Boys, this was it—that nucleus I told you about. I'll try to give you an idea of what it looked like because it was the most sensational thing I've ever seen—and I've seen plenty in my time. The room took up the entire width of the building and it was two stories high. I felt as though I'd walked into the middle of a clock. Space was literally filled with the shimmer and spin of cogs and cams that gleamed with the peculiar highlights you see on a droplet of water about to fall. All of those thousands of wheels spun in sockets of precious stone—just like a watch only bigger and those dots of red and yellow and green and blue fire burned until they looked like a painting by that Frenchman from way back. Seurat was his name.
The walls were lined with banks of Computation Integraphs—you could see the end-total curves where they were plotted on photoelectric plates. The setting dials for the Integraphs were all at eye level and ran around the entire circumference of the room like a chain of enormous white-faced periods. That was about all of the stuff I could recognize. The rest just looked complicated and bewildering.
That bam-bam-bam I told you about came from the very center of the room. There was a crystal octahedron maybe ten feet high, nipped between vertical axes above and below. It was spinning slowly so that it looked jerky, and the vibration was the sound of the motors that turned it. From way high up there were shafts of light projected at it. The slow turning facets caught those beams and shattered them and sent them dancing through the room. Boys—it was really sensational.
I took a couple of steps in and then a little old coot in a white jacket bustled across the room, saw me, nodded, and went about his business. He hadn't taken more than another three steps when he stopped and came back to me. It was a real slow take.
He said: "I don't quite—" and then he broke off doubtfully. He had a withered, faraway look, as though he'd spent all his life trying to remember he was alive.
I said: "I'm Carmichael."
"O yes!" he began, brightening a little. Then his face got dubious again.
I played it real smart. I said: "I'm with Stabilizer Groating."
"Secretary?"
"Yeah."
"You know, Mr. Mitchell," he said, "I can't help feeling that despite the gloomier aspects there are some very encouraging features. The Ultimate Datum System that we have devised should bring us down to surveys of the near future in a short time—" He gave me a quizzical glance like a dog begging for admiration on his hind legs.
I said: "Really?"
"It stands to reason. After all, once a technique has been devised for pushing analysis into the absolute future, a comparatively simple reversal should bring it as close as tomorrow."
I said: "It should at that." and wondered what he was talking about. Now that some of the fright had worn off I was feeling slightly disappointed. Here I expected to find the Hyperman who was handing down Sinai Decrees to our bosses and I walk into a multiplied clock.
He was rather pleased. He said: "You think so?"
"I think so."
"Will you mention that to Mr. Groating? I feel it might encourage him—"
I got even smarter. I said: "To tell you the truth, sir, the Stabilizer sent me up for a short review. I'm new to the staff and unfortunately I was delayed in Washington."
He said: "Tut-Tut, forgive me. Step this way, Mr. . . . Mr. Ahh—"
So I stepped his way and we went weaving through the clockworks to a desk at one side of the room. There were half a dozen chairs behind it and he seated me alongside himself. The flat top of the desk was banked with small tabs and push buttons so that it looked like a stenotype. He pressed one stud and the room darkened. He pressed another and the bam-bam quickened until it was a steady hum. The octahedron crystal whirled so quickly that it became a shadowy mist of light under the projectors.
"I suppose you know," the old coot said in rather self-conscious tones, "that this is the first time we've been able to push our definitive analysis to the ultimate future. We'd never have done it if Wiggons hadn't developed his self-checking data systems."
I said: "Good for Wiggons," and I was more confused than ever. I tell you, boys, it felt like waking up from a dream you couldn't quite remember. You know that peculiar sensation of having everything at the edge of your mind so to speak and not being able to get hold of it—I had a thousand clues and inferences jangling around in my head and none of them would interlock. But I knew this was big stuff.
Shadows began to play across the crystal. Off-focus images and flashes of color. The little old guy murmured to himself and his fingers plucked at the keyboard in a quick fugue of motion. Finally he said: "Ah!" and sat back to watch the crystal. So did I.
I was looking through a window in space, and beyond that window I saw a single bright star in the blackness. It was sharp and cold and so brilliant it hurt your eyes. Just beyond the window, in the foreground, I saw a spaceship. No, none of your cigar things or ovate spheroids or any of that. It was a spaceship that seemed to have been built mostly in afterthoughts. A great rambling affair with added wings and towers and helter-skelter ports. It looked like it'd been built just to hang there in one place.
The old coot said: "Watch close now, Mr. Muggins, things happen rather quickly at this tempo."
Quickly? They practically sprinted. There was a spurt of activity around the spaceship. Towers went up and came down; the bug-like figures of people in space armor bustled about; a little cruiser, shaped like a fat needle, sped up to it, hung around a while and then sped away. There was a tense second of waiting and then the star blotted out. In another moment the spaceship was blotted out, too. The crystal was black.
My friend, the goofy professor, touched a couple of studs and we had a long view. There were clusters of stars spread before me sharply, brilliantly in focus. As I watched, the upper side of the crystal began to blacken. In a few swift moments the stars were blacked out. Just like that. Blooey! It reminded me of school when we added carbon ink to a drop under the mike just to see how the amoebae would take it.
He punched the buttons like crazy and we had more and more views of the Universe, and always that black cloud crept along, blotting everything out. After a while he couldn't find any more stars. There was nothing but blackness. It seemed to me that it wasn't more than an extra-special Stereo Show, but it chilled me nevertheless. I started thinking about those amoebae and feeling sorry for them.
The lights went on and I was back inside the clock again. He turned to me and said: "Well, what do you think?"
I said: "I think it's swell."
That seemed to disappoint him. He said: "No, no-I mean, what do you make of it? Do you agree with the others?"
"With Stabilizer Groating, you mean?"
He nodded.
I said: "You'll have to give me a little time to think it over. It's rather—startling."
"By all means," he said, escorting me to the door, "do think it over. Although"—he hesitated with his hand on the knob—"I shouldn't agree with your choice of the word 'startling'. After all, it's only what we expected all along. The Universe must come to an end one way or another."
Think? Boys, the massive brain practically fumed as I went back downstairs. I went out into the press room and I wondered what there was about a picture of a black cloud that could have upset the Stabilizer. I drifted out of the Prog Building and decided I'd better go down to the controller's office for another bluff, so I didn't drift any more. There was a pneumatic pick-up at the corner. I caught a capsule and clicked off the address on the dial. In three and a half minutes I was there.
As I turned the overhead dome back and started to step out of my capsule, I found myself surrounded by the rest of the newspaper crowd.
The Ledger said: "Where you been, my friendly, we needed your quick brain but bad."
I said: "I'm still looking for Hogan. I can't cover a thing until I've seen him. What's this need for brains?"
"Not just any brains. Your brain."
I got out of the capsule a
nd showed my empty pocket.
The Ledger said: "We're not soaping you for a loan—we needed interpolation."
"Aha?"
The Record said: "The dope means interpretation. We got one of those official releases again. All words and no sense."
"I mean interpolation," the Ledger said. "We got to have some one read implications into this barren chaff."
I said: "Brothers, you want exaggeration and I'm not going to give it this time. Too risky."
So I trotted up the ramp to the main floor and went to the vice deputy's office and then I thought: "I've got a big thing here, why bother with the small fry?" I did a turnabout and went straight to the controller's suite. I knew it would be tough to get in because the controller has live secretaries—no voders. He also happens to have four receptionists. Beautiful, but tough.
The first never saw me. I breezed right by and was in the second anteroom before she could say: "What is it, pa-lee-azz?" The second was warned by the bang of the door and grabbed hold of my arm as I tried to go through. I got past anyway, with two of them holding on, but number three added her lovely heft and I bogged down. By this time I was within earshot of the controller so I screamed: "Down with Stability!"
Sure I did. I also shouted: "Stability is all wrong! I'm for Chaos. Hurray for Chaos!" and a lot more like that. The receptionists were shocked to death and one of them put in a call for emergency and a couple of guys hanging around were all for boffing me. I kept on downing with Stability and fighting toward the sanctum sanctorum et cetera and having a wonderful time because the three girls hanging on to me were strictly class and I happily suffocated on Exuberant No. 5. Finally the controller came out to see what made.
They let go of me and the controller said: "What's the meaning of this?.. . Oh, it's you."
I said: "Excuse it, please."
"Is this your idea of a joke, Carmichael?"
"No, sir, but it was the only quick way to get to you."
"Sorry, Carmichael, but it's a little too quick."
I said: "Wait a minute, sir."
"Sorry, I'm extremely busy." He looked worried and impatient all at once.
I said: "You've got to give me a moment in private."
"Impossible. See my secretary." He turned toward his office.
"Please, sir—"
He waved his hand and started through the door. I took a jump and caught him by the elbow. He was sputtering furiously when I swung him around, but I got my arms around him and gave him a hug. When my mouth was against his ear I whispered: "I've been upstairs in the Prog Building. I know!"
He stared at me and his jaw dropped. After a couple of vague gestures with his hands he motioned me in with a jerk of his head. I marched straight into the controller's office and almost fell down dead. The stabilizer was there. Yeah, old Jehovah Groating himself, standing before the window. All he needed was the stone tablets in his arms—or is it thunderbolts?
I felt very, very sober, my friends, and not very smart any more because the stabilizer is a sobering sight no matter how you kid about him. I nodded politely and waited for the controller to shut the door. I was wishing I could be on the other side of the door. Also I was wishing I'd never gone upstairs into the Prog Building.
The controller said: "This is John Carmichael, Mr. Groating, a reporter for the Times."
We both said: "How-d'you-do?" only Groating said it out loud. I just moved my lips.
The controller said: "Now, Carmichael, what's this about the Prog Building?"
"I went upstairs, sir."
He said: "You'll have to speak a little louder."
I cleared my throat and said: "I went upstairs, sir."
"You what!"
"W-went upstairs."
This time lightning really did flash from the C-S's eyes.
I said: "If I've made trouble for anyone, I'm sorry. I've been wanting to get up there for years and . . . and when I got the chance today, I couldn't resist it—" Then I told them how I sneaked up and what I did.
The controller made a terrible fuss about the whole affair, and I knew—don't ask me how, I simply knew—that something drastic was going to be done about it unless I talked plenty fast. By this time, though, the clues in my head were beginning to fall into place. I turned directly to the C-S and I said: "Sir, Prog stands for Prognostication, doesn't it?"
There was silence. Finally Groating nodded slowly.
I said: "You've got some kind of fortuneteller up there. You go up every afternoon and get your fortune told. Then you come out and tell the press about it as though you all thought it up by yourselves. Right?"
The controller sputtered, but Groating nodded again.
I said: "This afternoon the end of the Universe was prognosticated."
Another silence. At last Groating sighed wearily. He shut the controller up with a wave of his hand and said: "It seems Mr. Carmichael does know enough to make things awkward all around."
The controller burst out: "It's no fault of mine. I always insisted on a thorough guard system. If we had guarded the—"
"Guards," Groating interrupted, "would only have upset existing Stability. They would have drawn attention and suspicion. We were forced to take the chance of a slip-up. Now that it's happened we must make the best of it."
I said: "Excuse me, sir. I wouldn't have come here just to boast. I could have kept quiet about it. What bothers me is what bothered you?"
Groating stared at me for a moment, then turned away and began to pace up and down the room. There was no anger in his attitude; if there had been, I wouldn't have been as scared as I was. It was a big room and he did a lot of pacing and I could see he was coldly analyzing the situation and deciding what was to be done with me. That frigid appraisal had me trembling.
I said: "I'll give you my word not to mention this again—if that'll do the trick."
He paid no attention—merely paced. My mind raced cra-zily through all the nasty things that could happen to me. Like solitary for life. Like one-way exploration. Like an obliterated memory track which meant I would have lost my twenty-eight years, not that they were worth much to anyone but me.
I got panicky and yelled: "You can't do anything to me. Remember Stability—" I began to quote the Credo as fast as I could remember:
"The status quo must be maintained at all costs.
"Every member of society is an integral and essential factor of the status quo. A blow at the Stability of any individual is a blow aimed at the Stability of society. Stability that is maintained at the cost of so much as a single individual is tantamount to Chaos—"
"Thank you, Mr. Carmichael," the C-S interrupted. "I have already learned the Credo."
He went to the controller's desk and punched the teletype keys rapidly. After a few minutes of horrible waiting the answer came clicking back. Groating read the message, nodded and beckoned to me. I stepped up to him and, boys, I don't know how the legs kept from puddling on the floor.
Groating said: "Mr. Carmichael, it is my pleasure to appoint you confidential reporter to the Stability Board for the duration of this crisis."
I said: "Awk!"
Groating said: "We've maintained Stability, you see, and insured your silence. Society cannot endure change—but it can endure and welcome harmless additions. A new post has been created and you're it."
I said: "Th-thanks."
"Naturally, there will be an advance in credit for you. That is the price we pay, and gladly. You will attach yourself to me. All reports will be confidential. Should you break confidence, society will exact the usual penalty for official corruption. Shall I quote the Credo on that point?"
I said: "No, sir!" because I knew that one by heart. The usual penalty isn't pleasant. Groating had me beautifully hog-tied. I said: "What about the Times, sir?"
"Why," Groating said, "you will continue your usual duties whenever possible. You will submit the official releases as though you had no idea at all of what was really taking place. I'm sure I
can spare you long enough each day to make an appearance at your office."
Suddenly he smiled at me and in that moment I felt better. I realized that he was far from being a Jehovian menace—in fact that he'd done all he could to help me out of the nasty spot my curiosity had gotten me into. I grinned back and on impulse shoved out my hand. He took it and gave it a shake. Everything was fine.
The C-S said: "Now that you're a fellow-official, Mr. Carmichael, I'll come to the point directly. The Prog Building, as you've guessed, is a Prognostication Center. With the aid of a complete data system and a rather complex series of Integraphs we have been able to . . . to tell our fortunes, as you put it."
I said: "I was just shooting in the dark, sir. I really don't believe it."
Groating smiled. He said: "Nevertheless it exists. Prophecy is far from being a mystical function. It is a very logical science based on experimental factors. The prophecy of an eclipse to the exact second of time and precise degree of longitude strikes the layman with awe. The scientist knows it is the result of precise mathematical work with precise data."
"Sure," I began, "but—"
Groating held up his hand. "The future of the world line," he said, is essentially the same problem magnified only by the difficulty of obtaining accurate data—and enough data. For, example: Assuming an apple orchard, what are the chances of apples being stolen?"
I said: "I couldn't say. Depends, I suppose, on whether there are any kids living in the neighborhood."
"All right;" Groating said, "that's additional data. Assuming the orchard and the small boys, what are the chances of stolen apples?"
"Pretty good."
"Add data. A locust plague is reported on the way."
"Not so good."
"More data. Agriculture reports a new efficient locust spray."
"Better."
"And still more data. In the past years the boys have stolen apples and been soundly punished. Now what are the chances?"
"Maybe a little less."
"Continue the experimental factors with an analysis of the boys. They are headstrong and will ignore punishment. Add also the weather forecasts for the summer; add the location of the orchard and attitude of owner. Now sum up: Orchard plus boys plus thefts plus punishment plus character plus locusts plus spray plus—"