his friend’s genetic background, but disliked to hear him mention it. Some contrary strain in Hamilton rebelled against the idea that a man was necessarily and irrevocably the gene pattern handed to him by his genetic planners. Furthermore he was not convinced that Monroe-Alpha should be considered a deviant.

  “Deviant” is a question-begging term. When the human zygote resulting from the combination of two carefully selected gametes is different from what the geneticists had predicted but not so different as to be classified with certainty as a mutation, that zygote is termed a deviant. It is not, as is generally believed, a specific term for a recognized phenomenon, but a catch-all to cover a lack of complete knowledge.

  Monroe-Alpha (this particular Monroe-Alpha—Clifford, 32-847-106 B62) had been an attempt to converge two lines of the original Monroe-Alpha to recapture and reinforce the mathematical genius of his famous ancestor. But mathematical genius is not one gene, nor does it appear to be anything as simple as a particular group of genes. Rather, it is thought to be a complex of genes arranged in a particular order.

  Unfortunately this gene complex appears to be close-linked in the Monroe-Alpha line to a neurotic contra-survival characteristic, exact nature undetermined and not assigned to any set of genes. That it is not necessarily so linked appears to be established, and the genetic technicians who had selected the particular gametes which were to produce Monroe-Alpha Clifford believed that they had eliminated the undesired strain.

  Monroe-Alpha Clifford did not think so.

  Hamilton fixed him with a finger. “The trouble with you, my fine foolish friend, is that you are bothering your head with things you don’t understand. Your planners told you that they had done their level best to eliminate from you the thing which caused your great grandfather Whiffenpoof to raise garter snakes in his hat. There is a long chance that they failed, but why assume that they did?”

  “My great grandfathers did nothing of the sort. A slight strain of anhedonism, a tendency to—”

  “Then why act like they had to be walked on a leash? You make me tired. You’ve got a cleaner pedigree than ninety-nine out of a hundred, and a chromosome chart that’s as neat and orderly as a checker board. Yet you’re yiping about it. How would you like to be a control natural? How would you like to have to wear lenses against your eyeballs? How would you like to be subject to a doz-dozen filthy diseases? Or have your teeth get rotten and fall out, and have to chew your meals with a set of false choppers?”

  “Of course, nobody would want to be a control natural,” Monroe-Alpha said reflectively, “but the ones I’ve known seemed to be happy enough.”

  “All the more reason for you to snap out of your funk. What do you know of pain and sickness? You can’t appreciate it any more than a fish appreciates water. You have three times the income you can spend, a respected position, and work of your own choosing. What more do you want out of life?”

  “I don’t know, Cliff. I don’t know, but I know I’m not getting it. Don’t ride me about it.”

  “Sorry. Eat your dinner.”

  The fish stew contained several large crab legs; Hamilton ladled one into his guest’s trencher. Monroe-Alpha stared at it uneasily. “Don’t be so suspicious,” Hamilton advised. “Go ahead. Eat it.”

  “How?”

  “Pick it up in your
fingers, and crack the shell.” Monroe-Alpha attempted to comply, somewhat clumsily, but the greasy, hard surface skidded between his fingers. He attempted to recover and knocked it over the edge of the balcony rail at his elbow.

  He started to rise; Hamilton put a hand on his forearm. “My fault,” he said. “I will repair it.” He stood up and looked down at the table directly beneath their booth.

  He did not see the stray bit of seafood at once, but he had no difficulty in telling approximately where it had landed. Seated at the table was a party of eight. Two of them were elderly men who wore the brassards-of-peace. Four women alternated with the males around the table. One of them, quite young and pretty, was dabbing at something which seemed to have stained her gown. The wayward crab leg was floating in a crystal bell of purple liquid directly in front of her; cause and effect were easy to infer.

  The two remaining men were both armed, both standing, and staring up at the balcony. The younger, a slender youth in bright scarlet promenade dress, was resting his right hand on the grip of his sidearm, and seemed about to speak. The older man turned coldly dangerous eyes from Hamilton to his youthful companion. “My privilege, Cyril,” he said quietly, “if you please.”

  The young brave was clearly annoyed and reluctant to comply; nevertheless he bowed stiffly and sat down. His elder returned the bow punctiliously and turned back to Hamilton. The lace of his cuff brushed his holster, but he had not touched his weapon—as yet.

  Hamilton leaned over the balcony, both his hands spread and plainly visible on the rail. “Sir, my clumsiness has disturbed the pleasure of your meal and invaded your privacy. I am deeply sorry.”

  “I have your assurance that it was accidental, sir?” The man’s eyes were still frosty, but he made no move to draw. But he did not sit down.

  “You have indeed, sir, and with it my humble apology. Will you graciously permit me to make reparation?”

  The other glanced down, not at the youth, but at the girl whose gown had been splashed. She shrugged. He answered Hamilton, “The thought is taken for the deed, sir.”

  “Sir, you leave me indebted.”

  “Not at all, sir.”

  They were exchanging bows and were about to resume their seats, when a shouted remark from the balcony booth directly opposite interrupted them. “Where’s your brassard?”

  They both looked toward the source of the disturbance; one of a party of men—armed citizens all apparently, for no brassards were to be seen—was leaning out of the booth and staring with deliberate rudeness. Hamilton spoke to the man at the table below. “My privilege, is it not, sir?”

  “Your privilege. I wish you well.” He sat down and turned his attention back to his guests.

  “You spoke to me?” asked Hamilton of the man across the ring.

  “I did. You were let off lightly. You should eat at home—if you have a home. Not in the presence of gentlefolk.”

  Monroe-Alpha touched Hamilton’s arm. “He’s drunk,” he whispered. “Take it easy.”

  “I know,” his friend answered in a barely audible aside, “but he gives me no choice.”

  “Perhaps his friends will take care of him.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Indeed his friends were attempting to. One of them placed a restraining hand on his weapon arm, but he shook him off. He was playing to a gallery—the entire restaurant was quiet now, the diners ostentatiously paying no attention, a pose contrary to fact. “Answer me!” he demanded.

  “I will,” Hamilton stated quietly. “You have been drinking and are not responsible. Your friends should disarm you and place a brassard on you. Else some short-tempered gentleman may fail to note that your manners were poured from a bottle.”

  There was a stir and a whispered consultation in the party behind the other man, as if some agreed with Hamilton’s estimate of the situation. One of them spoke urgently to the belligerent one, but he ignored it.

  “What’s that about my manners, you misplanned mistake?”

  (“Easy, Felix.” “Too late, Cliff.”)

  “Your manners,” Hamilton stated, “are as thick as your tongue. You are a disgrace to the gun you wear.”

  The other man drew too fast, but he drew high, apparently with the intention of chopping down.

  The terrific explosion of the Colt forty-five brought every armed man in the place to his feet, sidearm clear, eyes wary, ready for action. But the action was all over. A woman laughed, shortly and shrilly. The sound broke the tension for everyone. Men relaxed, weapons went back to belts, seats were resumed with apologetic shrugs. The diners went back to their own affairs with the careful indifference to other people’s business of the urbane sophisticate.

  Hamilton’s antagonist was half supported by the arms of his friends. He seemed utterly surprised and completely sobered. There was a hole in his chemise near his right shoulder from which a wet dark stain was spreading. One of the men holding him up waved to Hamilton with his free arm, palm out. Hamilton acknowledged the capitulation with the same gesture. Someone drew the curtains of the booth opposite.

  Hamilton sank back into the cushions with a relieved sigh. “We lose more crabs that way,” he observed. “Have some more, Cliff?”

  “Thanks, no,” Monroe-Alpha answered. “I’ll stick to spoon foods. I hate interruptions at meal times, Felix. He might have cooled you.”

  “And left you to pay the check. Such slug pinching ill becomes you, Cliff.”

  Monroe-Alpha looked annoyed. “You know it’s not that. I have few enough friends not to wish to lose them in casual brawls. You should have taken a private room, as I requested.” He touched a stud under the railing; the curtains waved across the arch, shutting them off from the public room.

  Hamilton laughed. “A little excitement peps up the appetite.”

  In the booth opposite the man who had waved capitulation spoke savagely to the one who had been wounded. “You fool! You clumsy fool! You muffed it.”

  “I couldn’t help it,” the injured man protested. “After he waived privilege, there was nothing to do but play drunk and pretend I meant the other one.” He dabbed futilely at his freely bleeding shoulder, “In the Name of the Egg, what did he burn me with?”

  “No matter.”

  “Maybe not to you, but it is to me. I’ll look him up.”

  “You will not. One mistake is too many.”

  “But I thought he was one of us. I thought it was part of the set up.”

  “Hummph! Had it been, you would have been told.”

  After Monroe-Alpha left to keep his date, Hamilton found himself at loose ends. The night life of the capital offered plenty of opportunity for a man to divest himself of surplus credit, but it was not new to him. He tried, in a desultory fashion, to find professional entertainment, then gave up and let the city itself amuse him. The corridors were thronged as always, the lifts packed; the Great Square under the port surged with people. Where were they all going? What was the hurry? What did they expect to find when they got there?

  The presence of some types held obvious explanations. The occasional man with a brassard was almost certainly out at this hour because his business required him to be. The same rule applied without exception to the few armed men who also wore brassards—proclaiming thereby their unique status as police monitors, armed but immune to attack.

  But the others, the armed and richly costumed men and their almost as gaudy women—why did they stir about so? Why not remain quietly at home with their wenches?

  He realized, consciously and sardonically, that he himself was part of the throng, present because it amused him. He knew he had no reason to feel that his own sense of detached amusement was unique. Perhaps they all came to keep from being bored with themselves, to observe their mutual folly and to laugh.

  He found himself, later, the last customer in a small bar. The collection of empty cups at his elbow was impressive. “Herbert,” he said at last, to the owner back of the bar, “why do you run this joint?”


  Herbert paused in his tidying up. “To make money.”

  “That’s a good answer, Herbert. Money and children—what other objectives are there? I’ve too much of one and none of the other. Set ’em up, Herbert. Let’s drink to your kids.”

  Herbert set out two cups, but shook his head. “Make it something else. I’ve no kids.”

  “Huh? Sorry—none of my business. We’ll drink to the kids I haven’t got instead.” Herbert poured the drinks, from separate bottles.

  “What’s that private stock of yours, Herbert? Let me try it.”

  “You wouldn’t like it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, to tell the truth, it’s flavored water.”

  “You’d drink a toast in that? Why, Herbert!”

  “You don’t understand. My kidneys…”

  Hamilton looked at him in sharp surprise. His host looked pleased. “You wouldn’t guess, would you? Yes, I’m a natural. But it’s my own hair I’m wearing. And my own teeth…mostly. Keep myself fit. Good a man as the next.” He dumped the liquid from his own cup, and refilled it from the bottle he had used for Hamilton’s drink. “Shucks! One won’t hurt me.” He raised his drink. “Long life!”

  “And children,” Hamilton added mechanically.

  They tossed them down. Herbert filled them up again. “Take children,” he began. “Any man wants to see his kids do better than he did. Now I’ve been married for twenty-five years to the same woman. My wife and I are both First Truthers and we don’t hold with these modern arrangements. But children…we settled that a long time ago. ‘Martha,’ I said to her, ‘it don’t matter what the brethren think. What’s right is right. Our kids are going to have every advantage that other kids have.’ And after a while she came around to my way of thinking. So we went to the Eugenics Board—”

  Hamilton tried to think of some way to stop this flow of confidences.

  “I must say that they were very kind and polite. First they told us to think it over. ‘If you practice gene selection,’ they said, ‘your children won’t receive the control benefit.’ As if we didn’t know that: Money wasn’t the object. We wanted our kids to grow up fine and strong and smarter than we were. So we insisted and they made a chromosome chart on each of us.