At the Post

experiences oftwenty years.

  Clocker stopped listening to her gabble and looked for the building thatZelda would probably be in. He saw ARTS AND ENTERTAINMENT, but when hetried to go there, he felt some compulsion keep him heading toward hisown destination.

  Looking back helplessly, he went inside.

  * * * * *

  He found that he was in a cubicle with a fatherly kind of man who hadthin gray hair, kindly eyes and a firm jaw, and who introduced himselfas Eric Barnes. He took Clocker's name, age, specific trade, and gavehim a serial number which, he explained, would go on file at the centralarchives on his home planet, cross-indexed in multiple ways for instantreference.

  "Now," said Barnes, "here is our problem, Mr. Locke. We are making twokinds of perpetual records. One is written; more precisely,microscribed. The other is a wonderfully exact duplicate of yourcerebral pattern--in more durable material than brain matter, ofcourse."

  "Of course," Clocker said, nodding like an obedient patsy.

  "The verbal record is difficult enough, since much of the data you giveus must be, by its nature, foreign to us. The duplication of yourcerebral pattern, however, is even more troublesome. Besides theinevitable distortion caused by a distance of 10,000 light-years and thefields of gravitation and radiation of all types intervening, thesubstance we use in place of brain cells absorbs memory quite slowly."Barnes smiled reassuringly. "But you'll be happy to know that theimpression, once made, can _never_ be lost or erased!"

  "Delighted," Clocker said flatly. "Tickled to pieces."

  "I knew you would be. Well, let us proceed. First, a basic descriptionof horse racing."

  Clocker began to give it. Barnes held him down to a single sentence--"Tocheck reception and retention," he said.

  The communication box on the desk lit up when Clocker repeated thesentence a few times, and a voice from the box said, "Increase output.Initial impression weak. Also wave distortion. Correct and continue."

  Barnes carefully adjusted the dials and Clocker went on repeating thesentence, slowing down to the speed Barnes requested. He did itautomatically after a while, which gave him a chance to think.

  He had no plan to get Zelda out of here; he was improvising and hedidn't like it. The setup still had him puzzled. He knew he wasn'tdreaming all this, for there were details his imagination could neverhave supplied, and the notion of spirits with scientific devices wouldbaffle even Oil Pocket.

  Everybody else appeared to accept these men as the aliens they claimedto be, but Clocker, fearing a con he couldn't understand, refused to. Hehad no other explanation, though, no evidence of any kind except deepsuspicion of any noble-sounding enterprise. In his harsh experience,they always had a profit angle hidden somewhere.

  Until he knew more, he had to go along with the routine, hoping he wouldeventually find a way out for Zelda and himself. While he was repeatinghis monotonous sentence, he wondered what his body was doing back onEarth. Lying in a bed, probably, since he wasn't being asked to performany physical jobs like Zelda's endless time-step.

  That reminded him of Doc Hawkins and the psychiatrists. There must besome here; he wished vengefully that he could meet them and see whatthey thought of their theories now.

  * * * * *

  Then came the end of what was apparently the work day.

  "We're making splendid progress," Barnes told him. "I know how tiresomeit is to keep saying the same thing over and over, but the distance is_such_ a great obstacle. I think it's amazing that we can even _bridge_it, don't you? Just imagine--the light that's reaching Earth at thisvery minute left our star when mammoths were roaming your western statesand mankind lived in caves! And yet, with our thought-wave boosters, weare in instantaneous communication!"

  The soap, Clocker thought, to make him feel he was doing somethingimportant.

  "Well, you are doing something important," Barnes said, as thoughClocker had spoken.

  Clocker would have turned red if he had been able to. As it was, he feltdismay and embarrassment.

  "Do you realize the size and value of this project?" Barnes went on. "Wehave a more detailed record of human society than Man himself ever had!There will be not even the most insignificant corner of yourcivilization left unrecorded! Your life, my life--the life of this Zeldawhom you came here to rescue--all are trivial, for we must dieeventually, but the project will last eternally!"

  Clocker stood up, his eyes hard and worried. "You're telling me you knowwhat I'm here for?"

  "To secure the return of your wife. I would naturally be aware that youhad submitted yourself to our control voluntarily. It was in your file,which was sent to me by Admissions."

  "Then why did you let me in?"

  "Because, my dear friend--"

  "Leave out the 'friend' pitch. I'm here on business."

  Barnes shrugged. "As you wish. We let you in, as you express it, becauseyou have knowledge that we should include in our archives. We hoped youwould recognize the merit and scope of out undertaking. Most people do,once they are told."

  "Zelda, too?"

  "Oh, yes," Barnes said emphatically. "I had that checked by Statistics.She is extremely cooperative, quite convinced--"

  "Don't hand me that!"

  * * * * *

  Barnes rose. Straightening the papers on his desk, he said, "You want tospeak to her and see for yourself? Fair enough."

  He led Clocker out of the building. They crossed the great square to avast, low structure that Barnes referred to as the Education andRecreation Center.

  "Unless there are special problems," Barnes said, "our human associateswork twelve or fourteen of your hours, and the rest of the time is theirown. Sleep isn't necessary to the psychic projection, of course, thoughit is to the body on Earth. And what, Mr. Locke, would you imagine theychoose as their main amusements?"

  "Pinball machines?" Clocker suggested ironically. "Crap games?"

  "Lectures," said Barnes with pride. "They are eager to learn everythingpossible about our project. We've actually had the director himselfaddress them! Oh, it was inspiring, Mr. Locke--color films in threedimensions, showing the great extent of our archives, the many millionsof synthetic brains, each with indestructible memories of skills andcrafts and professions and experiences that soon will be no more--"

  "Save it. Find Zelda for me and then blow. I want to talk to her alone."

  Barnes checked with the equivalent of a box office at the Center, where,he told Clocker, members of the audience and staff were required toreport before entering, in case of emergency.

  "Like what?" Clocker asked.

  "You have a suspicious mind," said Barnes patiently. "Faulty neuroncircuit in a synthetic duplicate brain, for example. Photon stormsinterfering with reception. Things of that sort."

  "So where's the emergency?"

  "We have so little time. We ask the human associate in question torecord again whatever was not received. The percentage of refusal isactually _zero_! Isn't that splendid?"

  "Best third degree I ever heard of," Clocker admitted through clampedteeth. "The cops on Earth would sell out every guy they get graft fromto buy a thing like this."

  * * * * *

  They found Zelda in a small lecture hall, where a matronly woman fromthe other planet was urging her listeners to conceal nothing, howeverintimate, while recording--"Because," she said, "this must be apsychological as well as a cultural and sociological history."

  Seeing Zelda, Clocker rushed to her chair, hauled her upright, kissedher, squeezed her.

  "Baby!" he said, more choked up than he thought his control would allow."Let's get out of here!"

  She looked at him without surprise. "Oh, hello, Clocker. Later. I wantto hear the rest of this lecture."

  "Ain't you glad to see me?" he asked, hurt. "I spend months and shootevery dime I got just to find you--"

  "Sure I'm glad to see you, hon," she said, trying
to look past him atthe speaker. "But this is so important--"

  Barnes came up, bowed politely. "If you don't mind, Miss Zelda, I thinkyou ought to talk to your husband."

  "But what about the lecture?" asked Zelda anxiously.

  "I can get a transcription for you to study later."

  "Well, all right," she agreed reluctantly.

  Barnes left them on a strangely warm stone bench in the great square,after asking them to report back to work at the usual time. Zelda,instead of looking at Clocker, watched Barnes walk away. Her eyes werebright; she almost radiated.

  "Isn't he wonderful, Clocker?" she said. "Aren't they all wonderful?Regular scientists, every one of them, devoting their whole life to thisterrific cause!"

  "What's so wonderful about that?" he all but snarled.

  She turned and gazed at him in mild astonishment. "They could let theEarth go boom. It wouldn't mean a thing to them. Everybody wiped outjust like there never were any people. Not even as much record of us asthe dinosaurs! Wouldn't that make you feel simply awful?"

  "I wouldn't feel a thing." He took her unresponsive hand. "All I'mworried about is us, baby. Who cares about the rest of the world doing adisappearing act?"

  "I do. And so do they. They aren't selfish like some people I couldmention."

  "Selfish? You're damned right I am!"

  * * * * *

  He pulled her to him, kissed her neck in her favorite place. It got areaction--restrained annoyance.

  "I'm selfish," he said, "because I got a wife I'm nuts about and I wanther back. They got you wrapped, baby. Can't you see that? You belongwith me in some fancy apartment, the minute I can afford it, like one Isaw over on Riverside Drive--seven big rooms, three baths, one of themwith a stall shower like you always wanted, the Hudson River and Jerseyfor our front lawn--"

  "That's all in the past, hon," she said with quiet dignity. "I have tohelp out on this project. It's the least I can do for history."

  "The hell with history! What did history ever do for us?" He put hismouth near her ear, breathing gently in the way that once used to makeher squirm in his arms like a tickled doe. "Go turn in your time-card,baby. Tell them you got a date with me back on Earth."

  She pulled away and jumped up. "No! This is my job as much as theirs.More, even. They don't keep anybody here against their will. I'm stayingbecause I want to, Clocker."

  Furious, he snatched her off her feet. "I say you're coming back withme! If you don't want to, I'll drag you, see?"

  "How?" she asked calmly.

  He put her down again slowly, frustratedly. "Ask them to let you go,baby. Oil Pocket said he'd put you in a musical. You always did want tohit the big time--"

  "Not any more." She smoothed down her dress and patted up her hair."Well, I want to catch the rest of that lecture, hon. See you around ifyou decide to stay."

  He sat down morosely and watched her snake-hip toward the Center,realizing that her seductive walk was no more than professionalconditioning. She had grown in some mysterious way, become moreserene--at peace.

  He had wondered what catatonics got for their work. He knew now--theslickest job of hypnotic flattery ever invented. That was _their_ pay.

  But what did the pitchmen get in return?

  * * * * *

  Clocker put in a call for Barnes at the box office of the Center. Barnesleft a lecture for researchers from his planet and joined Clocker withno more than polite curiosity on his paternal face. Clocker told himbriefly and bitterly about his talk with Zelda, and asked bluntly whatwas in it for the aliens.

  "I think you can answer that," said Barnes. "You're a scientist of asort. You determine the probable performance of a group of horses bytheir heredity, previous races and other factors. A very laboriouscomputation, calling for considerable aptitude and skill. With that sameexpenditure of energy, couldn't you earn more in other fields?"

  "I guess so," Clocker said. "But I like the track."

  "Well, there you are. The only human form of gain we share is desire forknowledge. You devote your skill to predicting a race that is about tobe run; we devote ours to recording a race that is about to destroyitself."

  Clocker grabbed the alien's coat, pushed his face grimly close. "There,that's the hook! Take away the doom push and this racket folds."

  Barnes looked bewildered. "I don't comprehend--"

  "Listen, suppose everything's square. Let's say you guys really areleveling, these marks aren't being roped, you're knocking yourself outbecause your guess is that we're going to commit suicide."

  "Oh." Barnes nodded somberly. "Is there any doubt of it? Do you honestlybelieve the holocaust can be averted?"

  "I think it can be stopped, yeah. But you birds act like you don't wantit to be. You're just laying back, letting us bunch up, collecting theinsurance before the spill happens."

  "What else can we do? We're scientists, not politicians. Besides, we'vetried repeatedly to spread the warning and never once succeeded intransmitting it."

  Clocker released his grip on the front of Barnes's jacket. "You take meto the president or commissioner or whoever runs this club. Maybe we canwork something out."

  "We have a board of directors," Barnes said doubtfully. "But I can'tsee--"

  "Don't rupture yourself trying. Just take me there and let me do thetalking."

  Barnes moved his shoulders resignedly. He led Clocker to theAdministration Building and inside to a large room with paneled walls, along, solid table and heavy, carved chairs. The men who sat around thetable appeared as solid and respectable as the furniture. Clocker'sguess was that they had been chosen deliberately, along with thedecorations, to inspire confidence in the customer. He had been inrigged horse parlors and bond stores and he knew the approach.

  * * * * *

  Mr. Calhoun, the character with the white beard, was chairman of theboard. He looked unhappily at Clocker.

  "I was afraid there would be trouble," he said. "I voted againstaccepting you, you know. My colleagues, however, thought that you, asour first voluntary associate, might indicate new methods, but I fear myjudgment has been vindicated."

  "Still, if he knows how extinction can be prevented--" began Dr.Harding, the one who had given the orientation lecture.

  "He knows no such thing," a man with several chins said in an emphaticbasso voice. "Man is the most destructive dominant race we have everencountered. He despoiled his own planet, exterminated lower speciesthat were important to his own existence, oppressed, suppressed,brutalized, corrupted--it's the saddest chronicle in the Universe."

  "Therefore his achievements," said Dr. Harding, "deserve all the morerecognition!"

  Clocker broke in: "If you'll lay off the gab, I'd like to get my betdown."

  "Sorry," said Mr. Calhoun. "Please proceed, Mr. Locke."

  Clocker rested his knuckles on the table and leaned over them. "I haveto take your word you ain't human, but you don't have to take mine. Inever worried about anybody but Zelda and myself; that makes me human.All I want is to get along and not hurt anybody if I can help it; thatmakes me what some people call the common man. Some of my best friendsare common men. Come to think of it, they all are. They wouldn't want toget extinct. If we do, it won't be our fault."

  Several of the men nodded sympathetic agreement.

  "I don't read much except the sport sheets, but I got an idea what'scoming up," Clocker continued, "and it's a long shot that any countrycan finish in the money. We'd like to stop war for good, all of us.Little guys who do the fighting and the dying. Yeah, and lots of bigguys, too. But we can't do it alone."

  "That's precisely our point," said Calhoun.

  "I mean us back on Earth. People are afraid, but they just don't knowfor sure that we can knock ourself off. Between these catatonics and me,we could tell them what it's all about. I notice you got people from allover the world here, all getting along fine because they have a job todo and no time
to hate each other. Well, it could be like that on Earth.You let us go back and you'll see a selling job on making it like uphere like you never saw before."

  Mr. Calhoun and Dr. Harding looked at each other and around the table.Nobody seemed willing to answer.

  Mr. Calhoun finally sighed and got out of his big chair. "Mr. Locke,besides striving for international understanding, we have experimentedin the manner you suggest. We released many of our human associates totell what our science predicts on the basis of probability. A humanpsychological mechanism defeated us."

  "Yeah?" Clocker asked warily. "What was that?"

  "Protective amnesia. They completely and absolutely forgot everythingthey had learned here."

  * * * * *

  Clocker slumped a bit. "I know. I talked to some of these 'cured'catatonics--people you probably sprung because you got all you wantedfrom them. They didn't remember anything." He braced again. "Look, therehas to be a way out. Maybe if you snatch these