Kenneth Bulmer (3 page)

"That's right enough.
But I refuse to worry."

"Only because, thank the Lord, you're
young. But take the picture outside academic life. Take any large industrial
organization. There you have many hundreds of top-notch scientists all working
in their laboratories. But who do you find in the executive positions? In the
higher echelons of administration?
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tell
you, Peter. You have arts people running you scientific brains
..."

"Not always
true—"

"Of course, not always. Cybernetics
takes care of a deal of the administration work. But in the end, where you have
to have a man or woman to decide with human brains-nine times out of ten that
is an arts brain—"

"Perhaps that's what's
wrong with our society!"

"Pagan!"

"Well, tell me," said Howland,
hunching up a knee under his chin. "You are God's gift to the Shavians and
Wellsian people. You know it all. Now, I've read some of Shaw and Wells and
they—"

"He."

Howland
looked up at her affectionately. He lifted his glass to her in mock homage.
"He, you say. Well, I've read some of the stuff you've lent me and I'd put
my half crown down hard on the side that says there were two of 'em back
then."

"You probably can't conceive of the idea
that a man writes in a certain way, in a special style, to put over one message
and then, quite deliberately, turns right around and puts out material of a
completely opposite intent."

"But
we've photographs—funny old flat black and white things—"

"You
are naive, Peter! One man puts on a beard, the other doesn't. If I wanted to
publish material under another name I'd soon find a girl's photo to use—"

"You'd
have trouble finding one half so nice . . ." Howland stopped, flushed,
buried his face in his drink.

Helen,
too, looked uncomfortable. Personal relationships were a difficult problem. And
she liked Peter Howland. But the work on her treatise came first. She rarely
thought of herself as a woman in the way that obsessed some females of the
faculty; but she was too wise to affect the cropped-hair-and-slacks poise of
others. She had grown to accept the idea that Peter Howland thought of her as a
dry academician like himself.

Howland
spoke quickly, jerkily, at random, covering up what he felt to have been an
unwarranted intrusion upon personal privacy. "My work is going along
pretty well. I've set up a whole sheaf of schedules. When we make planetfall on
Pochalin Nine well be able to begin work right away. One of the biggest
problems will be to stop ourselves from polluting the primitive place with good
old Earthly viruses and bacteria. I've just about staked my whole immediate
future on this work, you know. Yet I don't feel frightened of failure—that or a
duff start would ruin me—because I'm confident of success. I'm sure our work is
along the right lines, and Randolph is a little wizard. The Maxwell Fund is
going to produce some of its greatest results this time, you'll see . . ."

Helen was looking at him most oddly. He
smiled. Perhaps she had been offended too deeply by his thoughtless remark about
her beauty—dammit all! She was a lovely girl and if he had a little more time
to spare he'd think about doing something serious about it. As it was—she had
no time for men and he had no time for girls—yet.

"Does this mean so
much to you, then, Peter?"

"Mean much! Imagine you suddenly had the
chance of speaking to George Bernard or Herbert George—take your pick—face to
face. Does that give you any idea? This will make me—and then 111 take my pick
of academic chairs!"

"But
haven't you heard? Hasn't Professor Randolph told you—?"

"Told me what? What's the big
secret?"

"Perhaps—I spoke unguardedly. Perhaps it
is still a secret. Forgive me, Peter. This is outside my province. It is up to
Professor Randolph, not me."

Howland
looked puzzled, his young face a trifle comical "All right, Helen. If you
say so."

"Helen always does say so," said
Terence Mallow, walking straight across from the door. "And she's usually
right." His oiled slickness grated on Howland. But, as the profs nephew,
the man had to be tolerated.

"Hullo,
Terry," said Helen. She looked up with an eagerness that displeased
Howland. He suddenly realized the figure he cut, sitting on the floor like a
schoolboy. He rose hastily, spilling some of his drink. Mallow had been hanging
around Helen a lot lately and that displeased Howland. To himself, he was frank
about that.

"Peter,"
said Mallow affably. "My uncle would like to see you right away. Thought I
might find you here."

Reluctant
to leave, Howland looked from one to the other. The ex-space navyman—retired,
wounded in action—making of himself a glamorous figure, and the girl, formed a
twosome that jarred on Howland.

"Right," he said with as much grace
as he could muster. "I'll be on my way."

Watching
him go, Terence Mallow guessed with shrewd insight why Randolph hadn't asked
Peter Howland to spy on the Chase woman.

Terry
Mallow and Helen Chase were fast becoming friends. The weather had broken early
for autumn and snow fell out of season. The two spent a deal of time skating,
enjoying electronic sleigh rides, going to dances and social functions, both
intra- and extra-murally. Mallow had all the time in the galaxy, and could talk
Helen into taking time off when Howland, for one, would never have dreamed of
trying.

Mallow lost no time in bringing the girl to
talk of her work; as a person she was reserved, shy, quite pretty in a way that
did not, strangely enough, overly appeal to the more florid tastes of the
ex-space navyman, so that, in talking of her theories and aspirations, he did
not feel he was balking himself of better pursuits.

"She's
damned well determined about it, uncle." Mallow reported punctually every
morning the happenings of the day before. Usually this was a mere matter of
routine, a recital of social activities. On the day after a party he added:
"She's quite genuine. I mean—all this stuff about the Shavians and the
Wellsians is quite above board. Apparently academically it is ultra
respectable."

"I know
that—now," Randolph said waspishly.

"And do you know that if the University
does acquire the Shavian manuscripts she wants to buy with the Maxwell Fund,
that alone will put Lewistead streets ahead of any other establishment, on
Earth or off it?"

"But how can this sort of dead stuff be
so important? Lewistead owes its prestige and high repute to the work of its
science faculty. These others, these weirdies, they make us a laughing
stock—"

Slowly, Mallow shook his head. "Not so,
uncle. There is more in the Galaxy than science."

This
was heresy to Professor Cheslin Randolph. And from his own nephew—a man who had
sailed the deeps of space and seen the wonders of scientific might at first
handl Randolph's thin body tensed up, his frog's-eyes bulged with anger. He
expressed himself with such fluency and feeling that his nephew walked across
to the cocktail cabinet and poured a drink for the old boy. Randolph took it
and swallowed hard without seeming to pause in his speech. At last, Mallow
managed to elbow his way into the monologue.

"Apparently if she gets the Fund she
will have to go personally to the planet where the manuscripts now are. She
won't tell me the name of the place—I gather there are plenty of other rich
foundations anxious to buy the collection. She only got onto it in some
mysterious way, again, she won't tell me how."

"I suppose the wbole affair is above
board?"

"Quite.
Helen Chase is so upright she doesn't need corsets. Her integrity is
rather—frightening."

"Humpf.
Well, then, keep on trying to find out what you can. So far you've not been
much help—"

"But, uncle-"

"I'm going to see the Chancellor. If
Harcourt won't or can't help, then
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go
over his head."

"Isn't the Chancellor some big wig in
the political racket?"

"Yes.
He's Shelley Arthur Mahew, Secretary for Extra-Solar Affairs."

"Whew! A big boy indeed."

"At
least he is a member of the party currently in power. As a member of the
government he ought to see the value of my work over a miserable collection of
antiquated dood-lings."

Randolph arranged an appointment with Mahew
and flew to Capital City in what had once been the Sahara Desert. Mahew was
charming, courteous, urbane—and completely unhelpful. Flying back, Randolph
repeated to himself, over and over, Mahew's last words.

"There is nothing I can do, professor.
The Maxwell Fund lies within the jurisdiction of the Trustees. They feel it is
time the Arts had a cut of the loot."

"Loot,"
Randolph said, disgustedly, reporting the gist of the talks to Mallow.
"Loot."

"A very succinct word,"
said Mallow appreciatively.

"Mahew
also applied it to the subject that is currently obsessing him to the exclusion
of everything else. If you ask me," Randolph said darkly, "Mahew is
suffering from overwork."

"Surprisingly
enough, that's just what Helen said about you—"

"She's
talking about me, is she? Behind my back! The trumpery insolence of the
woman."

Mallow
laughed. He felt he could afford a little more of himself to come through in
his daily contacts with his uncle and, as he disapprovingly noticed, the strain
of behaving himself was a deadly bore and tiring him more than being polite to
the Chase woman. He glanced out of the window, across the snow covered expanse
of grass, spotty where the heaters were working, toward the low grey crenellated
flank of the Arts building. She would be over there right now, discoursing in
her funny, serious way to a gaggle of openmouthed students on the inner
meanings to be found in the characters set up and knocked down by Shaw. Funny
little girl. And that red hair . . .

"Terence
I
Are you listening to what I'm saying?"

"No,
uncle." Mallow spoke with disarming frankness. "I was thinking of a
revised method of tackling Helen Chase . . ."

"Humpf. I was just pointing out that you
can forget her—"

"Forget her?" Dismay at an easy job
slipping from his grasp sharpened Mallow's tones. "But we're just getting
somewhere."

"We're getting nowhere. I've made up my
mind. I'm going to approach this whole problem from the opposite end. Now go
and find Doctor Howland* You, he and I are going to do some very serious
talking—and acting."

Despite
his firm tones, Randolph viewed the coming interview with his new assistant
with more uncertainty than he liked to bring to any undertaking. Old Cussman
was all right. He'd do as he was told. And he would be told to keep strictly to
himself and act in his usual capacity as midwife to experiments. But Peter
Howland, now. H'mm. Howland was a new boy, full of brilliance, remarkably
distinguished in one so young; but independent, distressingly so.

Peter
Howland walked in on a gust of fresh air, brushing white powder from his
shoulders. "Load of snow fell on me just as I reached the door," he
said affably. "You wanted to see me, professor?"

"Yes,
Peter, my boy. Sit down, sit down. You too, Terence. Ill put you in the
picture- first, Peter, then we can get on to the meat of the problem."

To
Mallow, his uncle was a changed man. The little professor had put on a set,
determined expression that ridged his jaw muscles and thinned his lips. There
existed not the slightest hint of ludicrousness about him. He stood there for
all the galaxy like a fighting cock with bulging chest, all five feet of him,
blazing a rock-steady purpose. You could almost see the spurs adorning his
tiny feet.

Yet, sitting down as he was bid, Peter
Howland sensed with amused astonishment that Randolph was not at ease. That was
not characteristic, the dominating personality could not hide it, and the
amusement drained from Howland.

"You
know the stage at which we stand about the Pochalin Nine work? Everything we
can do on Earth has been done. Now we need an absolutely sterile planet, one
completely untouched by life of any sort in which to prove whether or not our
theories are valid. I wanted to have your thoughts at once on any aspects of
our work you think can be carried on here."