Beyond This Horizon

  Hamilton almost exploded. “It seems to me that you make plans awfully easy—for other people. I haven’t noticed you doing your bit. You are pretty much of a star line yourself—how come? Is this a one-way proposition?”

  Mordan had kept his serenity. “I have not refrained. My plasm is on deposit, and available if wanted. Every moderator in the country saw my chart, in the usual course of routine.”

  “The fact remains that you haven’t done much personally about children.”

  “No. No, that is true. Martha and I have so many, many children in our district, and so many yet to come, that we hardly have time to concentrate on one.”

  From the peculiar phraseology Hamilton gained a sudden bit of insight. “Say…you and Martha are married—aren’t you?”

  “Yes. For twenty-three years.”

  “Well, then…but, why—”

  “We can’t,” Mordan said flatly, with just a shade less than his usual calm. “She’s a mutation…sterile.”

  Hamilton’s ears still burned to think that his big mouth had maneuvered his friend into making such a naked disclosure. He had never guessed the relationship; Martha never called Claude anything but “chief”; they used no words of endearment, nor let it creep otherwise into their manner. Still, it explained a lot of things—the rapport-like co-operation between the technician and the synthesist, the fact that Mordan had shifted to genetics after starting a brilliant career in social administration, Mordan’s intense and fatherly interest in his charges.

  He realized with a slight shock that Claude and Martha were as much parents of Theobald as were Phyllis and himself—foster parents, godparents. Mediator parents might be the right term.

  They were mediator parents to hundreds of thousands, he didn’t know how many.

  But this wasn’t getting his work done—and he would have to go home early today, because of Theobald. He turned to his desk. A memorandum caught his eye—from himself to himself. Hmmm…he would have to get after that. Better talk to Carruthers. He swung around toward the phone.

  “Chief?”

  “Yes, Felix.”

  “I was talking with Doctor Thorgsen the other day, and I got an idea—may not be much in it.”

  “Give.” Way out on far Pluto, the weather is cold. The temperature rarely rises above eighteen degrees centigrade absolute even on the side toward the sun. And that refers to high noon in the open sunlight. Much of the machinery of the observatories is exposed to this intense cold. Machinery that will work on Terra will not work on Pluto, and vice versa. The laws of physics seem to be invariable but the characteristics of materials change with changes in temperature—consider ice and water, a mild example.

  Lubricating oil is a dry powder at such temperatures. Steel isn’t steel. The exploring scientists had to devise new technologies before Pluto could be conquered.

  Not only for mobiles but for stabiles as well—such as electrical equipment. Electrical equipment depends on, among other factors, the resistance characteristics of conductors; extreme cold lowers the electrical resistance of metals amazingly. At thirteen degrees centigrade absolute lead becomes a superconductor—it has no resistance whatsoever. An electric current induced in such lead seems to go on forever, without damping.

  There are many other such peculiarities. Hamilton did not go into them—it was a sure thing that a brilliant synthesist such as his chief had all the gross facts about such matters. The main fact was this: Pluto was a natural laboratory for low temperature research, not only for the benefit of the observatories but for every other purpose.

  One of the classic difficulties of science has to do with the fact that a research man can always think of things he wants to measure before instruments for the purpose have been devised. Genetics remained practically at a standstill for a century before ultramicroscopy reached the point where genes could really be seen. But the peculiar qualities of superconductors and near superconductors gave physicists an opportunity, using such chilled metals in new instruments, to build gadgets which would detect phenomena more subtle than ever before detected.

  Thorgsen and his colleagues had stellar bolometers so accurate and so sensitive as to make the readings of earlier instruments look like a casual horseback guess. He claimed to be able to measure the heat from a flushed cheek at ten parsecs. The colony on Pluto even had an electromagnetic radiation receiver which would—sometimes—enable them to receive messages from Terra, if the Great Egg smiled and everyone kept their fingers crossed.

  But telepathy, if it was anything physical at all—whatever “Physical” may mean!—should be detectable by some sort of a gadget. That the gadget would need to be extremely sensitive seemed a foregone conclusion; therefore, Pluto seemed a likely place to develop one.

  There was even some hope to go on. An instrument—Hamilton did not remember what it had been—had been perfected there, had worked satisfactorily, and then had performed very erratically indeed—when the two who had perfected it attempted to demonstrate it in the presence of a crowd of colleagues. It seemed sensitive to living people.

  To living people. Equivalent masses, of blood temperature and similar radiating surfaces, did not upset it. But it grew querulous in the presence of human beings. It was dubbed a “Life Detector”; the director of the colony saw possibilities in it and instigated further research.

  Hamilton’s point to Carruthers was this: might not the so-called life detector be something that was sensitive to whatever it was they called telepathy? Carruthers thought it possible. Would it not then be advisable to instigate research along that line on Terra? Decidedly. Or would it be better to send a team out to Pluto, where low temperature research was so much more handy? Go ahead on both lines, of course.

  Hamilton pointed out that it would be a year and a half until the next regular ship to Pluto. “Never mind that,” Carruthers told him. “Plan to send a special. The Board will stand for it.”

  Hamilton cleared the phone, turned it to recording, and spoke for several minutes, giving instructions to two of his bright young assistants. It was convenient, he thought, to have really adequate staff assistance. He referred to his next point of agenda.

  In digging back into the literature of the race it had been noted that the borderline subjects of the human spirit with which he was now dealing had once occupied much more of the attention of the race than now was the case. Spiritism, apparitions, reports of the dead appearing in dreams with messages which checked out, “Ghosties, and Ghoulies, and things that go Flop in the Dark” had once obsessed the attention of many. Much of the mass of pseudo-data seemed to be psychopathic. But not all of it. This chap Flammarion, for example, a professional astronomer (or was he an astrologer?—there used to be such, he knew, before space flight was developed)—anyhow, a man with his head screwed on tight, a man with a basic appreciation for the scientific method even in those dark ages. Flammarion had collected an enormous amount of data, which, if even one per cent of it was true, proved survival of the ego after the physical death beyond any reasonable doubt.

  It gave him a lift just to read about it.

  Hamilton knew that the loose stories of bygone days did not constitute evidence of the first order, but some of it, after examination by psychiatric semanticians, could be used as evidence of the second order. In any case, the experience of the past might give many a valuable clue for further research. The hardest part of this aspect of the Great Research was to know where to start looking.

  There were a couple of old books, for example, by a man named Doon, or Dunn, or something of the sort—the changes in speech symbols made the name uncertain—who had tediously collected records of fore-runner dreams for more than a quarter of a century. But he had died, no one had followed up his work, and it had been forgotten. Never mind—Dunn’s patience would be vindicated; over ten thousand careful men, in addition to their other activities, made a practice of recording their dreams immediately on wakening, before speaking to anyone or even getting out o
f bed. If dreams ever opened a window to the future, the matter would be settled, conclusively.

  Hamilton himself tried to keep such records. Unfortunately, he rarely dreamed. No matter—others did, and he was in touch with them.

  The old books Hamilton wished to have perused were mostly obscure and few translations had ever been made; idiom presented a hazard. There were scholars of comparative lingo, of course, but even for them the job was difficult. Fortunately, there was immediately at hand a man who could read Anglish of the year 1926 and for at least the century preceding that date—a particularly rich century for such research, as the scientific method was beginning to be appreciated by some but the interest in such matters was still high. Smith John Darlington—or J. Darlington Smith, as he preferred to be called. Hamilton had co-opted him.

  Smith did not want to do it. He was very busy with his feetball industry; he had three associations of ten battle groups each, and a fourth forming. His business was booming; he was in a fair way to becoming as rich as he wanted to be, and he disliked to spare the time.

  But he would do it—if the man who gave him his start in business insisted. Felix insisted.

  Felix telephoned him next. “Hello, Jack,”

  “Howdy, Felix.”

  “Do you have any more for me?”

  “I’ve a stock of spools shoulder high.”

  “Good. Tube them over, will you?”

  “Sure. Say, Felix, this stuff is awful, most of it.”

  “I don’t doubt it. But think how much ore must be refined to produce a gram of native radium. Well, I’ll clear now.”

  “Wait a minute, Felix. I got into a jam last night. I wonder if you could give me some advice.”

  “Certainly. Give.” It appeared that Smith, who, in spite of his financial success, was a brassarded man and technically a control natural, had inadvertently given offense to an armed citizen by refusing to give way automatically in a public place. The citizen had lectured Smith on etiquette. Smith had never fully adjusted himself to the customs of a different culture; he had done a most inurbane thing—he had struck the citizen with his closed fist, knocking him down and bloodying his nose.

  Naturally, there was the deuce to pay, and all big bills.

  The citizen’s next friend had called the following morning and presented Smith with a formal challenge. Smith must either accept and shoot it out, apologize acceptably, or be evicted from the city bodily by the citizen and his friends, with monitors looking on to see that the customs were maintained.

  “What ought I to do?”

  “I would advise you to apologize.” Hamilton saw no way out of it; to advise him to fight was to suggest suicide. Hamilton had no scruples about suicide, but he judged correctly that Smith preferred to live.

  “But I can’t do that—what do you think I am, a nigger?”

  “I don’t understand what you mean. What has your color to do with it?”

  “Oh, never mind. But I can’t apologize, Felix. I was ahead of him in line. Honest I was.”

  “But you were brassarded.”

  “But… Look, Felix, I want to shoot it out with him. Will you act for me?”

  “I will if you request it. He’ll kill you, you know.”

  “Maybe not. I might happen to beat him to the draw.”

  “Not in a set duel you won’t. The guns are cross-connected. Your gun won’t burn until the referee flashes the signal.”

  “I’m fairly fast.”

  “You’re outclassed. You don’t play feetball yourself you know. And you know why.”

  Smith knew. He had planned to play, as well as manage and coach, when the enterprise was started. A few encounters with the men he had hired soon convinced him that an athlete of his own period was below average in this present period. In particular his reflexes were late. He bit his lip and said nothing.

  “You sit tight,” said Felix, “and don’t go out of your apartment. I’ll do a little calling and see what can be worked out.”

  The next friend was polite but regretful. Awfully sorry not to oblige Master Hamilton but he was acting under instructions. Could Master Hamilton speak with his principal? Now, really, that was hardly procedure. But he admitted that the circumstances were unusual—give him a few minutes, then he would phone back.

  Hamilton received permission to speak to the principal; called him. No, the challenge could not be lifted—and the conversation was strictly under the rose. Procedure, you know. He was willing to accept a formal apology; he did not really wish to kill the man.

  Hamilton explained that Smith would not accept the humiliation—could not, because of his psychological background. He was a barbarian and simply could not see things from a gentleman’s point of view. Hamilton identified Smith as the Man from the Past.

  The principal nodded. “I know that now. Had I known that before, I would have ignored his rudeness—treated him as a child. But I didn’t know. And now, in view of what he did—well, my dear sir, I can hardly ignore it, can I?”

  Hamilton conceded that he was entitled to satisfaction, but suggested it would make him publicly unpopular to kill Smith. “He is rather a public darling, you know. I am inclined to think that many will regard it as murder to force him to fight.”

  The citizen had thought of that. Rather a dilemma, wasn’t it?

  “How would you like to combat him physically—punish him the way he damaged you, only more so?”

  “Really, my dear sir!”

  “Just an idea,” said Hamilton. “You might think about it. May we have three days grace?”

  “More, if you like. I told you I was not anxious to push it to a duel. I simply want to curb his manners. One might run into him anywhere.”

  Hamilton let it go, and called Mordan, a common thing when he was puzzled. “What do you think I ought to do, Claude?”

  “Well, there is no real reason why you should not let him go ahead and get himself killed. Individually, it’s his life; socially, he’s no loss.”

  “You forget that I am using him as a translator. Besides, I rather like him. He is pathetically gallant in the face of a world he does not understand.”

  “Mmm…well, in that case, we’ll try to find a solution.”

  “Do you know, Claude,” Felix said seriously, “I am beginning to have my doubts about this whole custom. Maybe I’m getting old, but, while it’s lots of fun for a bachelor to go swaggering around town, it looks a little different to me now. I’ve even thought of assuming the brassard.”

  “Oh, no, Felix, you mustn’t do that!”

  “Why not? A lot of people do.”

  “It’s not for you. The brassard is an admission of defeat, an acknowledgement of inferiority.”

  “What of it? I’d still be myself. I don’t care what people think.”

  “You’re mistaken, son. To believe that you can live free of your cultural matrix is one of the easiest fallacies to fall into, and has some of the worst consequences. You are part of your group whether you like it or not, and you are bound by its customs.”

  “But they’re only customs!”

  “Don’t belittle customs. It is easier to change Mendelian characteristics than it is to change customs. If you try to ignore them, they bind you when you least expect it.”

  “But dammit! How can there be any progress if we don’t break customs?”

  “Don’t break them—avoid them. Take them into your considerations, examine how they work, and make them serve you. You don’t need to disarm yourself to stay out of fights. If you did you would get into fights—I know you!—the way Smith did. An armed man need not fight. I haven’t drawn my gun for more years than I can remember.”

  “Come to think about it, I haven’t pulled mine in four years or more.”

  “That’s the idea. But don’t assume that the custom of going armed is useless. Customs always have a reason behind them, sometimes good, sometimes bad. This is a good one.”

  “Why do you say that? I used to think
so, but I have my doubts now.”

  “Well, in the first place an armed society is a polite society. Manners are good when one may have to back up his acts with his life. For me, politeness is a sine qua non of civilization. That’s a personal evaluation only. But gunfighting has a strong biological use. We do not have enough things to kill off the weak and the stupid these days. But to stay alive as an armed citizen a man has to be either quick with his wits or with his hands, preferably both. It’s a good thing.

  “Of course,” he continued, “our combativeness has to do with our ancestry and our history.” Hamilton nodded; he knew that Mordan referred to the Second Genetic War. “But we have preserved that inheritance intentionally. The Planners would not stop the wearing of arms if they could.”

  “Maybe so,” Felix answered slowly, “but it does seem like there ought to be a better way to do it. This way is pretty sloppy. Sometimes the bystanders get burned.”

  “The alert ones don’t,” Mordan pointed out. “But don’t expect human institutions to be efficient. They never have been; it is a mistake to think that they can be made so—in this millennium or the next.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we are sloppy, individually—and therefore collectively. Take a look at a cageful of monkeys, at your next opportunity. Watch how they do things and listen to them chatter. You’ll find it instructive. You’ll understand humans better.”

  Felix grinned. “I think I see what you mean. But what am I to do about Smith?”

  “If he gets out of this, I think he had better wear a gun after this. Perhaps you can impress on him then that his life will depend on the softness of his words. But for the present—I know this chap he challenged. Suppose you suggest me as referee.”