The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert (9 page)

“Hey!”

The whirring stopped, resumed; the elevator returned to the street level, in it Tommy, the busboy.

“Better luck next time, Doc.”

“Where are they?”

“Well—”

Eric jammed a hand into his coin pocket, fished out a fifty-buck piece, held it in his hand.

Tommy looked at the coin, back at Eric's eyes. “I heard Pete call the Bellingham skytrain field for reservations to London.”

A hard knot crept into Eric's stomach; his breathing became shallow, quick; he looked around him.

“Only twenty-eight hours—”

“That's all I know, Doc.”

Eric looked at the busboy's eyes, studying him.

Tommy shook his head. “Don't you start looking at me that way!” He shuddered. “That Pete give me the creeps; always staring at a guy; sitting around in that machine all day and no noises coming out of it.” Again he shuddered. “I'm glad he's gone.”

Eric handed him the coin. “You won't be.”

“Yeah,” Tommy stepped back into the elevator. “Sorry you didn't make it with the babe, Doc.”

“Wait.”

“Yeah?”

“Wasn't there a message from Miss Lanai?”

Tommy made an almost imperceptible motion toward the inner pocket of his coveralls. Eric's trained eyes caught the gesture. He stepped forward, gripped Tommy's arm.

“Give it to me!”

“Now look here, Doc.”

“Give it to me!”

“Doc, I don't know what you're talking about.”

Eric pushed his face close to the busboy's. “Did you see what happened to Los Angeles, Lawton, Portland, all the places where the Syndrome hit?”

The boy's eyes went wide. “Doc, I—”

“Give it to me!”

Tommy darted his free hand under his coveralls, extracted a thick envelope, thrust it into Eric's hand.

Eric released the boy's arm. Scrawled on the envelope was: “This will prove you were wrong about Pete.” It was signed, “Colleen.”

“You were going to keep this?” Eric asked.

Tommy's lips twisted. “Any fool can see it's the plans for the musikron, Doc. That thing's valuable.”

“You haven't any idea,” Eric said. He looked up. “They're headed for Bellingham?”

“Yeah.”

*   *   *

The nonstop unitube put Eric at the Bellingham field in twenty-one minutes. He jumped out, ran to the station, jostling people aside. A skytrain lashed into the air at the far end of the field. Eric missed a step, stumbled, caught his balance.

In the depot, people streamed past him away from the ticket window. Eric ran up to the window, leaned on the counter. “Next train to London?”

The girl at the window consulted a screen beside her. “There'll be one at 12:50 tomorrow afternoon, sir. You just missed one.”

“But that's twenty-four hours!”

“You'd arrive in London at 4:50
P.M.
, sir.” She smiled. “Just a little late for tea.” She glanced at his caduceus.

Eric clutched at the edge of the counter, leaned toward her. “That's twenty-nine hours—one hour too late.”

He pushed himself away from the window, turned.

“It's
just
a four-hour trip, doctor.”

He turned back. “Can I charter a private ship?”

“Sorry, doctor. There's an electrical storm coming; the traveler beam will have to be shut down. I'm sure you couldn't get a pilot to go out without the beam. You do understand?”

“Is there a way to call someone on the skytrain?”

“Is this a personal matter, doctor?”

“It's an emergency.”

“May I ask the nature of the emergency?”

He thought a moment, looking at the girl. He thought,
Same problem here … nobody would believe me.

He said, “Never mind. Where's the nearest vidiphone? I'll leave a message for her at Plymouth Depot.”

“Down that hallway to your right, doctor.” The girl went back to her tickets. She looked up at Eric's departing back. “Was it a medical emergency, doctor?”

He paused, turned. The envelope in his pocket rustled. He felt for the papers, pulled out the envelope. For the second time since Tommy had given them to him, Eric glanced inside at the folded pages of electronic diagrams, some initialed “C. A.”

The girl waited, staring at him.

Eric put the envelope back in his pocket, a thought crystalizing. He glanced up at the girl. “Yes, it was a medical emergency. But you're out of range.”

He turned, strode outside, back to the unitube. He thought about Colleen.
Never trust a neurotic woman. I should have known better than to let my glands hypnotize me
.

He went down the unitube entrance, worked his way out to the speed strip, caught the first car along, glad to find it empty. He took out the envelope, examined its contents during the ride. There was no doubt about it; the envelope contained the papers Pete had razored from the musikron service book. Eric recognized Dr. Amanti's characteristic scrawl.

The wall clock in his lab registered 2:10
P.M.
as Eric turned on the lights. He took a blank sheet of paper from his notebook, wrote on it with grease pencil:

“DEADLINE, 4:00
P.M.
, Sunday, May 16th.”

He tacked the sheet above his bench, spread out the circuit diagrams from the envelope. He examined the first page.

Series modulation,
he thought.
Quarter wave.
He ran a stylus down the page, checked the next page.
Multiple phase-reversing
. He turned to the next page. The stylus paused. He traced a circuit, went back to the first page.
Degenerative feedback.
He shook his head.
That's impossible! There'd just be a maze of wild harmonics.
He continued on through the diagrams, stopped and read through the last two pages slowly. He went through the circuits a second time, a third time, a fourth time. He shook his head.
What is it?

He could trace the projection of much of the diagram, amazed at the clear simplicity of the ideas. The last ten pages though—They described a series of faintly familiar circuits, reminding him of a dual frequency crystal calibrator of extremely high oscillation. “10,000 KC” was marked in the margin. But there were subtle differences he couldn't explain. For instance, there was a sign for a lower limit.

A series of them,
he thought.
The harmonics hunt and change. But it can't be random. Something has to control it, balance it.

At the foot of the last page was a notation: “Important—use only C6 midget variable, C7, C8 dual, 4ufd.”

They haven't made tubes in that series for fifty years,
he thought.
How can I substitute?

He studied the diagram.

I don't stand a chance of making this thing in time. And if I do; what then?
He wiped his forehead.
Why does it remind me of a crystal oscillator?
He looked at the clock—two hours had passed.
Where did the time go?
he asked himself.
I'm taking too much time just learning what this is
. He chewed his lips, staring at the moving second hand of the clock, suddenly froze.
The parts houses will be closing and tomorrow's Sunday!

He went to the lab vidiphone, dialed a parts house. No luck. He dialed another, checking the call sheet beside the phone. No luck. His fifth call netted a suggestion of a substitute circuit using transistors which might work. Eric checked off the parts list the clerk suggested, gave the man his package tube code.

“I'll have them out to you first thing Monday,” the man said.

“But I have to have them today! Tonight!”

“I'm sorry, sir. The parts are in our warehouse; it's all locked up tight on Saturday afternoon.”

“I'll pay a hundred bucks above list price for those parts.”

“I'm sorry, sir; I don't have authorization.”

“Two hundred.”

“But—”

“Three hundred.”

The clerk hesitated. Eric could see the man figuring. The three hundred probably was a week's wages.

“I'll have to get them myself after I go off duty here,” the clerk said. “What else do you need?”

Eric leafed through the circuit diagrams, read off the parts lists from the margins. “There's another hundred bucks in it if you get them to me before seven.”

“I get off at 5:30, doctor. I'll do my best.”

Eric broke the circuit, returned to his bench, began roughing-in from the diagram with what materials he had. The teleprobe formed the basic element with surprisingly few changes.

At 5:40, the dropbell of his transgraph jangled upstairs. Eric put down his soldering iron, went upstairs, pulled out the tape. His hands trembled when he saw the transmission station. London. He read:

“Don't ever try to see me again. Your suspicions are entirely unfounded as you probably know by now. Pete and I to be married Monday. Colleen.”

He sat down at the transmitter, punched out a message to American Express, coding it urgent for delivery to Colleen Lanai.

“Colleen: If you can't think of me, please think of what this means to a city full of people. Bring Pete and that machine back before it's too late. You can't be this unhuman.”

He hesitated before signing it, punched out, “I love you.” He signed it, “Eric.”

He thought,
You damn' fool, Eric. After the way she ran out on you.

He went into the kitchen, took a capsule to stave off weariness, ate a dinner of pills, drank a cup of coffee. He leaned back against the kitchen drainboard, waiting for the capsule to take hold. His head cleared; he washed his face in cold water, dried it, returned to the lab.

The front door announcer chimed at 6:42
P.M.
The screen showed the clerk from the parts house, his arms gripping a bulky package. Eric punched the door release, spoke into the tube: “First door on your left, downstairs.”

The back wall of his bench suddenly wavered, the lines of masonry rippling; a moment of disorientation surged through him. He bit his lip, holding to the reality of the pain.

It's too soon,
he thought.
Probably my own nerves; I'm too tense.

An idea on the nature of the Syndrome flashed into his mind. He pulled a scratch pad to him, scribbled, “Loss of unconscious autonomy; overstimulation subliminal receptors; gross perception—petit perception. Check C. G. Jung's collective unconscious.”

Footsteps tapped down the stairway.

“This the place?”

The clerk was a taller man than he had expected. An air of near adolescent eagerness played across the man's features as he took in the lab. “What a layout!”

Eric cleared a space on the bench. “Put that stuff right here.” Eric's eyes focused on the clerk's delicately sensitive hands. The man slid the box onto the bench, picked up a fixed crystal oscillator from beside the box, examined it.

“Do you know anything about electronic hookups?” Eric asked.

The clerk looked up, grinned. “W7CGO. I've had my own ham station over ten years.”

Eric offered his hand. “I'm Dr. Eric Ladde.”

“Baldwin Platte … Baldy.” He ran one of his sensitive hands through thinning hair.

“Glad to know you, Baldy. How'd you like to make a thousand bucks over what I've already promised you?”

“Are you kidding, Doc?”

Eric turned his head, looked at the framework of the teleprobe. “If that thing isn't finished and ready to go by four o'clock tomorrow afternoon, Seattle will go the way of Los Angeles.”

Baldy's eyes widened; he looked at the framework. “The Syndrome? How can—”

“I've discovered what caused the Syndrome … a machine like this. I have to build a copy of that machine and get it working. Otherwise—”

The clerk's eyes were clear, sober. “I saw your nameplate upstairs, Doc, and remembered I'd read about you.”

“Well?”

“If you say positive you've found out what caused the Syndrome, I'll take your word for it. Just don't try to explain it to me.” He looked toward the parts on the bench, back to the teleprobe. “Tell me what I'm supposed to do.” A pause. “And I hope you know what you're talking about.”

“I've found something that just can't be coincidence,” Eric said. “Added to what I know about teleprobes, well—” He hesitated. “Yes, I know what I'm talking about.”

Eric took a small bottle from the rear of his bench, looked at the label, shook out a capsule. “Here, take this; it'll keep you awake.”

Baldy swallowed the capsule.

Eric sorted through the papers on his bench, found the first sheet. “Now, here's what we're dealing with. There's a tricky quarter-wave hookup coupled to an amplification factor that'll throw you back on your heels.”

Baldy looked over Eric's shoulder. “Doesn't look too hard to follow. Let me work on that while you take over some of the tougher parts.” He reached for the diagram, moved it to a cleared corner of the bench. “What's this thing supposed to do, Doc?”

“It creates a field of impulses which feed directly into the human unconscious. The field distorts—”

Baldy interrupted him. “Okay, Doc. I forgot I asked you not to explain it to me.” He looked up, smiled. “I flunked Sociology.” His expression sobered. “I'll just work on the assumption you know what this is all about. Electronics I understand; psychology … no.”

*   *   *

They worked in silence, broken only by sparse questions, muttering. The second hand on the wall clock moved around, around, around; the minute hand followed, and the hour hand.

At 8:00
A.M.
, they sent out for breakfast. The layout of the crystal oscillators still puzzled them. Much of the diagram was scrawled in a radio shorthand.