Counterfeit World (4 page)

His amused eyes relayed fitful reflections from a cigarette lighter that flared nearby. “My boy, I’m a pure psychologist-behaviorist leanings. My philosophy tracks that line closely. But you, Fuller, and all the other simulectronicists are a queer breed. When you start mixing psychology with electronics and sprinkle in a liberal dose of probability conditioning, you’re bound to get some rather oddball convictions out of the mess. You can hardly stuff people into a machine without starting to wonder about the basic nature of both machines and people.”

The discussion was getting far afield. I tried to steer it back on course. “I won’t buy your assumption on Fuller’s ‘basic discovery.’ Because I think the discovery is the same thing Lynch was trying to tell me about.”

“Lynch? Who’s that?”

I drew back. Then I smiled, realizing that somehow he must have heard Jinx Fuller say she had never heard of Lynch. And now he was having his own little joke.

“Seriously,” I went on, “if I hadn’t believed Lynch’s story about Fuller’s ‘secret,’ I wouldn’t have gone to the police.”

“Lynch? The police? What’s this all about?”

I began to suspect that he might be serious. “Avery, I’m not in the mood for horseplay. I’m talking about
Morton Lynch!
”

He shook his head stubbornly. “Don’t know the man.”

“Lynch!” I half shouted. “In charge of security at REIN!” I pointed to a bronze loving cup behind the bar. “
That
Lynch! The one whose name is on that trophy for beating you in the ballistoboard tournament last year!”

Collingsworth beckoned across the bar and Limpy came over. “Will you tell Mr. Hall who has been chief of internal security at his establishment for the past five years?”

Limpy jerked his thumb toward a sour-faced, middle-aged man seated on the end stool.

“Joe Gadsen.”

“Now, Limpy, hand Mr. Hall that trophy.” I read the inscription:
Avery Collingsworth—
—
June, 2033.

The room lurched and whirled and the acrid smell of tobacco smoke seemed to surge up and envelope me like a fog. The music faded and the last thing I remembered was reaching out to steady myself with a grip on the bar.

I must not have passed out completely, though. For my next experience was that of bumping into someone on the staticstrip near the slowest pedestrian belt. I rebounded and leaned against a building—several blocks away from the smoke-easy.

It must have been another seizure—but one during which I had apparently remained in possession of myself. Avery probably hadn’t even noticed anything was wrong. And here I was, suddenly conscious again, confounded and trembling, staring profoundly up into the early evening sky.

I thought helplessly of Lynch, his name on the trophy, Fuller’s drawing. Had they all actually vanished? Or had I only fancied those occurrences? Why did order and reason seem suddenly to be tumbling down all around me?

Confounded, I crossed the pedistrip transfer platform and started for the opposite side of the street. Traffic was negligible and there were no air cars letting down on the nearby central landing island. That is, not until I got within twenty feet of it.

Then a vehicle came plunging out of the gathering dusk, emergency siren screaming. Apparently out of control, it shuddered fiercely as it slipped completely out of the down-guide beam, heading straight for me.

I dived for the high-speed pedistrip. The sudden motion of the belt almost hurled me back under the plummeting car. But I stuck, and managed, eventually, to sit up and glance back.

The car cushioned itself automatically with an emergency air blast that finally checked its momentum within an inch of the roadway.

If I had not gotten out of the way, the inner vanes would have left little in the way of identifiable remains.

A succession of nightmares in which everything I reached for crumbled in my grip blocked restful slumber until the early morning hours. Consequently I overslept and had to skip breakfast.

Flying downtown, however, I avoided the heavy traffic levels, at the expense of additional delay, while my thoughts stalled on the near accident of the night before. Did it fit into the general pattern? Had the air car purposely gone out of control?

I shrugged off my suspicion. The accident
couldn’t
have been intentional. On the other hand, Dr. Fuller had met with a fatal accident that couldn’t have been contrived either. And there was Lynch’s disappearance. Had there been some unguessable purpose behind that too? And how was it that three of Lynch’s close acquaintances now appeared never to have heard of him?

Had all these incredible developments stemmed from some obscure information Fuller had passed on to Lynch? Knowledge that had instantly marked first the original, then the subsequent possessor?

I tried to keep the pieces in some sort of rational perspective, but couldn’t. The altered plaque on the trophy kept surging to the foreground of my attention, bringing with it a now nonexistent red-ink drawing and a weasel-like little man who had sat smugly on his smoke-easy stool while Limpy proclaimed him REIN’s security chief.

It all smacked of nothing less than—the extraphysical. I had avoided that suggestion as long as I could. But what else?

At any rate, at least one thing seemed not unlikely: Fuller and Lynch had become involved with “secret information” or “basic discovery”—call it whatever you will. What would happen if
I
acquired those data? Or even continued to show an interest in it? Was the air car incident just a foretaste?

I guided my own car down into the REIN parking lot and sent it skittering to its assigned space. As soon as I cut the engine I caught the sounds of turmoil in front of the building.

Negotiating the corner, I ducked a length of pipe hurtling through the air toward a first-floor window. But it lost its momentum in a shower of sparks, then mushed to the ground along the fringe of a repulsion screen.

The number of reaction monitor pickets had tripled. But they were still orderly. The trouble was coming, rather, from a surly crowd that had collected in defiance of a police riot squad.

Down the block, on the transfer platform, a red-faced man was shouting into a voice amplifier:

“Down with Reactions! We haven’t had a depression in thirty years! Machine sampling will mean total economic collapse!”

The riot squad sergeant came over. “You’re Douglas Hall?”

When I nodded, he added, “I’ll escort you through.”

He switched on his portable screen generator and I felt the tingling embrace of the repulsion field as it built up around us.

“You don’t seem to be trying to break this up,” I complained, following him toward the entrance.

“You got ample protection. Anyway, if we don’t let them work off their steam, they’ll get even hotter.”

Inside, everything was normal. There was no Indication whatever that not a hundred feet away reaction monitor sympathizers were stirring up a hornets’ nest. But the amount of crash-priority work on the day’s agenda required just that degree of indifference.

I went directly to personnel. Under the L’s In the filing cabinet, there was no folder for Morton Lynch.

Under the G’s I found “Gadsen, Joseph M.—Director, Internal Security.” The employment application was dated September 11, 2029—five years ago. And the file showed he had been hired in his present position two weeks later.

“Something wrong, Mr. Hall?”

I turned to face the filing clerk. “This material up to date?”

“Yes sir,” she said proudly. “I go through it every week.”

“Have we had any complaints on—Joe Gadsen?”

“Oh, no sir. Only fitness testimonials. He gets along with everybody. Isn’t that right, Mr. Gadsen?” She smiled sweetly at a point beyond my shoulder.

I spun around. The weasel-faced character was standing there.

He grinned. “Somebody has a beef against me, Doug?”

I didn’t say anything for a moment. Finally I managed a weak “No.”

“That’s good,” he replied, obviously regarding the whole thing as superficial. “Incidentally, Helen says thanks for the mess of trout you sent down from the lake. If you’re not doing anything Friday evening, come on over and break bread. Anyway, Junior wants to hear more about simulectronics. You’ve got him fairly fascinated with the subject.”

Joe Gadsen, Helen, Junior—the words resounded hollowly within my ear like the exotic names of strange natives on some yet-to-be-discovered world halfway across the galaxy. And his mention of the trout—why, I hadn’t caught a single fish during the entire month at the lake! At least, I didn’t remember catching any.

There was one ultimate test that occurred to me. I left Gadsen and the file clerk gaping at each other and swept down the corridor to Chuck Whitney’s bailiwick in the function generating department. I found him with his head buried in the innards of his main data-integrator. I thumped him on the shoulder and he came up for air.

“Chuck, I—”

“Yes, Doug—what is it?” His friendly, tanned face reflected amusement, then uncertainty over my too-obvious hesitancy.

He ran a hand back over a mat of dark hair that was so compressed in its unmanageable crimpiness that it was reminiscent of the crewcut and flattop which haven’t been in style for over a generation. Then, concerned, he asked, “You got trouble?”

“It’s about—Morton Lynch,” I said reluctantly. “Ever hear of him?”

“
Who?
”

“Lynch,” I repeated, suddenly hopeless. “Morton, the security—oh, never mind. Forget it.”

A moment later I drew up at the entrance to my reception room and was greeted with a cheerful “Good
morning,
Mr. Hall.”

I did a double take at the receptionist. Miss Boykins was gone. In her place sat Dorothy Ford, strikingly blond and alert as she regarded me with coy amusement. “Surprised?” she murmured.

“Where’s Miss Boykins?”

“Mr. Siskin calleth and she respondeth. She’s now in the comforting folds of the Inner Establishment—content, we should hope, with her considerable nearness to the Great Little One.”

I went over. “Is this a permanent arrangement?”

She coaxed a stray hair back away from her temple. But somehow she didn’t appear quite as frivolous or inefficient as she had at Siskin’s party. She glanced down at her hands and said suggestively, “Oh, I’m sure you won’t mind the change, Doug?”

But I did. And possibly I indicated as much by continuing on into my office with an uninspired, “I’ll get used to it.” I didn’t appreciate the fact that Siskin was shifting his pawns around the board and that I was one of them. It was obvious now that he was going to have his way when it came to assigning functions to the environment simulator. And I had no doubt he would reject my recommendation for partial use of the system in sociological research—just as he had been about to give Fuller a determined “No” on the same matter.

In my case, though, there was to be appeasement of a sort—appeasement and, evidently, some form of supposedly interesting diversion. Miss Boykins, admittedly, was not quite the antithesis of homeliness, but she was efficient and pleasant. The versatile Dorothy Ford, in contrast, could serve a multiplicity of purposes—not the least significant of which would undoubtedly be “keeping an eye” on me in behalf of the Siskin Establishment.

Such mental exercise didn’t occupy my attention very long, however, as the Lynch enigma drew me back like a magnet.

I went to work on the videophone and, within seconds, had Lieutenant McBain on the screen.

After identifying myself, I said, “About my complaint on Morton Lynch—”

“What department did you want?”

“Missing Persons, of course. I—”

“When did you file your complaint? What was it about?”

I swallowed heavily. But his reaction wasn’t something I hadn’t anticipated. “Morton Lynch,” I said haltingly. “At the Siskin party. The disappearance. You came out to Reactions and—”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hall, but you must have me confused with someone else. This department has no such complaint on file.”

Minutes later I was still staring at the dead screen.

Then I bolted forward in my chair and pulled open the top desk drawer. The copy of the
Evening Press
that I had set aside was still there. I turned anxiously to the amusement page and read the final item in Stan Walters’ column.

It was a barbed, sarcastic appraisal of the Community Theater’s latest production.

Not a word about Morton Lynch and Siskin’s penthouse party.

The intercom buzzed itself hoarse before I finally pressed the lever without even glancing at the screen. “Yes, Miss Ford?”

“Mr. Siskin is here to see you.”

Again, he was not alone. This time he brought in an impeccably dressed man whose very proportions made Dorothy’s “dapper little doll” seem even more minuscule by comparison.

“Doug,” Siskin said excitedly, “I want you to meet someone who isn’t here! Understand? He has
never been
here. After we leave, it’s as though he didn’t exist, as far as you’re concerned.”

I lunged up, almost knocking my chair over in recognition of the parallel between what he was proposing and what had happened to Lynch.

“Douglas Hall, Wayne Hartson,” he offered, climaxing his build-up.

I extended an unsteady hand and it was immediately locked in a fierce grip.

“I’ll be working with Hall?” Hartson asked.

“Only if we get everything ironed out. Only if Doug understands that what we’re doing is best.”

Hartson frowned. “I thought you had everything cleared away within your own organization.”

“Oh, I
do!
” Siskin assured him.

Then I made the connection. Wayne Hartson, one of the strongest political figures in the country.

“Without Hartson,” Siskin went on almost in a whisper, “the administration couldn’t operate. Of course, his connections are all under the surface, since he appears only to be handling liaison work between the party and the government.”

Dorothy signaled and her image came through on the intercom. “Certified Reaction Monitor Number 3471-C on the videophone for Mr. Hall.”

Anger flared in Siskin’s eyes as he thrust himself in front of the box. “Tell—”

But the girl’s face had already been replaced by that of the pollster. “I’m conducting a survey on male preferences in Christmas gifts,” he disclosed.

“Then,” Siskin growled, “this
isn’t
a priority sampling?”

“No, sir. But—”

“Mr. Hall declines to answer. Just pick up the tape on this call and go file for the penalty.”

Siskin switched off and the screen went dead on the man’s gathering smile. Reaction monitors didn’t at all mind claiming their share of the refusal fine.

“About Mr. Hartson,” Siskin resumed, “I was pointing out that the administration couldn’t get along without him.”

“I’ve heard of Mr. Hartson,” I said, bracing myself for what I knew was coming.

Hartson pulled up a chair, crossed his legs, and donned a patient expression.

Siskin paced, glancing occasionally at me. “We’ve gone over this before, Doug, and I know you don’t quite see it my way. But good God, boy, Reactions can become the biggest thing in the country! Then, after we’ve recovered our investment, I’ll build you another simulator that you can use only for your research.

“It’s coming, Doug—the one-party system. We
can’t
hold it off. And I’m not too sure it isn’t right for the country. But the point is—Reactions can get in
on the bottom
in the transition!”

Hartson spoke up. “We can pull it off in the next two or three years by squeezing the other party completely out and siphoning off its top talent—if we play our cards right,” he said frankly.

Siskin leaned over the desk. “And do you know what’s going to tell them which cards to play—in every national and local election and on every issue?
The simulator I built for you!
”

I felt a little sickened over his candid enthusiasm. “What’s in it for you?”

“What’s in it for us?” He resumed his vigorous pacing, his eyes wide and restless. “I’ll tell you, son. We can look forward to the time when the entire complex of opinion sampling, of
oral
reaction monitoring, will be legislated out of existence as an insufferable public nuisance.”

Hartson coughed for attention. “Reactions will be sitting pretty with its secret process. There’ll still be need for opinion sampling, on as universal a plane as ever. But,” he shook his head in feigned concern, “I don’t see how that need will be satisfied unless we institute a federal franchise for REIN.”

“Don’t you see, Doug?” Siskin gripped the desk. “There’ll be Siskin-Hall simulators in every city!
Your
reaction units will be calling the shots! It’ll mean a whole new world! And then, after all the groundwork is laid, you’ll have an entire corps of simulectronic foundations researching ways to shine up the world and make it fair and just and humane!”

Perhaps I should have told him he could look for another simulectronicist. But what good would that have done? If, as Fuller had believed, Siskin and the party were plotting treachery on an unprecedented level, what purpose would I serve by removing myself from a strategic position?

“What do you want me to do?” I asked.

Siskin grinned. “Go on with your present setup. Get squared away for a few commercial contracts. That’ll give us a chance to test the potential of the system. Meanwhile, you can be thinking of reprogramming the machine completely, converting it to a politically-oriented environment.”

Dorothy cut in on the intercom. “Mr. Hall, Mr. Whitney is programming in that new batch of reaction units. He wants to know if you can come down there.”

On the way to the function generating department, I encountered Avery Collingsworth in the corridor.

“I’ve just given Whitney a final okay on the psychological traits for those forty-seven new ID units,” he said. “Here’s a rundown, in case you’d like to check them over.”