World's Best Science Fiction - First Series 1965 Page 3

  He should have seen it from the first, but it was too fantastic to occur to anyone until the evidence became overwhelming. Imagine the power of an organization which could arrange for every person in a neighborhood to be one type! The Boyd organization had to be destroyed. This alone was enough to make him a fanatic.

  The police vehicle tried to follow them but the sec took to the lawns and managed to evade it. In the process Nicholson did enough psyching to confirm his theory. That evening he called Bob Dazella in Washington and they both shook their heads over what he had learned.

  “It must be great for them when they’re campaigning,” Dazella said. “Hundreds of voters, acres of territory, ten percent of Boyd’s district, and they can manipulate every psyche in it with one tactic. I wonder how they set it up.”

  “Advertising’s the best theory I’ve come up with. They could aim all their ads at orals. It still wouldn’t be easy. Why don’t you check around and see if Boyd ever had any kind of financial interest in Greenplace? Maybe he was in a position where he could control the ads for a few years.”

  “It’s a good thing you worked it out. They could have killed you.”

  Dazella was a second term Congressman, an archaic political specimen these days. After he turned off the phone. Nicholson sat in his study and thought about the campaign three years ago which had first put Dazella in the House. That had been his first taste of modern politics. It hadn’t been pleasant. That time Dazella had nearly gotten killed.

  This campaign was going to be worse. He could imagine the efforts the Boyd organization would make to control the minds of himself and his friends. They would attack his psyche with every weapon in the modern arsenal. As plainly as if it were a drama projected on a screen, he could see the psych technicians maneuvering across the Eighth Congressional District as both sides struggled to control the voters’ minds and neutralize the work of their opponents. He could see violence, and danger, and all the dirty playing with the human mind he resented and wanted to eliminate forever from human society.

  He had won the first battle, but that only meant he had to stay in the war and fight a hundred more battles. He almost wished he had lost.

  >

  * * * *

  MEN OF GOOD WILL

  BY BEN BOVA AND MYRON R. LEWIS

  “I had no idea,” said the UN representative as they stepped through the airlock hatch, “that the United States lunar base was so big, and so thoroughly well equipped.”

  “It’s a big operation, all right,” Colonel Patton answered, grinning slightly. His professional satisfaction showed even behind the faceplate of his pressure suit.

  The pressure in the airlock equalibrated, and they squirmed out of their aluminized protective suits. Patton was big, scraping the maximum limit for space-vehicle passengers, Torgeson, the UN man, was slight, thin-haired, bespectacled and somehow bland-looking.

  They stepped out of the airlock, into the corridor that ran the length of the huge plastic dome that housed Headquarters, U. S. Moonbase.

  “What’s behind all the doors?” Torgeson asked. His English had a slight Scandinavian twang to it. Patton found it a little irritating.

  “On the right,” the colonel answered, businesslike, “are officers’ quarters, galley, officers’ mess, various laboratories and the headquarters staff offices. On the left are the computers.”

  Torgeson blinked. “You mean that half this building is taken up by computers? But why in the world . . . that is, why do you need so many? Isn’t it frightfully expensive to boost them up here? I know it cost thousands of dollars for my own flight to the Moon. The computers must be—”

  “Frightfully expensive,” Patton agreed, with feeling. “But we need them. Believe me we need them.”

  They walked the rest of the way down the long corridor in silence. Patton’s office was at the very end of it. The colonel opened the door and ushered in the UN representative.

  “A sizeable office,” Torgeson said. “And a window!”

  “One of the privileges of rank,” Patton answered, smiling tightly. “That white antenna mast off on the horizon belongs to the Russian base.”

  “Ah, yes. Of course. I shall be visiting them tomorrow.”

  Colonel Patton nodded and gestured Torgeson to a chair as he walked behind his metal desk and sat down.

  “Now then,” said the colonel. “You are the first man allowed to set foot in this Moonbase who is not a security-cleared, triple-checked, native-born, Government-employed American. God knows how you got the Pentagon to okay your trip. But—now that you’re here, what do you want?”

  Torgeson took off his rimless glasses and fiddled with them. “I suppose the simplest answer would be the best. The United Nations must—absolutely must—find out how and why you and the Russians have been able to live peacefully here on the Moon.”

  Patton’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He closed it with a click.

  “Americans and Russians,” the UN man went on, “have fired at each other from orbiting satellite vehicles. They have exchanged shots at both the North and South Poles. Career diplomats have scuffled like prizefighters in the halls of the United Nations Building .. .”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Oh, yes. We have kept it quiet, of course. But the tensions are becoming unbearable. Everywhere on Earth the two sides are armed to the teeth and on the verge of disaster. Even in space they fight. And yet, here on the Moon, you and the Russians live side by side in peace. We must know how you do it!”

  Patton grinned. “You came on a very appropriate day, in that case. Well, let’s see now . . . how to present the picture. You know that the environment here is extremely hostile: airless, low gravity . ..”

  “The environment here on the Moon,” Torgeson objected, “is no more hostile than that of orbiting satellites. In fact, you have some gravity, solid ground, large buildings—many advantages that artificial satellites lack. Yet there has been fighting aboard the satellites—and not on the Moon. Please don’t waste my time with platitudes. This trip is costing the UN too much money. Tell me the truth.”

  Patton nodded. “I was going to. I’ve checked the information sent up by Earthbase: you’ve been cleared by the White House, the AEC, NASA and even the Pentagon.”

  “So?”

  “Okay. The plain truth of the matter is—” A soft chime from a small clock on Patton’s desk interrupted him. “Oh. Excuse me.”

  Torgeson sat back and watched as Patton carefully began clearing off all the articles on his desk: the clock, calendar, phone, IN/OUT baskets, tobacco can and pipe rack, assorted papers and reports—all neatly and quickly placed in the desk drawers. Patton then stood up, walked to the filing cabinet, and closed the metal drawers firmly.

  He stood in the middle of the room, scanned the scene with apparent satisfaction, and then glanced at his wrist-watch.

  “Okay,” he said to Torgeson. “Get down on your stomach.”

  “What?”

  “Like this,” the colonel said, and prostrated himself on the rubberized floor.

  Torgeson stared at him.

  “Come on! There’s only a few seconds.”

  Patton reached up and grasped the UN man by the wrist. Unbelievingly, Torgeson got out of the chair, dropped to his hands and knees and finally flatted himself on the floor, next to the colonel.

  For a second or two they stared at each other, saying nothing.

  “Colonel, this is embar—”

  The room exploded into a shattering volley of sounds.

  Something—many somethings—ripped through the walls. The air hissed and whined above the heads of the two prostrate men. The metal desk and file cabinet rang eerily.

  Torgeson squeezed his eyes shut and tried to worm into the floor. It was just like being shot at!

  Abruptly it was over.

  The room was quiet once again, except for a faint hissing sound. Torgeson opened his eyes and saw the colonel getting up. The door was flung open. Three sergeants rushed in, armed with patching disks and tubes of cement. They dashed around the office sealing up the several hundred holes in the walls.

  Only gradually, as the sergeants carried on their fevered, wordless task, did Torgeson realize that the walls were actually a quiltwork of patches. The room must have been riddled repeatedly!

  He climbed slowly to his feet. “Meteors?” he asked, with a slight squeak in his voice.

  Colonel Patton grunted negatively and resumed his seat behind the desk. It was pockmarked, Torgeson noticed now. So was the file cabinet.

  “The window, in case you’re wondering, is bulletproof.”

  Torgeson nodded and sat down.

  “You see,” the colonel said, “life is not as peaceful here as you think. Oh, we get along fine with the Russians—now. We’ve learned to live in peace. We had to.”

  “What were those ... things?”

  “Bullets.”

  “Bullets? But how-”

  The sergeants finished their frenzied work, lined up at the door and saluted. Colonel Patton returned the salute and they turned as one man and left the office, closing the door quietly behind them.

  “Colonel, I’m frankly bewildered.”

  “It’s simple enough to understand. But don’t feel too badly about being surprised. Only the top level of the Pentagon knows about this. And the president, of course. They had to let him in on it.”

  “What happened?”

  Colonel Patton took his pipe rack and tobacco can out of a desk drawer and began filling one of the pipes. “You see,” he began, “the Russians and us, we weren’t always so peaceful here on the Moon. We’ve had our incidents and scuffles, just as you have on Earth.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well
—” he struck a match and puffed the pipe alight— “shortly after we set up this dome for Moonbase HQ, and the Reds set up theirs, we got into some real arguments.” He waved the match out and tossed it into the open drawer.

  “We’re situated on the Oceanus Procellarum, you know. Exactly on the lunar equator. One of the biggest open spaces on this hunk of airless rock. Well, the Russians claimed they owned the whole damned Oceanus, since they were here first. We maintained the legal ownership was not established since according to the UN charter and the subsequent convenants—”

  “Spare the legal details! Please, what happened?”

  Patton looked slightly hurt. “Well . . . we started shooting at each other. One of their guards fired at one of our guards. They claim it was the other way round, of course. Anyway, within twenty minutes we were fighting a regular pitched battle, right out there between our base and theirs.” He gestured toward the window.

  “Can you fire guns in airless space?”

  “Oh, sure. No problem at all. However, something unexpected came up.”

  “Oh?”

  “Only a few men got hit in the battle, none of them seriously. As in all battles, most of the rounds fired were clean misses.”

  “So?”

  Patton smiled grimly. “So one of our civilian mathematicians started doodling. We had several thousand very-high-velocity bullets fired off. In airless space. No friction, you see. And under low-gravity conditions. They went right along past their targets—”

  Recognition dawned on Torgeson’s face. “Oh, no!”

  “That’s right. They whizzed right along, skimmed over the mountain tops, thanks to the curvature of this damned short lunar horizon, and established themselves in rather eccentric satellite orbits. Every hour or so they return to perigee . . . or, rather, periluna. And every twenty-seven days, periluna is right here, where the bullets originated. The Moon rotates on its axis every -twenty-seven days, you see. At any rate, when they come back this way, they shoot the living hell out of our- base—and the Russian base, too, of course.”

  “But can’t you . . .”

  “Do what? Can’t move the base. Authorization is tied up in the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and they can’t agree on where to move it to. Can’t bring up any special shielding material, because that’s not authorized, either. The best thing we can do is to requisition all the computers we can and try to keep track of all the bullets. Their orbits keep changing, you know, every time they go through the bases. Air friction, puncturing walls, ricochets off the furniture ... all that keeps changing their orbits enough to keep our computers busy full time.”

  “My God!”

  “In the meantime, we don’t dare fire off any more rounds. It would overburden the computers and we’d lose track of all of ‘em. Then we’d have to spend every twenty-seventh day flat on our faces for hours.”

  Torgeson sat in numbed silence.

  “But don’t worry,” Patton concluded with an optimistic, professional grin. “I’ve got a small detail of men secretly at work on the far side of the base—where the Reds can’t see-building a stone wall. That’ll stop the bullets. Then we’ll fix those warmongers once and for all!”

  Torgeson’s face went slack. The chime sounded, muffled, from inside Patton’s desk.

  “Better get set to flatten out again. Here comes the second volley.”

  >

  * * * *

  BILL FOR DELIVERY

  BY CHRISTOPHER ANVIL

  8/14/97

  Dear Sam:

  I agree about keeping in touch. Old pals should stick together, especially when they’re both in the space transports.

  Your letter, with quotes from your diary during Starlight’s trip with the troublemaker, reached me after apparently being forwarded over half the known universe. I promptly slipped the message spool into the viewer, but I can tell you that I slipped it in with trembling fingers, owing to what I’ve been living through myself. I have to admit that what you went through was pretty awful. But I’ll tell you, Sam, what I’m going through is worse yet

  Just as you’re first officer on Starlight, I’m first officer on Whizzeroo. You will see from that name that our company isn’t quite as dignified as the one you’re working for, but never mind that. It could be worse. One of our sister ships is TSM Clunker. The way these names come about is, the Old Man looks at the records of this or that ship, and all of a sudden he gets red in the face, bangs on the desk, and yells, “Look at this lousy record sheet! They call this the Star of Space, hah? Why, they haven’t met a schedule in the last ten trips! Star of Space, my foot! From now on they’re Muddlehead!”

  And that’s that. Next trip to the loading center, out comes a crew to paint out Star of Space and paint in Muddlehead.

  The Old Man judges strictly by results. If you have a streak of bad luck, or even if the whole crew comes down with the green sandpox, through no fault of their own, that’s still no excuse. All it wins you from the Old Man is:

  “Don’t give me your alibis! Did you keep the schedule or didn’t you keep the schedule?”

  The answer better be, “Well, yes, chief, sure we kept the schedule!”

  “O.K. That’s all I’m interested in.”

  You see what I mean. It makes it kind of rough if, through no fault of your own, the gravitator gives out before its triple-clad warranty period is up, or a jump-point slides out of congruity and hangs the ship up in the middle of nowhere for a month. It doesn’t matter if you don’t have any more control over the trouble than you have over the speed of light. The only thing that counts is, “Did you keep the schedule?”

  I think you get the picture, Sam. This just isn’t an outfit where they study the crew’s brain waves after every trip, or send along psychologists, nurses, and free candy bars to keep us happy.

  Now as for this trouble I’m in. I think I ought to tell you that the way the Old Man operates is kind of old-fashioned, from some points of view. Now, don’t think I’m saying that it’s ridiculous. A forty-five automatic is pretty old-fashioned, but when the big lead slugs start coming out, I’ll tell you, there’s nothing ridiculous about it. That’s what you’ve got to bear in mind when I tell you about this.

  One way the Old Man is kind of old-fashioned is the way he operates when somebody doublecrosses him. There was a third officer a while back that false-boosted a cargo of first-grade Stiger hides, jumped ship at the next loading center, and collected a neat eighty-thousand profit for the hides and the cargo-section. This bird invested thirty thousand in laying such a long crooked trail that it would cost a mint to back him down and catch him.