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diff --git a/18641-h/18641-h.htm b/18641-h/18641-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2a47765 --- /dev/null +++ b/18641-h/18641-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2957 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Hunter Patrol, by H. Beam Piper and John J. McGuire + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + ins.correction { text-decoration:none; + border-bottom: thin dotted gray; + } + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .blockquot{margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 10%;} + + .bbox {border: solid 2px; padding: 0 1em 0 1em; } + + .center {text-align: center;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +Project Gutenberg's Hunter Patrol, by Henry Beam Piper and John J. McGuire + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Hunter Patrol + +Author: Henry Beam Piper and John J. McGuire + +Release Date: June 21, 2006 [EBook #18641] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HUNTER PATROL *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, LN Yaddanapudi and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/ill_cover.jpg" width="600" height="601" alt="Front Cover" title="" /> +</div> + +<div class="bbox"><h3>Transcriber's Note</h3> +<p>This etext was produced from Amazing Stories May 1959. There is no +evidence that the copyright on this publication was renewed.</p></div> + +<h1>HUNTER PATROL</h1> + +<h2>By H. BEAM PIPER and JOHN J. McGUIRE</h2> + +<div class="blockquot"><p><b>Many men have dreamed of world peace, but +none have been able to achieve it. If one +man did have that power, could mankind +afford to pay the price?</b></p></div> + + +<p>At the crest of the ridge, +Benson stopped for an instant, +glancing first at his wrist-watch +and then back over his +shoulder. It was 0539; the barrage +was due in eleven minutes, +at the spot where he was now +standing. Behind, on the long +northeast slope, he could see the +columns of black oil smoke rising +from what had been the +Pan-Soviet advance supply dump. +There was a great deal of firing +going on, back there; he wondered +if the Commies had managed +to corner a few of his men, +after the patrol had accomplished +its mission and scattered, or +if a couple of Communist units +were shooting each other up in +mutual mistaken identity. The +result would be about the same +in either case—reserve units +would be disorganized, and some +men would have been pulled back +from the front line. His dozen-odd +UN regulars and Turkish +partisans had done their best to +simulate a paratroop attack in +force. At least, his job was +done; now to execute that classic +infantry maneuver described +as, "Let's get the hell outa here." +This was his last patrol before +rotation home. He didn't want +anything unfortunate to happen.</p> + +<p>There was a little ravine to +the left; the stream which had +cut it in the steep southern slope +of the ridge would be dry at this +time of year, and he could make +better time, and find protection +in it from any chance shots +when the interdictory barrage +started. He hurried toward it +and followed it down to the valley +that would lead toward the +front—the thinly-held section of +the Communist lines, and the +UN lines beyond, where fresh +troops were waiting to jump +from their holes and begin the +attack.</p> + +<p>There was something wrong +about this ravine, though. At +first, it was only a vague presentiment, +growing stronger as +he followed the dry gully down +to the valley below. Something +he had smelled, or heard, or +seen, without conscious recognition. +Then, in the dry sand where +the ravine debouched into the +valley, he saw faint tank-tracks—only +one pair. There was +something wrong about the vines +that mantled one side of the +ravine, too....</p> + +<p>An instant later, he was diving +to the right, breaking his +fall with the butt of his auto-carbine, +rolling rapidly toward +the cover of a rock, and as he +did so, the thinking part of his +mind recognized what was +wrong. The tank-tracks had ended +against the vine-grown side +of the ravine, what he had +smelled had been lubricating oil +and petrol, and the leaves on +some of the vines hung upside +down.</p> + +<p>Almost at once, from behind +the vines, a tank's machine guns +snarled at him, clipping the +place where he had been standing, +then shifting to rage against +the sheltering rock. With a sudden +motor-roar, the muzzle of +a long tank-gun pushed out +through the vines, and then the +low body of a tank with a red +star on the turret came rumbling +out of the camouflaged bay. The +machine guns kept him pinned +behind the rock; the tank swerved +ever so slightly so that its +wide left tread was aimed directly +at him, then picked up +speed. Aren't even going to +waste a shell on me, he thought.</p> + +<p>Futilely, he let go a clip from +his carbine, trying to hit one of +the vision-slits; then rolled to +one side, dropped out the clip, +slapped in another. There was a +shimmering blue mist around +him. If he only hadn't used his +last grenade, back there at the +supply-dump....</p> + +<p>The strange blue mist became +a flickering radiance that ran +through all the colors of the +spectrum and became an utter, +impenetrable blackness....</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>There were voices in the blackness, +and a softness under him, +but under his back, when he had +been lying on his stomach, as +though he were now on a comfortable +bed. They got me alive, +he thought; now comes the +brainwashing!</p> + +<p>He cracked one eye open imperceptibly. +Lights, white and +glaring, from a ceiling far +above; walls as white as the +lights. Without moving his +head, he opened both eyes and +shifted them from right to left. +Vaguely, he could see people and, +behind them, machines so simply +designed that their functions +were unguessable. He sat up and +looked around groggily. The people, +their costumes—definitely +not Pan-Soviet uniforms—and +the room and its machines, told +him nothing. The hardness under +his right hip was a welcome +surprise; they hadn't taken his +pistol from him! Feigning even +more puzzlement and weakness, +he clutched his knees with his +elbows and leaned his head forward +on them, trying to collect +his thoughts.</p> + +<p>"We shall have to give up, +Gregory," a voice trembled with +disappointment.</p> + +<p>"Why, Anthony?" The new +voice was deeper, more aggressive.</p> + +<p>"Look. Another typical reaction; +retreat to the foetus."</p> + +<p>Footsteps approached. Another +voice, discouragement heavily +weighting each syllable: "You're +right. He's like all the others. +We'll have to send him back."</p> + +<p>"And look for no more?" The +voice he recognized as Anthony +faltered between question and +statement.</p> + +<p>A babel of voices, in dispute; +then, clearly, the voice Benson +had come to label as Gregory, +cut in:</p> + +<p>"I will never give up!"</p> + +<p>He raised his head; there was +something in the timbre of that +voice reminding him of his own +feelings in the dark days when +the UN had everywhere been +reeling back under the Pan-Soviet +hammer-blows.</p> + +<p>"Anthony!" Gregory's voice +again; Benson saw the speaker; +short, stocky, gray-haired, stubborn +lines about the mouth. The +face of a man chasing an illusive +but not uncapturable dream.</p> + +<p>"That means nothing." A tall +thin man, too lean for the tunic-like +garment he wore, was shaking +his head.</p> + +<p>Deliberately, trying to remember +his college courses in psychology, +he forced himself to +accept, and to assess, what he +saw as reality. He was on a small +table, like an operating table; +the whole place looked like a +medical lab or a clinic. He was +still in uniform; his boots had +soiled the white sheets with the +dust of Armenia. He had all his +equipment, including his pistol +and combat-knife; his carbine +was gone, however. He could feel +the weight of his helmet on his +head. The room still rocked and +swayed a little, but the faces of +the people were coming into +focus.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>He counted them, saying each +number to himself: one, two, +three, four, five men; one woman. +He swung his feet over the +edge of the table, being careful +that it would be between him +and the others when he rose, and +began inching his right hand toward +his right hip, using his left +hand, on his brow, to misdirect +attention.</p> + +<p>"I would classify his actions +as arising from conscious effort +at cortico-thalamic integration," +the woman said, like an archaeologist +who has just found a +K-ration tin at the bottom of a +neolithic kitchen-midden. She +had the peculiarly young-old +look of the spinster teachers +with whom Benson had worked +before going to the war.</p> + +<p>"I want to believe it, but I'm +afraid to," another man for +whom Benson had no name-association +said. He was portly, gray-haired, +arrogant-faced; he wore +a short black jacket with a +jewelled zipper-pull, and striped +trousers.</p> + +<p>Benson cleared his throat. +"Just who are you people?" he +inquired. "And just where am +I?"</p> + +<p>Anthony grabbed Gregory's +hand and pumped it frantically.</p> + +<p>"I've dreamed of the day +when I could say this!" he cried. +"Congratulations, Gregory!"</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>That touched off another bedlam, +of joy, this time, instead +of despair. Benson hid his +amusement at the facility with +which all of them were discovering +in one another the courage, +vision and stamina of true +patriots and pioneers. He let it +go on for a few moments, hoping +to glean some clue. Finally, +he interrupted.</p> + +<p>"I believe I asked a couple of +questions," he said, using the +voice he reserved for sergeants +and second lieutenants. "I hate +to break up this mutual admiration +session, but I would appreciate +some answers. This isn't +anything like the situation I last +remember...."</p> + +<p>"He remembers!" Gregory exclaimed. +"That confirms your +first derivation by symbolic +logic, and it strengthens the +validity of the second...."</p> + +<p>The schoolteacherish woman +began jabbering excitedly; she +ran through about a paragraph +of what was pure gobbledegook +to Benson, before the man with +the arrogant face and the jewelled +zipper-pull broke in on her.</p> + +<p>"Save that for later, Paula," +he barked. "I'd be very much interested +in your theories about +why memories are unimpaired +when you time-jump forward +and lost when you reverse the +process, but let's stick to business. +We have what we wanted; +now let's use what we have."</p> + +<p>"I never liked the way you +made your money," a dark-faced, +cadaverous man said, "but when +you talk, it makes sense. Let's +get on with it."</p> + +<p>Benson used the brief silence +which followed to study the six. +With the exception of the two +who had just spoken, there was +the indefinable mark of the +fanatic upon all of them—people +fanatical about different +things, united for different +reasons in a single purpose. It +reminded him sharply of some +teachers' committee about to +beard a school-board with an unpopular +and expensive recommendation.</p> + +<p>Anthony—the oldest of the +lot, in a knee-length tunic—turned +to Gregory.</p> + +<p>"I believe you had better...." +he began.</p> + +<p>"As to who we are, we'll explain +that, partially, later. As +for your question, 'Where am +I?' that will have to be rephrased. +If you ask, 'When and where +am I?' I can furnish a rational +answer. In the temporal dimension, +you are fifty years futureward +of the day of your death; +spatially, you are about eight +thousand miles from the place +of your death, in what is now the +World Capitol, St. Louis."</p> + +<p>Nothing in the answer made +sense but the name of the city. +Benson chuckled.</p> + +<p>"What happened; the Cardinals +conquer the world? I knew +they had a good team, but I +didn't think it was that good."</p> + +<p>"No, no," Gregory told him +earnestly. "The government +isn't a theocracy. At least not +yet. But if The Guide keeps on +insisting that only beautiful +things are good and that he is +uniquely qualified to define beauty, +watch his rule change into +just that."</p> + +<p>"I've been detecting symptoms +of religious paranoia, messianic +delusions, about his public +statements...." the woman began.</p> + +<p>"Idolatry!" another member +of the group, who wore a black +coat fastened to the neck, and +white neck-bands, rasped. "Idolatry +in deed, as well as in +spirit!"</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The sense of unreality, partially +dispelled, began to return. +Benson dropped to the floor and +stood beside the table, getting a +cigarette out of his pocket and +lighting it.</p> + +<p>"I made a joke," he said, putting +his lighter away. "The fact +that none of you got it has done +more to prove that I am fifty +years in the future than anything +any of you could say." He +went on to explain who the St. +Louis Cardinals were.</p> + +<p>"Yes; I remember! Baseball!" +Anthony exclaimed. "There is no +baseball, now. The Guide will +not allow competitive sports; he +says that they foster the spirit +of violence...."</p> + +<p>The cadaverous man in the +blue jacket turned to the man +in the black garment of similar +cut.</p> + +<p>"You probably know more history +than any of us," he said, +getting a cigar out of his pocket +and lighting it. He lighted it by +rubbing the end on the sole of +his shoe. "Suppose you tell him +what the score is." He turned to +Benson. "You can rely on his +dates and happenings; his interpretation's +strictly capitalist, of +course," he said.</p> + +<p>Black-jacket shook his head. +"You first, Gregory," he said. +"Tell him how he got here, and +then I'll tell him why."</p> + +<p>"I believe," Gregory began, +"that in your period, fiction writers +made some use of the subject +of time-travel. It was not, however, +given serious consideration, +largely because of certain alleged +paradoxes involved, and because +of an elementalistic and +objectifying attitude toward the +whole subject of time. I won't go +into the mathematics and symbolic +logic involved, but we have +disposed of the objections; more, +we have succeeded in constructing +a time-machine, if you want +to call it that. We prefer to call +it a temporal-spatial displacement +field generator."</p> + +<p>"It's really very simple," the +woman called Paula interrupted. +"If the universe is expanding, +time is a widening spiral; if contracting, +a diminishing spiral; +if static, a uniform spiral. The +possibility of pulsation was our +only worry...."</p> + +<p>"That's no worry," Gregory +reproved her. "I showed you that +the rate was too slow to have an +effect on...."</p> + +<p>"Oh, nonsense; you can measure +something which exists +within a microsecond, but where +is the instrument to measure a +temporal pulsation that may require +years...? You haven't +come to that yet."</p> + +<p>"Be quiet, both of you!" the +man with the black coat and the +white bands commanded. "While +you argue about vanities, thousands +are being converted to the +godlessness of The Guide, and +other thousands of his dupes are +dying, unprepared to face their +Maker!"</p> + +<p>"All right, you invented a +time-machine," Benson said. "In +civvies, I was only a high school +chemistry teacher. I can tell a +class of juniors the difference +between H<sub>2</sub>O and H<sub>2</sub>SO<sub>4</sub>, but the +theory of time-travel is wasted +on me.... Suppose you just let +me ask the questions; then I'll +be sure of finding out what I +don't know. For instance, who +won the war I was fighting in, +before you grabbed me and +brought me here? The Commies?"</p> + +<p>"No, the United Nations," +Anthony told him. "At least, +they were the least exhausted +when both sides decided to quit."</p> + +<p>"Then what's this dictatorship.... The Guide? Extreme Rightist?"</p> + +<p>"Walter, you'd better tell +him," Gregory said.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>"We damn near lost the war," +the man in the black jacket and +striped trousers said, "but for +once, we won the peace. The Soviet +Bloc was broken up—India, +China, Indonesia, Mongolia, Russia, +the Ukraine, all the Satellite +States. Most of them turned into +little dictatorships, like the +Latin American countries after +the liberation from Spain, but +they were personal, non-ideological, +generally benevolent, dictatorships, +the kind that can grow +into democracies, if they're given +time."</p> + +<p>"Capitalistic dictatorships, he +means," the cadaverous man in +the blue jacket explained.</p> + +<p>"Be quiet, Carl," Anthony told +him. "Let's not confuse this with +any class-struggle stuff."</p> + +<p>"Actually, the United Nations +rules the world," Walter continued. +"What goes on in the +Ukraine or Latvia or Manchuria +is about analogous to what went +on under the old United States +government in, let's say, Tammany-ruled +New York. But +here's the catch. The UN is +ruled absolutely by one man."</p> + +<p>"How could that happen? In +my time, the UN had its functions +so subdivided and compartmented +that it couldn't even +run a war properly. Our army +commanders were making war +by systematic disobedience."</p> + +<p>"The charter was changed +shortly after ... er, that is, +after...." Walter was fumbling +for words.</p> + +<p>"After my death." Benson +finished politely. "Go on. Even +with a changed charter, how did +one man get all the powers into +his hands?"</p> + +<p>"By sorcery!" black-coat-and-white-bands +fairly shouted. "By +the help of his master, Satan!"</p> + +<p>"You know, there are times +when some such theory tempts +me," Paula said.</p> + +<p>"He was a big moneybags," +Carl said. "He bribed his way +in. <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's note: original reads '"See'.">See</ins>, New York was bombed +flat. Where the old UN buildings +were, it's still hot. So The Guide +donated a big tract of land outside +St. Louis, built these buildings—we're +in the basement of +one of them, right now, if you +want a good laugh—and before +long, he had the whole organization +eating out of his hand. They +just voted him into power, and +the world into slavery."</p> + +<p>Benson looked around at the +others, who were nodding in +varying degrees of agreement.</p> + +<p>"Substantially, that's it. He +managed to convince everybody +of his altruism, integrity and +wisdom," Walter said. "It was +almost blasphemous to say anything +against him. I really don't +understand how it happened...."</p> + +<p>"Well, what's he been doing +with his power?" Benson asked. +"Wise things, or stupid ones?"</p> + +<p>"I could be general, and say +that he has deprived all of us of +our political and other liberties. +It is best to be specific," Anthony +said. "Gregory?"</p> + +<p>"My own field—dimensional +physics—hasn't been interfered +with much, yet. It's different in +other fields. For instance, all research +in sonics has been arbitrarily +stopped. So has a great +deal of work in organic and synthetic +chemistry. Psychology is +a madhouse of ... what was the +old word, licentiousness? No, lysenkoism. +Medicine and surgery—well, +there's a huge program +of compulsory sterilization, and +another one of eugenic marriage-control. +And infants who don't +conform to certain physical +standards don't survive. Neither +do people who have disfiguring +accidents beyond the power of +plastic surgery."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Paula spoke next. "My field is +child welfare. Well, I'm going to +show you an audio-visual of an +interesting ceremony in a Hindu +village, derived from the ancient +custom of the suttee. It is the +Hindu method of conforming to +The Guide's demand that only +beautiful children be allowed to +grow to maturity."</p> + +<p>The film was mercifully brief. +Even in spite of the drums and +gongs, and the chanting of the +crowd, Benson found out how +loudly a newborn infant can +scream in a fire. The others looked +as though they were going to +be sick; he doubted if he looked +much better.</p> + +<p>"Of course, we are a more +practical and mechanical-minded +people, here and in Europe," +Paula added, holding down her +gorge by main strength. "We +have lethal-gas chambers that +even Hitler would have envied."</p> + +<p>"I am a musician," Anthony +said. "A composer. If Gregory +thinks that the sciences are controlled, +he should try to write +even the simplest piece of music. +The extent of censorship and +control over all the arts, and +especially music, is incredible." +He coughed slightly. "And I +have another motive, a more +selfish one. I am approaching the +compulsory retirement age; I +will soon be invited to go to one +of the Havens. Even though +these Havens are located in the +most barren places, they are +beauty-spots, verdant beyond belief. +It is of only passing interest +that, while large numbers of the +aged go there yearly, their populations +remain constant, and, to +judge from the quantities of +supplies shipped to them, extremely +small."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>"They call me Samuel, in this +organization," the man in the +long black coat said. "Whoever +gave me that alias must have +chosen it because I am here in +an effort to live up to it. Although +I am ordained by no +church, I fight for all of them. +The plain fact is that this man +we call The Guide is really the +Antichrist!"</p> + +<p>"Well, I haven't quite so lofty +a motive, but it's good enough +to make me willing to finance +this project," Walter said. "It's +very simple. The Guide won't let +people make money, and if they +do, he taxes it away from them. +And he has laws to prohibit inheritance; +what little you can +accumulate, you can't pass on to +your children."</p> + +<p>"I put up a lot of the money, +too, don't forget," Carl told him. +"Or the Union did; I'm a poor +man, myself." He was smoking +an excellent cigar, for a poor +man, and his clothes could have +come from the same tailor as +Walter's. "Look, we got a real +Union—the Union of all unions. +Every working man in North +America, Europe, Australia and +South Africa belongs to it. And +The Guide has us all hog-tied."</p> + +<p>"He won't let you strike," +Benson chuckled.</p> + +<p>"That's right. And what can +we do? Why, we can't even make +our closed-shop contracts stick. +And as far as getting anything +like a pay-raise...."</p> + +<p>"Good thing. Another pay-raise +in some of my companies +would bankrupt them, the way +The Guide has us under his +thumb...." Walter began, but +he was cut off.</p> + +<p>"Well! It seems as though this +Guide has done some good, if +he's made you two realize that +you're both on the same side, +and that what hurts one hurts +both," Benson said. "When I +shipped out for Turkey in '77, +neither Labor nor Management +had learned that." He looked +from one to another of them. +"The Guide must have a really +good bodyguard, with all the +enemies he's made."</p> + +<p>Gregory shook his head. "He +lives virtually alone, in a very +small house on the UN Capitol +grounds. In fact, except for a +small police-force, armed only +with non-lethal stun-guns, your +profession of arms is non-existent."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>"I've been guessing what you +want me to do," Benson said. +"You want this Guide bumped +off. But why can't any of you do +it? Or, if it's too risky, at least +somebody from your own time? +Why me?"</p> + +<p>"We can't. Everybody in the +world today is conditioned +against violence, especially the +taking of human life," Anthony +told him.</p> + +<p>"Now, wait a moment!" This +time, he was using the voice he +would have employed in chiding +a couple of Anatolian peasant +partisans who were field-stripping +a machine gun the wrong +way. "Those babies in that film +you showed me weren't dying of +old age...."</p> + +<p>"That is not violence," Paula +said bitterly. "That is humane +<ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's note: original reads 'benificence'.">beneficence</ins>. Ugly people would be +unhappy, and would make others +unhappy, in a world where +everybody else is beautiful."</p> + +<p>"And all these oppressive and +<ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's note: original reads 'tyranical'.">tyrannical</ins> laws," Benson continued. +"How does he enforce +them, without violence, actual or +threatened?"</p> + +<p>Samuel started to say something +about the Power of the +Evil One; Paula, ignoring him, +said:</p> + +<p>"I really don't know; he just +does it. Mass hypnotism of some +sort. I know music has something +to do with it, because there +is always music, everywhere. +This laboratory, for instance, +was secretly soundproofed; we +couldn't have worked here, otherwise."</p> + +<p>"All right. I can see that you'd +need somebody from the past, +preferably a soldier, whose conditioning +has been in favor +rather than against violence. I'm +not the only one you snatched, I +take it?"</p> + +<p>"No. We've been using that +machine to pick up men from +battlefields all over the world +and all over history," Gregory +said. "Until now, none of them +could adjust.... Uggh!" He +shuddered, looking even sicker +than when the film was being +shown.</p> + +<p>"He's thinking," Walter said, +"about a French officer from +Waterloo who blew out his +brains with a pocket-pistol on +that table, and an English archer +from Agincourt who ran amok +with a dagger in here, and a +trooper of the Seventh Cavalry +from the Custer Massacre."</p> + +<p>Gregory managed to overcome +his revulsion. "You see, we were +forced to take our subjects largely +at random with regard to individual +characteristics, mental +attitudes, adaptability, et cetera." +As long as he stuck to high +order abstractions, he could control +himself. "Aside from their +professional lack of repugnance +for violence, we took soldiers +from battlefields because we +could select men facing immediate +death, whose removal from +the past would not have any effect +upon the casual chain of +events affecting the present."</p> + +<p>A warning buzzer rasped in +Benson's brain. He nodded, +poker-faced.</p> + +<p>"I can see that," he agreed. +"You wouldn't dare do anything +to change the past. That was always +one of the favorite paradoxes +in time-travel fiction.... +Well, I think I have the general +picture. You have a dictator who +is tyrannizing you; you want to +get rid of him; you can't kill him +yourselves. I'm opposed to dictators, +myself; that—and the +Selective Service law, of course—was +why I was a soldier. I +have no moral or psychological +taboos against killing dictators, +or anybody else. Suppose I cooperate +with you; what's in it +for me?"</p> + +<p>There was a long silence. +Walter and Carl looked at one +another inquiringly; the others +dithered helplessly. It was Carl +who answered.</p> + +<p>"Your return to your own +time and place."</p> + +<p>"And if I don't cooperate with +you?"</p> + +<p>"Guess when and where else +we could send you," Walter +said.</p> + +<p>Benson dropped his cigarette +and tramped it.</p> + +<p>"Exactly the same time and +place?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Well, the structure of space-time +demands...." Paula began.</p> + +<p>"The spatio-temporal displacement +field is capable of +identifying that spot—" Gregory +pointed to a ten-foot circle +in front of a bank of sleek-cabineted, +dial-studded machines "—with +any set of space-time +coordinates in the universe. +However, to avoid disruption of +the structure of space-time, we +must return you to approximately +the same point in space-time."</p> + +<p>Benson nodded again, this +time at the confirmation of his +earlier suspicion. Well, while he +was alive, he still had a chance.</p> + +<p>"All right; tell me exactly +what you want me to do."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>A third outbreak of bedlam, +this time of relief and frantic +explanation.</p> + +<p>"Shut up, all of you!" For so +thin a man, Carl had an astonishing +voice. "I worked this out, +so let me tell it." He turned to +Benson. "Maybe I'm tougher +than the rest of them, or maybe +I'm not as deeply conditioned. +For one thing, I'm tone-deaf. +Well, here's the way it is. Gregory +can set the machine to function +automatically. You stand +where he shows you, press the +button he shows you, and fifteen +seconds later it'll take you forward +in time five seconds and +about a kilometer in space, to +The Guide's office. He'll be at his +desk now. You'll have forty-five +seconds to do the job, from the +time the field collapses around +you till it rebuilds. Then you'll +be taken back to your own time +again. The whole thing's automatic."</p> + +<p>"Can do," Benson agreed. +"How do I kill him?"</p> + +<p>"I'm getting sick!" Paula +murmured weakly. Her face was +whiter than her gown.</p> + +<p>"Take care of her, Samuel. +Both of you'd better get out of +here," Gregory said.</p> + +<p>"The Lord of Hosts is my +strength, He will.... Uggggh!" +Samuel gasped.</p> + +<p>"Conditioning's getting him, +too; we gotta be quick," Carl +said. "Here. This is what you'll +use." He handed Benson a two-inch +globe of black plastic. "Take +the damn thing, quick! Little +button on the side; press it, and +get it out of your hand +fast...." He retched. "Limited-effect +bomb; everything within +two-meter circle burned to +nothing; outside that, great but +not unendurable heat. Shut +your eyes when you throw it. +Flash almost blinding." He dropped +his cigar and turned almost +green in the face. Walter had a +drink poured and handed it to +him. "Uggh! Thanks, Walter." +He downed it.</p> + +<p>"Peculiar sort of thing for a +non-violent people to manufacture," +Benson said, looking at +the bomb and then putting it in +his jacket pocket.</p> + +<p>"It isn't a weapon. Industrial; +we use it in mining. I used +plenty of them, in Walter's iron +mines."</p> + +<p>He nodded again. "Where do +I stand, now?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Right over here." Gregory +placed him in front of a small +panel with three buttons. "Press +the middle one, and step back +into the small red circle and +stand perfectly still while the +field builds up and collapses. +Face that way."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Benson drew his pistol and +checked it; magazine full, a +round in the chamber, safety +on.</p> + +<p>"Put that horrid thing out of +sight!" Anthony gasped. "The ... the other thing ... is what +you want to use."</p> + +<p>"The bomb won't be any good +if some of his guards come in +before the field re-builds," Benson +said.</p> + +<p>"He has no guards. He lives +absolutely alone. We told +you...."</p> + +<p>"I know you did. You probably +believed it, too. I don't. And +by the way, you're sending me +forward. What do you do about +the fact that a time-jump seems +to make me pass out?"</p> + +<p>"Here. Before you press the +button, swallow it." Gregory +gave him a small blue pill.</p> + +<p>"Well, I guess that's all there +is," Gregory continued. "I hope...." +His face twitched, and he +dropped to the floor with a thud. +Carl and Walter came forward, +dragged him away from the machine.</p> + +<p>"Conditioning got him. Getting +me, too," Walter said. +"Hurry up, man!"</p> + +<p>Benson swallowed the pill, +pressed the button and stepped +back into the red circle, drawing +his pistol and snapping off the +safety. The blue mist closed in +on him.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>This time, however, it did not +thicken into blackness. It became +luminous, brightening to a +dazzle and dimming again to +a colored mist, and then it cleared, +while Benson stood at raise +pistol, as though on a target +range. He was facing a big desk +at twenty feet, across a thick-piled +blue rug. There was a man +seated at the desk, a white-haired +man with a mustache and a +small beard, who wore a loose +coat of some glossy plum-brown +fabric, and a vividly blue neck-scarf.</p> + +<p>The pistol centered on the v-shaped +blue under his chin. +Deliberately, Benson squeezed, +recovered from the recoil, aimed, +fired, recovered, aimed, fired. +Five seconds gone. The old man +slumped across the desk, his +arms extended. Better make a +good job of it, six, seven, eight +seconds; he stepped forward to +the edge of the desk, call that +fifteen seconds, and put the muzzle +to the top of the man's head, +firing again and snapping on the +safety. There had been something +familiar about The Guide's +face, but it was too late to check +on that, now. There wasn't any +face left; not even much head.</p> + +<p>A box, on the desk, caught +Benson's eye, a cardboard box +with an envelope, stamped <i>Top +Secret! For the Guide Only!</i> +taped to it. He holstered his pistol +and caught that up, stuffing +it into his pocket, in obedience +to an instinct to grab anything +that looked like intelligence matter +while in the enemy's country. +Then he stepped back to the +spot where the field had deposited +him. He had ten seconds to +spare; somebody was banging on +a door when the blue mist began +to gather around him.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>He was crouching, the spherical +plastic object in his right +hand, his thumb over the button, +when the field collapsed. Sure +enough, right in front of him, +so close that he could smell the +very heat of it, was the big tank +with the red star on its turret. +He cursed the sextet of sanctimonious +double-crossers eight +thousand miles and fifty years +away in space-time. The machine +guns had stopped—probably because +they couldn't be depressed +far enough to aim at him, now; +that was a notorious fault of +some of the newer Pan-Soviet +tanks—and he rocked back on +his heels, pressed the button, and +heaved, closing his eyes. As the +thing left his fingers, he knew +that he had thrown too hard. His +muscles, accustomed to the heavier +cast-iron grenades of his +experience, had betrayed him. +For a moment, he was closer to +despair than at any other time +in the whole phantasmagoric adventure. +Then he was hit, with +physical violence, by a wave of +almost solid heat. It didn't smell +like the heat of the tank's engines; +it smelled like molten +metal, with undertones of burned +flesh. Immediately, there was +a multiple explosion that threw +him flat, as the tank's ammunition +went up. There were no +screams. It was too fast for that. +He opened his eyes.</p> + +<p>The turret and top armor of +the tank had vanished. The two +massive treads had been toppled +over, one to either side. The +body had collapsed between +them, and it was running sticky +trickles of molten metal. He +blinked, rubbed his eyes on the +back of his hand, and looked +again. Of all the many blasted +and burned-out tanks, Soviet and +UN, that he had seen, this was +the most completely wrecked +thing in his experience. And he'd +done that with one grenade....</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>At that moment, there was a +sudden rushing overhead, and an +instant later the barrage began +falling beyond the crest of the +ridge. He looked at his watch, +blinked, and looked again. That +barrage was due at 0550; according +to the watch, it was +0726. He was sure that, ten +minutes ago, when he had looked +at it, up there at the head of +the ravine, it had been twenty +minutes to six. He puzzled about +that for a moment, and decided +that he must have caught the +stem on something and pulled it +out, and then twisted it a little, +setting the watch ahead. Then, +somehow, the stem had gotten +pushed back in, starting it at the +new setting. That was a pretty +far-fetched explanation, but it +was the only one he could think +of.</p> + +<p>But about this tank, now. He +was positive that he could remember +throwing a grenade.... +Yet he'd used his last grenade +back there at the supply dump. +He saw his carbine, and picked +it up. That silly blackout he'd +had, for a second, there; he must +have dropped it. Action was +open, empty magazine on the +ground where he'd dropped it. +He wondered, stupidly, if one of +his bullets couldn't have gone +down the muzzle of the tank's +gun and exploded the shell in +the chamber.... Oh, the hell +with it! The tank might have +been hit by a premature shot +from the barrage which was +raging against the far slope of +the ridge. He reset his watch by +guess and looked down the valley. +The big attack would be +starting any minute, now, and +there would be fleeing Commies +coming up the valley ahead of +the UN advance. He'd better get +himself placed before they started +coming in on him.</p> + +<p>He stopped thinking about the +mystery of the blown-up tank, +a solution to which seemed to +dance maddeningly just out of +his mental reach, and found himself +a place among the rocks to +wait. Down the valley he could +hear everything from pistols to +mortars going off, and shouting +in three or four racial intonations. +After a while, fugitive +Communists began coming, many +of them without their equipment, +stumbling in their haste +and looking back over their +shoulders. Most of them avoided +the mouth of the ravine and hurried +by to the left or right, but +one little clump, eight or ten, +came up the dry stream-bed, and +stopped a hundred and fifty +yards from his hiding-place to +make a stand. They were Hindus, +with outsize helmets over +their turbans. Two of them came +ahead, carrying a machine gun, +followed by a third with a flame-thrower; +the others retreated +more slowly, firing their rifles to +delay pursuit.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Cuddling the stock of his carbine +to his cheek, he divided a +ten-shot burst between the two +machine-gunners, then, as a matter +of principle, he shot the man +with the flame-thrower. He had +a dislike for flame-throwers; he +killed every enemy he found with +one. The others dropped their +rifles and raised their hands, +screaming: "Hey, Joe! Hey, +Joe! You no shoot, me no +shoot!"</p> + +<p>A dozen men in UN battledress +came up and took them +prisoner. Benson shouted to +them, and then rose and came +down to join them. They were +British—Argyle and Sutherland +Highlanders, advertising the +fact by inconspicuous bits of tartan +on their uniforms. The subaltern +in command looked at him +and nodded.</p> + +<p>"Captain Benson? We were +warned to be on watch for your +patrol," he said. "Any of the rest +of you lads get out?"</p> + +<p>Benson shrugged. "We split +up after the attack. You may +run into a couple of them. Some +are locals and don't speak very +good English. I've got to get +back to Division, myself; what's +the best way?"</p> + +<p>"Down that way. You'll overtake +a couple of our walking +wounded. If you don't mind going +slowly, they'll show you the +way to advance dressing station, +and you can hitch a ride on an +ambulance from there."</p> + +<p>Benson nodded. Off on the left, +there was a flurry of small-arms +fire, ending in yells of "Hey, +Joe! Hey, Joe!"—the World +War IV version of "Kamarad"!</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>His company was a non-T/O +outfit; he came directly under +Division command and didn't +have to bother reporting to any +regimental or brigade commanders. +He walked for an hour with +half a dozen lightly wounded +Scots, rode for another hour on +a big cat-truck loaded with casualties +of six regiments and four +races, and finally reached Division +Rear, where both the +Division and Corps commanders +took time to compliment him on +the part his last hunter patrol +had played in the now complete +breakthrough. His replacement, +an equine-faced Spaniard with +an imposing display of fruit-salad, +was there, too; he solemnly +took off the bracelet a refugee +Caucasian goldsmith had made +for his predecessor's predecessor +and gave it to the new commander +of what had formerly been +Benson's Butchers. As he had +expected, there was also another +medal waiting for him.</p> + +<p>A medical check at Task Force +Center got him a warning; his +last patrol had brought him dangerously +close to the edge of +combat fatigue. Remembering +the incidents of the tank and the +unaccountably fast watch, and +the mysterious box and envelope +which he had found in his coat +pocket, he agreed, saying nothing +about the questions that +were puzzling him. The Psychological +Department was never +too busy to refuse another case; +they hunted patients gleefully, +each psych-shark seeking in +every one proof of his own particular +theories. It was with relief +that he watched them fill out +the red tag which gave him a +priority on jet transports for +home.</p> + +<p>Ankara to Alexandria, Alexandria +to Dakar, Dakar to Belém, +Belém to the shattered skyline of +New York, the "hurry-and-wait" +procedures at Fort Carlisle, +and, after the usual separation +promotion, Major Fred +Benson, late of Benson's Butchers, +was back at teaching high +school juniors the difference between +H<sub>2</sub>O and H<sub>2</sub>SO<sub>4</sub>.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>There were two high schools +in the city: McKinley High, on +the east side, and Dwight +Eisenhower High, on the west. +A few blocks from McKinley was +the Tulip Tavern, where the +Eisenhower teachers came in +the late afternoons; the McKinley +faculty crossed town to do +their after-school drinking on +the west side. When Benson entered +the Tulip Tavern, on a +warm September afternoon, he +found Bill Myers, the school +psychologist, at one of the tables, +smoking his pipe, checking over +a stack of aptitude test forms, +and drinking beer. He got a +highball at the bar and carried +it over to Bill's table.</p> + +<p>"Oh, hi, Fred." The psychologist +separated the finished from +the unfinished work with a +sheet of yellow paper and crammed +the whole business into his +brief case. "I was hoping somebody'd +show up...."</p> + +<p>Benson lit a cigarette, sipped +his highball. They talked at random—school-talk; +the progress +of the war, now in its twelfth +year; personal reminiscences, of +the Turkish Theater where Benson +had served, and the Madras +Beachhead, where Myers had +been.</p> + +<p>"Bring home any souvenirs?" +Myers asked.</p> + +<p>"Not much. Couple of pistols, +couple of knives, some pictures. +I don't remember what all; +haven't gotten around to unpacking +them, yet.... I have a +sixth of rye and some beer, at +my rooms. Let's go around and +see what I did bring home."</p> + +<p>They finished their drinks and +went out.</p> + +<p>"What the devil's that?" Myers +said, pointing to the cardboard +box with the envelope +taped to it, when Benson lifted +it out of the gray-green locker.</p> + +<p>"Bill, I don't know," Benson +said. "I found it in the pocket of +my coat, on my way back from +my last hunter patrol.... I've +never told anybody about this, +before."</p> + +<p>"That's the damnedest story +I've ever heard, and in my racket +you hear some honeys," Myers +said, when he had finished. "You +couldn't have picked that thing +up in some other way, deliberately +forgotten the circumstances, +and fabricated this story +about the tank and the grenade +and the discrepancy in your +watch subconsciously as an explanation?"</p> + +<p>"My subconscious is a better +liar than that," Benson replied. +"It would have cobbled up some +kind of a story that would stand +up. This business...."</p> + +<p>"Top Secret! For the Guide +Only!" Myers frowned. "That +isn't one of our marks, and if it +were Soviet, it'd be tri-lingual, +Russian, Hindi and Chinese."</p> + +<p>"Well, let's see what's in it. I +want this thing cleared up. I've +been having some of the nastiest +dreams, lately...."</p> + +<p>"Well, be careful; it may be +booby-trapped," Myers said urgently.</p> + +<p>"Don't worry; I will."</p> + +<p>He used a knife to slice the +envelope open without untaping +it from the box, and exposed five +sheets of typewritten <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's note: Hyphen introduced to conform to majority usage in text.">onion-skin</ins> +paper. There was no letterhead, +no salutation or address-line. +Just a mass of chemical formulae, +and a concise report on +tests. It seemed to be a report +on an improved syrup for a carbonated +soft-drink. There were +a few cryptic cautionary references +to heightened physico-psychological +effects.</p> + +<p>The box was opened with the +same caution, but it proved as +innocent of dangers as the envelope. +It contained only a half-liter +bottle, wax-sealed, containing +a dark reddish-brown syrup.</p> + +<p>"There's a lot of this stuff I +don't dig," Benson said, tapping +the sheets of onion-skin. "I don't +even scratch the surface of this +rigamarole about The Guide. +I'm going to get to work on this +sample in the lab, at school, +though. Maybe we have something, +here."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>At eight-thirty the next evening, +after four and a half hours +work, he stopped to check what +he had found out.</p> + +<p>The school's X-ray, an excellent +one, had given him a complete +picture of the molecular +structure of the syrup. There +were a couple of long-chain +molecules that he could only believe +after two re-examinations +and a careful check of the machine, +but with the help of the +notes he could deduce how they +had been put together. They +would be the Ingredient Alpha +and Ingredient Beta referred to +in the notes.</p> + +<p>The components of the syrup +were all simple and easily procurable +with these two exceptions, +as were the basic components +from which these were +made.</p> + +<p>The mechanical guinea-pig +demonstrated that the syrup contained +nothing harmful to human +tissue.</p> + +<p>Of course, there were the +warnings about heightened psycho-physiological +effects....</p> + +<p>He stuck a poison-label on the +bottle, locked it up, and went +home. The next day, he and Bill +Myers got a bottle of carbonated +water and mixed themselves a +couple of drinks of it. It was delicious—sweet, +dry, tart, sour, +all of these in alternating waves +of pleasure.</p> + +<p>"We do have something, Bill," +he said. "We have something +that's going to give our income-tax +experts headaches."</p> + +<p>"You have," Myers corrected. +"Where do you start fitting me +into it?"</p> + +<p>"We're a good team, Bill. I'm +a chemist, but I don't know a +thing about people. You're a psychologist. +A real one; not one of +these night-school boys. A juvenile psychologist, +too. And what +age-group spends the most +money in this country for soft-drinks?"</p> + +<p>Knowing the names of the +syrup's ingredients, and what +their molecular structure was +like, was only the beginning. +Gallon after gallon of the School +Board's chemicals went down the +laboratory sink; Fred Benson +and Bill Myers almost lived in +the fourth floor lab. Once or +twice there were head-shaking +warnings from the principal +about the dangers of over-work. +The watchmen, at all hours, +would hear the occasional twanging +of Benson's guitar in the +laboratory, and know that he had +come to a dead end on something +and was trying to think. Football +season came and went; basketball +season; the inevitable +riot between McKinley and +Eisenhower rooters; the Spring +concerts. The term-end exams +were only a month away when +Benson and Myers finally did it, +and stood solemnly, each with a +beaker in either hand and took +alternate sips of the original and +the drink mixed from the syrup +they had made.</p> + +<p>"Not a bit of difference, +Fred," Myers said. "We have +it!"</p> + +<p>Benson picked up the guitar +and began plunking on it.</p> + +<p>"Hey!" Myers exclaimed. +"Have you been finding time to +take lessons on that thing? I +never heard you play as well as +that!"</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>They decided to go into business +in St. Louis. It was centrally +located, and, being behind +more concentric circles of radar +and counter-rocket defenses, it +was in better shape than any +other city in the country and +most likely to stay that way. +Getting started wasn't hard; the +first banker who tasted the new +drink-named Evri-Flave, at +Myers' suggestion—couldn't dig +up the necessary money fast +enough. Evri-Flave hit the market +with a bang and became an +instant success; soon the rainbow-tinted +vending machines +were everywhere, dispensing the +slender, slightly flattened bottles +and devouring quarters +voraciously. In spite of high +taxes and the difficulties of doing +business in a consumers' +economy upon which a war-time +economy had been superimposed, +both Myers and Benson were +rapidly becoming wealthy. The +gregarious Myers installed himself +in a luxurious apartment in +the city; Benson bought a large +tract of land down the river toward +Carondelet and started +building a home and landscaping +the grounds.</p> + +<p>The dreams began bothering +him again, now that the urgency +of getting Evri-Flave, Inc., +started had eased. They were not +dreams of the men he had killed +in battle, or, except for one +about a huge, hot-smelling tank +with a red star on the turret, +about the war. Generally, they +were about a strange, beautiful, +office-room, in which a young +man in uniform killed an older +man in a plum-brown coat and +a vivid blue neck-scarf. Sometimes +Benson identified himself +with the killer; sometimes with +the old man who was killed.</p> + +<p>He talked to Myers about +these dreams, but beyond generalities +about delayed effects of +combat fatigue and vague advice +to relax, the psychologist, +now head of Sales & Promotion +of Evri-Flave, Inc., could give +him no help.</p> + +<p>The war ended three years +after the new company was +launched. There was a momentary +faltering of the economy, +and then the work of reconstruction +was crying hungrily +for all the labor and capital that +had been idled by the end of destruction, +and more. There was +a new flood-tide of prosperity, +and Evri-Flave rode the crest. +The estate at Carondelet was +finished—a beautiful place, surrounded +with gardens, fragrant +with flowers, full of the songs +of birds and soft music from +concealed record-players. It +made him forget the ugliness of +the war, and kept the dreams +from returning so frequently. +All the world ought to be like +that, he thought; beautiful and +quiet and peaceful. People surrounded +with such beauty couldn't +think about war.</p> + +<p>All the world could be like +that, if only....</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The UN chose St. Louis for +its new headquarters—many of +its offices had been moved there +after the second and most destructive +bombing of New York—and +when the city by the +Mississippi began growing into +a real World Capital, the flow of +money into it almost squared +overnight. Benson began to take +an active part in politics in the +new World Sovereignty party. +He did not, however, allow his +political activities to distract +him from the work of expanding +the company to which he owed +his wealth and position. There +were always things to worry +about.</p> + +<p>"I don't know," Myers said to +him, one evening, as they sat +over a bottle of rye in the psychologist's +apartment. "I could +make almost as much money +practicing as a psychiatrist, +these days. The whole world +seems to be going pure, unadulterated +nuts! That affair in +Munich, for instance."</p> + +<p>"Yes." Benson grimaced as he +thought of the affair in Munich—a +Wagnerian concert which +had terminated in an insane orgy +of mass suicide. "Just a week +after we started our free-sample +campaign in South Germany, +too...."</p> + +<p>He stopped short, downing his +drink and coughing over it.</p> + +<p>"Bill! You remember those +sheets of onion-skin in that envelope?"</p> + +<p>"The foundation of our fortunes; +I wonder where you really +did get that.... Fred!" His +eyes widened in horror. "That +caution about 'heightened psycho-physiological +effects,' that +we were never able to understand!"</p> + +<p>Benson nodded grimly. "And +think of all the crazy cases of +mass-hysteria—that baseball-game +riot in Baltimore; the +time everybody started tearing +off each others' clothes in Milwaukee; +the sex-orgy in New +Orleans. And the sharp uptrend +in individual psycho-neurotic +and psychotic behavior. All in +connection with music, too, and +all after Evri-Flave got on the +market."</p> + +<p>"We'll have to stop it; pull +Evri-Flave off the market," Myers +said. "We can't be responsible +for letting this go on."</p> + +<p>"We can't stop, either. There's +at least a two months' supply out +in the hands of jobbers and distributors +over whom we have no +control. And we have all these +contractual obligations, to buy +the entire output of the companies +that make the syrup for +us; if we stop buying, they can +sell it in competition with us, as +long as they don't infringe our +trade-name. And we can't prevent +pirating. You know how +easily we were able to duplicate +that sample I brought back from +Turkey. Why, our legal department's +kept busy all the time +prosecuting unlicensed manufacturers +as it is."</p> + +<p>"We've got to do something, +Fred!" There was almost a whiff +of hysteria in Myers' voice.</p> + +<p>"We will. We'll start, first +thing tomorrow, on a series of +tests—just you and I, like the +old times at Eisenhower High. +First, we want to be sure that +Evri-Flave really is responsible. +It'd be a hell of a thing if we +started a public panic against +our own product for nothing. +And then...."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>It took just two weeks, in a +soundproofed and guarded laboratory +on Benson's Carondelet +estate, to convict their delicious +drink of responsibility for that +Munich State Opera House Horror +and everything else. Reports +from confidential investigators +in Munich confirmed this. It had, +of course, been impossible to interview +the two thousand men +and women who had turned the +Opera House into a pyre for +their own immolation, but none +of the tiny minority who had +kept their sanity and saved +their lives had tasted Evri-Flave.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>It took another month to find +out exactly how the stuff affected +the human nervous system, +and they almost wrecked their +own nervous systems in the +process. The real villain, they +discovered, was the incredible-looking +long-chain compound alluded +to in the original notes as +Ingredient Beta; its principal +physiological effect was to greatly +increase the sensitivity of the +aural nerves. Not only was the +hearing range widened—after +consuming thirty CC of Beta, +they could hear the sound of an +ultrasonic dog-whistle quite +plainly—but the very quality of +all audible sounds was curiously +enhanced and altered. Myers, the +psychologist, who was also well +grounded in neurology, explained +how the chemical produced this +effect; it meant about as much +to Benson as some of his chemistry +did to Bill Myers. There +was also a secondary, purely +psychological, effect. Certain musical +chords had definite effects +on the emotions of the hearer, +and the subject, beside being directly +influenced by the music, +was rendered extremely open to +verbal suggestions accompanied +by a suitable musical background.</p> + +<p>Benson transferred the final +results of this stage of the research +to the black notebook and +burned the scratch-sheets.</p> + +<p>"That's how it happened, +then," he said. "The Munich +thing was the result of all that +Götterdämmerung music. There +was a band at the baseball park +in Baltimore. The New Orleans +Orgy started while a local radio +station was broadcasting some +of this new dance-music. Look, +these tone-clusters, here, have a +definite sex-excitation effect. +This series of six chords, which +occur in some of the Wagnerian +stuff; effect, a combined feeling +of godlike isolation and despair. +And these consecutive fifths—a +sense of danger, anger, combativeness. +You know, we could +work out a whole range of emotional +stimuli to fit the effects of +Ingredient Beta...."</p> + +<p>"We don't want to," Myers +said. "We want to work out a +substitute for Beta that will +keep the flavor of the drink without +the psycho-physiological effects."</p> + +<p>"Yes, sure. I have some of the +boys at the plant lab working on +that. Gave them a lot of syrup +without Beta, and told them to +work out cheap additives to restore +the regular Evri-Flave +taste; told them it was an effort +to find a cheap substitute for an +expensive ingredient. But look, +Bill. You and I both see, for instance, +that a powerful world-wide +supra-national sovereignty +is the only guarantee of world +peace. If we could use something +like this to help overcome antiquated +verbal prejudices and +nationalistic emotional attachments...."</p> + +<p>"No!" Myers said. "I won't +ever consent to anything like +that, Fred! Not even in a cause +like world peace; use a thing like +this for a good, almost holy, +cause now, and tomorrow we, or +those who would come after us, +would be using it to create a +tyranny. You know what year +this is, Bill?"</p> + +<p>"Why, 1984," Benson said.</p> + +<p>"Yes. You remember that old +political novel of Orwell's, written +about forty years ago? Well, +that's a picture of the kind of +world you'd have, eventually, no +matter what kind of a world you +started out to make. Fred, don't +ever think of using this stuff for +a purpose like that. If you try it, +I'll fight you with every resource +I have."</p> + +<p>There was a fanatical, almost +murderous, look in Bill Myers' +eyes. Benson put the notebook in +his pocket, then laughed and +threw up his hands.</p> + +<p>"Hey, Joe! Hey, Joe!" he +cried. "You're right, of course, +Bill. We can't even trust the UN +with a thing like this. It makes +the H-bomb look like a stone +hatchet.... Well, I'll call Grant, +at the plant lab, and see how his +boys are coming along with the +substitute; as soon as we get it, +we can put out a confidential letter +to all our distributors and +syrup-manufacturers...."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>He walked alone in the garden +at Carondelet, watching the +color fade out of the sky and the +twilight seep in among the clipped +yews. All the world could be +like this garden, a place of peace +and beauty and quiet, if only.... +All the world <i>would</i> be a beautiful +and peaceful garden, in his +own lifetime! He had the means +of making it so!</p> + +<p>Three weeks later, he murdered +his friend and partner, Bill +Myers. It was a suicide; nobody +but Fred Benson knew that he +had taken fifty CC of pure Ingredient +Beta in a couple of +cocktails while listening to the +queer phonograph record that he +had played half an hour before +blowing his brains out.</p> + +<p>The decision had cost Benson +a battle with his conscience from +which he had emerged the sole +survivor. The conscience was +buried along with Bill Myers, +and all that remained was a purpose.</p> + +<p>Evri-Flave stayed on the market +unaltered. The night before +the national election, the World +Sovereignty party distributed +thousands of gallons of Evri-Flave; +their speakers, on every +radio and television network, +were backgrounded by soft music. +The next day, when the vote +was counted, it was found that +the American Nationalists had +carried a few backwoods precincts +in the Rockies and the +Southern Appalachians and one +county in Alaska, where there +had been no distribution of Evri-Flave.</p> + +<p>The dreams came back more +often, now that Bill Myers was +gone. Benson was only beginning +to realize what a large fact in +his life the companionship of +the young psychologist had been. +Well, a world of peace and +beauty was an omelet worth the +breaking of many eggs....</p> + +<p>He purchased another great +tract of land near the city, and +donated it to the UN for their +new headquarters buildings; the +same architects and landscapists +who had created the estate at +Carondelet were put to work on +it. In the middle of what was to +become World City, they erected +a small home for Fred Benson. +Benson was often invited to address +the delegates to the UN; +always, there was soft piped-in +music behind his words. He saw +to it that Evri-Flave was available +free to all UN personnel. +The Senate of the United States +elected him as perpetual U. S. +delegate-in-chief to the UN; not +long after, the Security Council +elected him their perpetual chairman.</p> + +<p>In keeping with his new dignities, +and to ameliorate his youthful +appearance, he grew a mustache +and, eventually, a small +beard. The black notebook in +which he kept the records of his +experiments was always with +him; page after page was filled +with notes. Experiments in sonics, +like the one which had produced +the ultrasonic stun-gun +which rendered <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's note: original reads 'lethel'.">lethal</ins> weapons +unnecessary for police and defense +purposes, or the new musical +combinations with which he +was able to play upon every emotion +and instinct.</p> + +<p>But he still dreamed, the +same recurring dream of the +young soldier and the old man +in the office. By now, he was consistently +identifying himself +with the latter. He took to carrying +one of the thick-barrelled +stun-pistols always, now. Alone, +he practiced constantly with it, +drawing, breaking soap-bubbles +with the concentrated sound-waves +it projected. It was silly, +perhaps, but it helped him in his +dreams. Now, the old man with +whom he identified himself +would draw a stun-pistol, occasionally, +to defend himself.</p> + +<p>The years drained one by one +through the hour-glass of Time. +Year after year, the world grew +more peaceful, more beautiful. +There were no more incidents +like the mass-suicide of Munich +or the mass-perversions of New +Orleans; the playing and even +the composing of music was +strictly controlled—no dangerous +notes or chords could be played +in a world drenched with Ingredient +Beta. Steadily the idea +grew that peace and beauty were +supremely good, that violence +and ugliness were supremely evil. +Even competitive sports which +simulated violence; even children +born ugly and misshapen....</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>He finished the breakfast +which he had prepared for himself—he +trusted no food that +another had touched—and knotted +the vivid blue scarf about his +neck before slipping into the +loose coat of glossy plum-brown, +then checked the stun-pistol and +pocketed the black notebook, its +plastileather cover glossy from +long use. He stood in front of +the mirror, brushing his beard, +now snow-white. Two years, now, +and he would be eighty—had he +been anyone but The Guide, he +would have long ago retired to +the absolute peace and repose of +one of the Elders' Havens. Peace +and repose, however, were not +for The Guide; it would take +another twenty years to finish +his task of remaking the world, +and he would need every day of +it that his medical staff could +borrow or steal for him. He +made an eye-baffling practice +draw with the stun-pistol, then +holstered it and started down +the spiral stairway to the office +below.</p> + +<p>There was the usual mass of +papers on his desk. A corps of +secretaries had screened out +everything but what required +his own personal and immediate +attention, but the business of +guiding a world could only be +reduced to a certain point. On +top was the digest of the world's +news for the past twenty-four +hours, and below that was the +agenda for the afternoon's meeting +of the Council. He laid both +in front of him, reading over the +former and occasionally making +a note on the latter. Once his +glance strayed to the cardboard +box in front of him, with the +envelope taped to it—the latest +improvement on the Evri-Flave +syrup, with the report from his +own chemists, all conditioned to +obedience, loyalty and secrecy. If +they thought he was going to +try that damned stuff on himself....</p> + +<p>There was a sudden gleam of +light in the middle of the room, +in front of his desk. No, a mist, +through which a blue light seemed +to shine. The stun-pistol was +in his hand—his instinctive reaction +to anything unusual—and +pointed into the shining mist +when it vanished and a man appeared +in front of him; a man +in the baggy green combat-uniform +that he himself had worn +fifty years before; a man with +a heavy automatic pistol in his +hand. The gun was pointed directly +at him.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The Guide aimed quickly and +pressed the trigger of the ultrasonic +stunner. The pistol dropped +soundlessly on the thick-piled +rug; the man in uniform slumped +in an inert heap. The Guide +sprang to his feet and rounded +the desk, crossing to and bending +over the intruder. Why, this +was the dream that had plagued +him through the years. But it +was ending differently. The +young man—his face was startlingly +familiar, somehow—was +not killing the old man. Those +years of practice with the stun-pistol....</p> + +<p>He stooped and picked the automatic +up. The young man was +unconscious, and The Guide had +his pistol, now. He slipped the +automatic into his pocket and +straightened beside his inert +would-be slayer.</p> + +<p>A shimmering globe of blue +mist appeared around them, +brightened to a dazzle, and +dimmed again to a colored mist +before it vanished, and when it +cleared away, he was standing +beside the man in uniform, in +the sandy bed of a dry stream +at the mouth of a little ravine, +and directly in front of him, +looming above him, was a thing +that had not been seen in the +world for close to half a century—a +big, hot-smelling tank with +a red star on its turret.</p> + +<p>He might have screamed—the +din of its treads and engines +deafened him—and, in panic, he +turned and ran, his old legs racing, +his old heart pumping +madly. The noise of the tank increased +as machine guns joined +the uproar. He felt the first bullet +strike him, just above the +hips—no pain; just a tremendous +impact. He might have felt +the second bullet, too, as the +ground tilted and rushed up at +his face. Then he was diving +into a tunnel of blackness that +had no end....</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Captain Fred Benson, of Benson's +Butchers, had been jerked +back into consciousness when +the field began to build around +him. He was struggling to rise, +fumbling the grenade out of his +pocket, when it collapsed. Sure +enough, right in front of him, +so close that he could smell the +very heat of it, was the big tank +with the red star on its turret. +He cursed the sextet of sanctimonious +double-crossers eight +thousand miles and fifty years +away in space-time. The machine +guns had stopped—probably because +they couldn't be depressed +far enough to aim at him, now; +that was a notorious fault of +some of the newer Pan-Soviet +tanks. He had the bomb out of +his pocket, when the machine +guns began firing again, this +time at something on his left. +Wondering what had created the +diversion, he rocked back on his +heels, pressed the button, and +heaved, closing his eyes. As the +thing left his fingers, he knew +that he had thrown too hard. His +muscles, accustomed to the heavier +cast-iron grenades, had betrayed +him. For a moment, he +was closer to despair than at any +other time in the whole phantasmagoric +adventure. Then he was +hit, with physical force, by a +wave of almost solid heat. It +didn't smell like the heat of the +tank's engines; it smelled like +molten metal, with undertones of +burned flesh. Immediately, there +was a multiple explosion that +threw him flat, as the tank's ammunition +went up. There were +no screams. It was too fast for +that. He opened his eyes.</p> + +<p>The turret and top armor of +the tank had vanished. The two +massive treads had been toppled +over, one to either side. The +body had collapsed between +them, and it was running sticky +trickles of molten metal. He +blinked, rubbed his eyes on the +back of his hand, and looked +again. Of all the many blasted +and burned-out tanks, Soviet +and UN, that he had seen, this +was the most completely wrecked +thing in his experience. And he'd +done that with one grenade....</p> + +<p>Remembering the curious +manner in which, at the last, the +tank had begun firing at something +to the side, he looked +around, to see the crumpled body +in the pale violet-gray trousers +and the plum-brown coat. Finding +his carbine and reloading it, +he went over to the dead man, +turning the body over. He was +an old man, with a white mustache +and a small white beard—why, +if the mustache were +smaller and there were no beard, +he would pass for Benson's own +father, who had died in 1962. +The clothes weren't Turkish or +Armenian or Persian, or anything +one would expect in this +country.</p> + +<p>The old man had a pistol in +his coat pocket, and Benson pulled +it out and looked at it, then +did a double-take and grabbed +for his own holster, to find it +empty. The pistol was his own +9.5 Colt automatic. He looked at +the dead man, with the white +beard and the vivid blue neck-scarf, +and he was sure that he +had never seen him before. He'd +had that pistol when he'd come +down the ravine....</p> + +<p>There was another pistol under +the dead man's coat, in a +shoulder-holster; a queer thing +with a thick round barrel, like +an old percussion pepper-box, +and a diaphragm instead of a +muzzle. Probably projected ultrasonic +waves. He holstered his +own Colt and pocketed the unknown +weapon. There was a +black plastileather-bound notebook. +It was full of notes. Chemical +formulae, yes, and some stuff +on sonics; that tied in with the +queer pistol. He pocketed that. +He'd look both over, when he had +time and privacy, two scarce +commodities in the Army....</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>At that moment, there was a +sudden rushing overhead, and an +instant later, the barrage began +falling beyond the crest of the +ridge. He looked at his watch, +blinked, and looked again. That +barrage was due at 0550; according +to his watch, it was 0726. +That was another mystery, to go +with the question of who the +dead man was, where he had +come from, and how he'd gotten +hold of Benson's pistol. Yes, and +how that tank had gotten blown +up. Benson was sure he had used +his last grenade back at the supply-dump.</p> + +<p>The hell with it; he'd worry +about all that later. The attack +was due any minute, now, and +there would be fleeing Commies +coming up the valley ahead, of +the UN advance. He'd better get +himself placed before they started +coming in on him.</p> + +<p>He stopped thinking about the +multiple mystery, a solution to +which seemed to dance maddeningly +just out of his mental +reach, and found himself a place +among the rocks to wait, and +while he waited, he looked over +the plastileather-bound notebook. +In civil life, he had been a +high school chemistry teacher, +but the stuff in this book was +utterly new to him. Some of it +he could understand readily +enough; the rest of it he could +dig out for himself. Stuff about +some kind of a carbonated soft-drink, +and about a couple of +unbelievable-looking long-chain +molecules....</p> + +<p>After a while, fugitive Communists +began coming up the +valley to make their stand.</p> + +<p>Benson put away the notebook, +picked up his carbine, and +cuddled the stock to his cheek....</p> + +<h4>THE END</h4> +<hr style='width: 100%;' /> + +<div class="bbox"> +<h3>Transcriber's Note</h3> +<ul><li>One "onionskin" was converted to "onion-skin" to conform +with the majority usage in the text.</li> +<li>"rebuilds" and "re-builds" were left alone as there was no +predominant usage</li> +<li>The following typos were corrected: +<ul><li>benificence to beneficence</li> +<li>lethel to lethal</li> +<li>"See to See</li> +<li>tyranical to tyrannical</li></ul></li></ul> +</div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Hunter Patrol, by +Henry Beam Piper and John J. 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