Eye in the Sky

  “This business about Marsha poses a certain problem. We’re not concerned with the security aspect, of course … but I will have to ask you this. Jack, tell me truthfully.” Reaching into his pocket, Tillingford got out a black-bound volume, gold-stamped Bayan of the Second Bab, and handed it to Hamilton. “In college, when you two were mixed up in radical groups, you didn’t practice—shall I say, ‘free love?”

  Hamilton had no answer. Mute, dazed, he stood holding the Bayan of the Second Bab; it was still warm from Tillingford’s coat pocket. A pair of EDA’s bright young men had come quietly into the room; they now stood respectfully watching. Dressed in long white lab smocks, they seemed curiously solemn and obedient. Their smooth-cropped skulls reminded him of the polls of young monks … odd that he had never noticed how much the popular crewcut resembled the ancient ascetic practice of religious orders. These two men were certainly typical of bright young physicists; where was their usual brashness?

  “And while we’re at it,” Doctor Tillingford said, “I might as well ask you this. Jack, my boy, hold onto that Bayan and tell me truthfully. Have you found the One True Gate to blessed salvation?”

  All eyes were on him. He swallowed, flushed beet-red, stood helplessly struggling. “Doctor,” he managed finally, “I think I’ll come back some other time.”

  Concerned, Tillingford removed his glasses and carefully eyed the younger man. “Jack, don’t you feel well?”

  “I’ve been under a lot of strain. Losing my job …” Hastily, Hamilton added: “And other difficulties. Marsha and I were in an accident, yesterday. A new deflector went wrong and bathed us with hard radiation, over at the Bevatron.”

  “Oh, yes,” Tillingford agreed. “I heard about that. Nobody killed, fortunately.”

  ‘Those eight people,” one of his ascetic young technicians put in, “must have walked with the Prophet. That was a long drop.”

  “Doctor,” Hamilton said hoarsely, “could you recommend a good psychiatrist?”

  A slow, incredulous glaze settled over the elderly scientist’s face. “A—what? Are you out of your head, boy?”

  “Yes,” Hamilton answered. “Apparently.”

  “We’ll discuss this later,” Tillingford said shortly, in a choked voice. Impatiently, he waved his two technicians out of the room. “Go down to the mosque,” he told them. “Meditate until I call for you.”

  They departed, with an intent, thoughtful scrutiny of Hamilton.

  “You can talk to me,” Tillingford said heavily. “I’m your friend. I knew your father, Jack. He was a great physicist. They don’t come any better. I always had high hopes for you. Naturally, I was disappointed when you went to work for California Maintenance. But, of course, we have to bow to the Cosmic Will.”

  “Can I ask you a few questions?” Cold perspiration poured down Hamilton’s neck, into his starched white collar. “This place is still a scientific organization, isn’t it? Or is it?”

  “Still?” Puzzled, Tillingford took back his Bayan from Hamilton’s lifeless fingers. “I don’t get the drift of your questions, boy. Be more specific.”

  “Let’s put it this way. I’ve been-cut off. Deep in my own work, I’ve lost contact with what the rest of the field is doing. And,” he finished desperately, “I don’t have any idea what other fields are up to. Maybe—could you briefly acquaint me with the current overall picture?”

  “Picture,” Tillingford echoed, nodding. “Very commonly lost sight of. That’s the trouble with overspecialization. I can’t tell you too much, myself. Our work at EDA is fairly well delineated; one might even say prescribed. Over at Cal Main you were developing weapons for use against the infidels; that’s simple and obvious. Strictly applied science, correct?”

  “Correct,” Hamilton agreed.

  “Here, we’re working with an eternal and basic problem, that of communication. It’s our job—and it’s quite a job—to insure the fundamental electronic structure of communication. We have electronics men—like yourself. We have top-notch consulting semanticists. We have very good research psychologists. All of us form a team to tackle this basic problem of man’s existence: keeping a well-functioning wire open between Earth and Heaven.”

  Doctor Tillingford continued: “Although of course you’re already familiar with this, I’ll say it again. In the old days, before communication was subjected to rigid scientific analysis, a variety of haphazard systems existed. Burnt sacrifices; attempts to attract God’s attention by tickling His nose and palate. Very crude, very unscientific. Loud prayer and hymn singing, still practiced by the uneducated classes. Well, let them sing their hymns and chant their prayers.” Pressing a button, he caused one wall of the room to become transparent. Hamilton found himself gazing down at the elaborate research labs that lay spread out in a ring around Tillingford’s office: layer after layer of men and equipment, the most advanced machines and technicians available.

  “Norbert Wiener,” Tillingford said. “You recall his work in cybernetics. And, even more important, Enrico Destini’s work in the field of theophonics.”

  “What’s that?”

  Tillingford raised an eyebrow. “You are a specialist, my boy. Communication between man and God, of course. Using Wiener’s work, and using the invaluable material of Shannon and Weaver, Destini was able to set up the first really adequate system of communication between Earth and Heaven in 1946. Of course, he had the use of all that equipment from the War Against the Pagan Hordes, those damned Wotan-Worshiping, Oak-Tree-Praising Huns.”

  “You mean the—Nazis?”

  “I’m familiar with that term. That’s sociologist jargon, isn’t it? And that Denier of the Prophet, that Anti-Bab. They say he’s still alive down in Argentina. Found the elixir of eternal youth or something. He made that pact with the devil in 1939, you remember. Or was that before your time? But you know about it—it’s history.”

  “I know,” Hamilton said thickly.

  “And yet, there were still people who didn’t see the handwriting on the wall. Sometimes I think the Faithful deserve to be humbled. A few hydrogen bombs set off here and there, and the strong current of atheism that just can’t be stamped out—”

  “Other fields,” Hamilton interrupted. “What are they doing? Physics. What about the physicists?”

  “Physics is a closed subject,” Tillingford informed him. “Virtually everything about the material universe is known—was known centuries ago. Physics has become an abstract side of engineering.”

  “And the engineers?”

  In answer, Tillingford tossed him the November “59 Issue of the Journal of Applied Sciences. The lead article gives you a good idea, I think. Brilliant man, that Hirschbein.”

  The lead article was entitled Theoretical Aspects of the Problem of Reservoir Construction. Underneath was a subtitle. The necessity of maintaining a constant supply of untainted grace for all major population centers.

  “Grace?” Hamilton said feebly.

  “The engineers,” Tillingford explained, “are mainly preoccupied with the job of piping grace for every Babiite community the world over. In a sense, it’s an analogue to our problem of keeping the lines of communication open.”

  “And that’s all they do

  “Well,” Tillingford acknowledged, “there’s the constant task of building mosques, temples, altars. The Lord is a strict taskmaster, you realize; His specifications are quite exact. Frankly, just between you and me, I don’t envy those fellows. One slip and”—he snapped his fingers—“poof.”

  “Poof?”

  “Lightning.”

  “Oh,” Hamilton said. “Of course.”

  “So very few of the brighter boys go into engineering. Too high a mortality rate.” Tillingford scrutinized him with fatherly care. “My boy, you see, don’t you, that you’re really in a good field?”

  “I never doubted that,” Hamilton said hoarsely. “I was just curious to find out what that field is.”

  “I’m satisfied as to you
r moral status,” Tillingford told him. “I know you’re from a good, clean, God-fearing family. Your father was the soul of honesty and humility. I hear from him occasionally, still.”

  “Hear?” Hamilton said weakly.

  “He’s getting along quite well. He misses you, naturally.” Tillingford indicated the intercom system on his desk. “If you’d like—”

  “No,” Hamilton said, backing away. “I’m still under the weather from my accident. I couldn’t stand it”

  “Suit yourself.” Tillingford clapped a friendly hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Want to have a look at the labs? We’ve got some darn good equipment, let me tell you.” In a confidential whisper, he revealed, “Took a mighty lot of praying, though. Over at your old bailiwick, Cal Main, they were sending up quite a noise themselves.”

  “But you got it.”

  “Oh, yes. After all, we set up the communication lines.” Grinning and winking slyly, Tillingford led him toward the door. “I’ll turn you over to our Personnel Director … he’ll do the actual hiring.”

  The Personnel Director was a florid, smooth-jowled man who beamed happily at Hamilton as he fumbled in his desk for his forms and papers. “We’ll be happy to accept your application, Mr. Hamilton. EDA needs men of your experience. And if the Doctor knows you personally—”

  “Put him right through,” Tillingford instructed. “Waive the bureaucratic stuff; get right to the qualifications test”

  “Right,” the Director agreed, getting out his own copy of the Bayan of the Second Bab. Laying it on the desk, dosed, he shut his eyes, ran his thumb down the pages, and opened the book at random. Tillingford leaned intently over his shoulder; conferring and murmuring, the two men examined the passage.

  “Fine,” Tillingford said, withdrawing in satisfaction. It’s a go.”

  “It certainly is,” the Director agreed. To Hamilton he said, “You might be interested; it’s one of the clearest okays I’ve seen this year.” In a rapid, efficient voice he read: “Vision 1931: Chapter 6, verse 14, line 1. ‘Yes, the True Faith melts the courage in the unbeliever; for he knows the measure of God’s wrath; he knows the measure to fill the clay vessel.’” With a snap, he closed the Bayan and put it back on his desk. Both men beamed fondly at Hamilton, radiating good will and professional satisfaction.

  Dazed, not sure how it felt, Hamilton reverted to the thin, clear thread that had brought him here. “Can I ask about the salary? Or is that too—” He tried to make a joke out of it. “Too crass and commercial?”

  Both men were puzzled. “Salary?”

  “Yes, salary,” Hamilton repeated, in rising hysteria. “You remember, that stuff the bookkeeping department hands out every two weeks. To keep the hired help from getting restive.”

  “As is customary,” Tillingford said, with quiet dignity, “you will be credited with the IBM people every ten days.” Turning to the Personnel Director, he inquired, “What is the exact number? I don’t remember those things.”

  “I’ll check with the bookkeeper.” The Personnel Director left his office; a moment later he returned with the information. “You’ll go on as a Four-A rating. In six months you’ll be Five-A. How’s that? Not bad for a young man of thirty-two.”

  “What,” Hamilton demanded, “does Four-A mean?”

  After a surprised pause, the Personnel Director glanced at Tillingford, wet his lips, and answered, “IBM maintains the Book of Debits and Credits. The Cosmic Record.” He gesticulated. “You know, the Great Unalterable Scroll of Sins and Virtues. EDA is doing the Lord’s work; ergo, you’re a servant of the Lord. Your pay will be four credits every ten days, four linear units toward your salvation. IBM will handle all the details; after all, that’s why they exist.”

  It fitted. Taking a deep breath, Hamilton said: “That’s fine. I forgot—excuse my confusion. But”—frantically, he appealed to Tillingford—”how’ll Marsha and I live? We have to pay our bills; we have to eat.”

  “As a servant of the Lord,” Tillingford said sternly, “your needs will be provided for. You have your Bayan?”

  “Y-yes,” Hamilton said.

  “Just make certain you don’t run short on faith. I should say a man of your moral caliber, engaged in this work, should be able to pray for and get at least—” He computed. “Oh, say, four hundred a week. What do you say, Ernie?”

  The Personnel Director nodded in agreement “At least”

  “One thing more,” Hamilton said, as Doctor Tillingford started briskly off, the matter—to his satisfaction—settled. “A little earlier I was asking about a psychiatrist … . .”

  “My boy,” Tillingford said, halting. “I have one thing and one thing only to say to you. It’s your life and you can conduct it as you please. I’m not trying to tell you what to do and what to think. Your spiritual existence is strictly a matter between yourself and the One True God. But if you wish to consult quacks and—”

  “Quacks!” Hamilton echoed feebly.

  “Borderline crackpots. It’s all right for the layman. Uneducated persons, I realize, flock to psychiatrists in vast numbers. I’ve read the statistics; it’s a sorry commentary on the state of public misinformation. Ill do this for you.” From his coat he got a note pad, pencil, and quickly scribbled a note. “This is the only correct road. I suppose if you haven’t got onto it by now, this won’t make any difference. But we’re instructed to keep trying. After all, eternity is a long time.”

  The note read The Prophet Horace Clamp, Sepulcher of the Second Bab. Cheyenne, Wyoming.

  “Exactly,” Tillingford said. “Right up to the top. Does that surprise you? It shows how concerned I am, my boy.”

  “Thanks,” Hamilton said, mindlessly pocketing the note. “If you say so.”

  “I do say so,” Tillingford repeated, in tones of absolute authority. “Second Babiism is the only True Faith, my boy; it’s the sole guarantee of obtaining Paradise. God speaks through Horace Clamp and no one else. Take tomorrow and go out there; you can report for work some other time, it doesn’t matter. If anybody can save your immortal soul from the fires of Eternal Damnation, the Prophet Horace Clamp can.”

  V

  AS HAMILTON uncertainly made his way from the EDA buildings, a small group of men followed quietly along behind, hands in their pockets, faces blank and benign. While he was fumbling for his car keys, the men moved purposefully forward, across the gravel parking lot, and up to him.

  “Hi,” one of them said.

  All were young. All were blond. All had crew cuts and wore ascetic white lab smocks. Tillingford’s bright young technicians, super-educated employees of EDA.

  “What do you want?” Hamilton asked.

  “You’re leaving?” the leader inquired.

  “That’s right”

  The group considered the information. After a time the leader observed, “But you’re coming back.”

  “Look,” Hamilton began, but the young man cut him off.

  “Tillingford hired you,” he stated. “You’re showing up for work next week. You passed your entrance tests and now you’ve been poking and nosing around the labs.”

  “I may have passed my tests,” Hamilton acknowledged, “but that doesn’t mean I’m showing up for work. As a matter of fact—”

  “My name’s Brady,” the leader of the group broke in. “Bob Brady. Maybe you saw me in there. I was with Tillingford when you showed up.” Eying Hamilton, Brady finished: “Personnel may be satisfied, but we’re not. Personnel is run by laymen. They have a few routine bureaucratic qualification tests and that’s all.”

  “We’re not laymen,” one of Brady’s group put in.

  “Look,” Hamilton said, with partially regained hope. “Maybe we can get together. I wondered how you qualified people could agree to that random book-opening test. That’s no adequate measure of an applicant’s training and ability. In advanced research of this type—”

  “So as far as we’re concerned,” Brady continued inexorably, “you’r
e a heathen until proved otherwise. And no heathens go to work at EDA. We have our professional standards.”

  “And you’re not qualified,” one of the group added. “Let’s see your N-rating.”

  “Your N-rating.” Extending his hand, Brady stood waiting. “You’ve had a nimbusgram taken recently, haven’t you?”

  “Not that I can recall,” Hamilton answered uncertainly.

  “That’s what I thought. No N-rating.” From his coat pocket Brady got out a small punched card. “There isn’t anybody in this group with less than a 4.6 N-rating. Offhand, I’d guess you don’t reach 2.0 class. How about that?”

  “You’re a heathen,” one of the young technicians said severely. “Some nerve, trying to worm your way in here.”

  “Maybe you better get going,” Brady said to Hamilton. “Maybe you better drive the hell out of here and not come back.”

  “I have as much right here as any of you,” Hamilton said, exasperated.

  “The ordeal approach,” Brady said thoughtfully. “Let’s settle this once and for all.”

  “Fine,” Hamilton said with satisfaction. Pulling off his coat, and tossing it in the car, he said, “I’ll wrestle any of you.”

  Nobody paid attention to him; the technicians were clustered around in a circle, conferring. Overhead, the late afternoon sun was beginning to set. Cars moved along the highway. The EDA buildings sparkled hygienically in the fading light.

  “Here we go,” Brady decided. Brandishing an ornate cigarette lighter, he solemnly approached Hamilton. “Stick out your thumb.”

  “My—thumb?”

  “Ordeal by fire,” Brady explained, igniting the lighter. A flash of yellow flame glowed. “Show your spirit. Show you’re a man.”

  Tm a man,” Hamilton said angrily, “but I’ll be damned if I’m going to stick my thumb into that flame just so you lunatics can have your frat-boy ritualistic initiation. I thought I got out of this when I left college.”

  Each technician extended his thumb. Methodically, Brady held the lighter under one thumb after another. No thumb was even slightly singed.