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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/18641-8.txt b/18641-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ac1d281 --- /dev/null +++ b/18641-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1751 @@ +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 + + + + + +[Illustration] + ++--------------------------------------------------------------------+ +| | +| Transcriber's Note | +| | +| This etext was produced from Amazing Stories May 1959. There is no | +| evidence that the copyright on this publication was renewed. | +| | ++--------------------------------------------------------------------+ + + +HUNTER PATROL + +By H. BEAM PIPER and JOHN J. McGUIRE + + +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?+ + + +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. + +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. + +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.... + +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. + +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. + +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.... + +The strange blue mist became a flickering radiance that ran through +all the colors of the spectrum and became an utter, impenetrable +blackness.... + + * * * * * + +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! + +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. + +"We shall have to give up, Gregory," a voice trembled with +disappointment. + +"Why, Anthony?" The new voice was deeper, more aggressive. + +"Look. Another typical reaction; retreat to the foetus." + +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." + +"And look for no more?" The voice he recognized as Anthony faltered +between question and statement. + +A babel of voices, in dispute; then, clearly, the voice Benson had come +to label as Gregory, cut in: + +"I will never give up!" + +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. + +"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. + +"That means nothing." A tall thin man, too lean for the tunic-like +garment he wore, was shaking his head. + +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. + + * * * * * + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +Benson cleared his throat. "Just who are you people?" he inquired. "And +just where am I?" + +Anthony grabbed Gregory's hand and pumped it frantically. + +"I've dreamed of the day when I could say this!" he cried. +"Congratulations, Gregory!" + + * * * * * + +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. + +"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...." + +"He remembers!" Gregory exclaimed. "That confirms your first derivation +by symbolic logic, and it strengthens the validity of the second...." + +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. + +"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." + +"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." + +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. + +Anthony--the oldest of the lot, in a knee-length tunic--turned to +Gregory. + +"I believe you had better...." he began. + +"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." + +Nothing in the answer made sense but the name of the city. Benson +chuckled. + +"What happened; the Cardinals conquer the world? I knew they had a good +team, but I didn't think it was that good." + +"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." + +"I've been detecting symptoms of religious paranoia, messianic +delusions, about his public statements...." the woman began. + +"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!" + + * * * * * + +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. + +"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. + +"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...." + +The cadaverous man in the blue jacket turned to the man in the black +garment of similar cut. + +"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. + +Black-jacket shook his head. "You first, Gregory," he said. "Tell him +how he got here, and then I'll tell him why." + +"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." + +"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...." + +"That's no worry," Gregory reproved her. "I showed you that the rate was +too slow to have an effect on...." + +"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." + +"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!" + +"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_{2}O and H_{2}SO_{4}, 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?" + +"No, the United Nations," Anthony told him. "At least, they were the +least exhausted when both sides decided to quit." + +"Then what's this dictatorship.... The Guide? Extreme Rightist?" + +"Walter, you'd better tell him," Gregory said. + + * * * * * + +"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." + +"Capitalistic dictatorships, he means," the cadaverous man in the blue +jacket explained. + +"Be quiet, Carl," Anthony told him. "Let's not confuse this with any +class-struggle stuff." + +"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." + +"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." + +"The charter was changed shortly after ... er, that is, after...." +Walter was fumbling for words. + +"After my death." Benson finished politely. "Go on. Even with a changed +charter, how did one man get all the powers into his hands?" + +"By sorcery!" black-coat-and-white-bands fairly shouted. "By the help of +his master, Satan!" + +"You know, there are times when some such theory tempts me," Paula said. + +"He was a big moneybags," Carl said. "He bribed his way in. See, 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." + +Benson looked around at the others, who were nodding in varying degrees +of agreement. + +"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...." + +"Well, what's he been doing with his power?" Benson asked. "Wise things, +or stupid ones?" + +"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?" + +"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." + + * * * * * + +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." + +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. + +"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." + +"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." + + * * * * * + +"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!" + +"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." + +"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." + +"He won't let you strike," Benson chuckled. + +"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...." + +"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. + +"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." + +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." + + * * * * * + +"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?" + +"We can't. Everybody in the world today is conditioned against violence, +especially the taking of human life," Anthony told him. + +"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...." + +"That is not violence," Paula said bitterly. "That is humane +beneficence. Ugly people would be unhappy, and would make others +unhappy, in a world where everybody else is beautiful." + +"And all these oppressive and tyrannical laws," Benson continued. "How +does he enforce them, without violence, actual or threatened?" + +Samuel started to say something about the Power of the Evil One; Paula, +ignoring him, said: + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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. + +"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." + +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." + +A warning buzzer rasped in Benson's brain. He nodded, poker-faced. + +"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?" + +There was a long silence. Walter and Carl looked at one another +inquiringly; the others dithered helplessly. It was Carl who answered. + +"Your return to your own time and place." + +"And if I don't cooperate with you?" + +"Guess when and where else we could send you," Walter said. + +Benson dropped his cigarette and tramped it. + +"Exactly the same time and place?" he asked. + +"Well, the structure of space-time demands...." Paula began. + +"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." + +Benson nodded again, this time at the confirmation of his earlier +suspicion. Well, while he was alive, he still had a chance. + +"All right; tell me exactly what you want me to do." + + * * * * * + +A third outbreak of bedlam, this time of relief and frantic explanation. + +"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." + +"Can do," Benson agreed. "How do I kill him?" + +"I'm getting sick!" Paula murmured weakly. Her face was whiter than her +gown. + +"Take care of her, Samuel. Both of you'd better get out of here," +Gregory said. + +"The Lord of Hosts is my strength, He will.... Uggggh!" Samuel gasped. + +"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. + +"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. + +"It isn't a weapon. Industrial; we use it in mining. I used plenty of +them, in Walter's iron mines." + +He nodded again. "Where do I stand, now?" he asked. + +"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." + + * * * * * + +Benson drew his pistol and checked it; magazine full, a round in the +chamber, safety on. + +"Put that horrid thing out of sight!" Anthony gasped. "The ... the other +thing ... is what you want to use." + +"The bomb won't be any good if some of his guards come in before the +field re-builds," Benson said. + +"He has no guards. He lives absolutely alone. We told you...." + +"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?" + +"Here. Before you press the button, swallow it." Gregory gave him a +small blue pill. + +"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. + +"Conditioning got him. Getting me, too," Walter said. "Hurry up, man!" + +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. + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +A box, on the desk, caught Benson's eye, a cardboard box with an +envelope, stamped _Top Secret! For the Guide Only!_ 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. + + * * * * * + +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. + +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.... + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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. + + * * * * * + +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!" + +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. + +"Captain Benson? We were warned to be on watch for your patrol," he +said. "Any of the rest of you lads get out?" + +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?" + +"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." + +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"! + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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_{2}O and H_{2}SO_{4}. + + * * * * * + +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. + +"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...." + +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. + +"Bring home any souvenirs?" Myers asked. + +"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." + +They finished their drinks and went out. + +"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. + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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...." + +"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." + +"Well, let's see what's in it. I want this thing cleared up. I've been +having some of the nastiest dreams, lately...." + +"Well, be careful; it may be booby-trapped," Myers said urgently. + +"Don't worry; I will." + +He used a knife to slice the envelope open without untaping it from the +box, and exposed five sheets of typewritten onion-skin 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. + +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. + +"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." + + * * * * * + +At eight-thirty the next evening, after four and a half hours work, he +stopped to check what he had found out. + +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. + +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. + +The mechanical guinea-pig demonstrated that the syrup contained nothing +harmful to human tissue. + +Of course, there were the warnings about heightened psycho-physiological +effects.... + +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. + +"We do have something, Bill," he said. "We have something that's going +to give our income-tax experts headaches." + +"You have," Myers corrected. "Where do you start fitting me into it?" + +"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?" + +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. + +"Not a bit of difference, Fred," Myers said. "We have it!" + +Benson picked up the guitar and began plunking on it. + +"Hey!" Myers exclaimed. "Have you been finding time to take lessons on +that thing? I never heard you play as well as that!" + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +All the world could be like that, if only.... + + * * * * * + +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. + +"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." + +"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...." + +He stopped short, downing his drink and coughing over it. + +"Bill! You remember those sheets of onion-skin in that envelope?" + +"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!" + +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." + +"We'll have to stop it; pull Evri-Flave off the market," Myers said. "We +can't be responsible for letting this go on." + +"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." + +"We've got to do something, Fred!" There was almost a whiff of hysteria +in Myers' voice. + +"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...." + + * * * * * + +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. + + * * * * * + +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. + +Benson transferred the final results of this stage of the research to +the black notebook and burned the scratch-sheets. + +"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...." + +"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." + +"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...." + +"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?" + +"Why, 1984," Benson said. + +"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." + +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. + +"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...." + + * * * * * + +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 _would_ be a beautiful and peaceful garden, in +his own lifetime! He had the means of making it so! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.... + +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. + +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 lethal +weapons unnecessary for police and defense purposes, or the new musical +combinations with which he was able to play upon every emotion and +instinct. + +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. + +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.... + + * * * * * + +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. + +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.... + +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. + + * * * * * + +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.... + +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. + +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. + +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.... + + * * * * * + +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. + +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.... + +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. + +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.... + +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.... + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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.... + +After a while, fugitive Communists began coming up the valley to make +their stand. + +Benson put away the notebook, picked up his carbine, and cuddled the +stock to his cheek.... + + +THE END + ++--------------------------------------------------------------+ +| | +| Transcriber's Note | +| | +| Bold text was surrounded by '+' symbols. | +| | +| One "onionskin" was converted to "onion-skin" to conform | +| with the majority usage in the text. | +| | +| "rebuilds" and "re-builds" were left alone as there was no | +| predominant usage | +| | +| The following typos were corrected: | +| | +| benificence beneficence | +| lethel lethal | +| "See See | +| tyranical tyrannical | +| | +| Subscripts | +| | +| Water was shown as H_{2}O, and | +| Sulfuric acid as H_{2}SO_{4} | +| | ++--------------------------------------------------------------+ + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Hunter Patrol, by +Henry Beam Piper and John J. 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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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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: ASCII + +*** 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 + + + + + +[Illustration] + ++--------------------------------------------------------------------+ +| | +| Transcriber's Note | +| | +| This etext was produced from Amazing Stories May 1959. There is no | +| evidence that the copyright on this publication was renewed. | +| | ++--------------------------------------------------------------------+ + + +HUNTER PATROL + +By H. BEAM PIPER and JOHN J. McGUIRE + + +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?+ + + +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. + +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. + +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.... + +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. + +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. + +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.... + +The strange blue mist became a flickering radiance that ran through +all the colors of the spectrum and became an utter, impenetrable +blackness.... + + * * * * * + +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! + +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. + +"We shall have to give up, Gregory," a voice trembled with +disappointment. + +"Why, Anthony?" The new voice was deeper, more aggressive. + +"Look. Another typical reaction; retreat to the foetus." + +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." + +"And look for no more?" The voice he recognized as Anthony faltered +between question and statement. + +A babel of voices, in dispute; then, clearly, the voice Benson had come +to label as Gregory, cut in: + +"I will never give up!" + +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. + +"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. + +"That means nothing." A tall thin man, too lean for the tunic-like +garment he wore, was shaking his head. + +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. + + * * * * * + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +Benson cleared his throat. "Just who are you people?" he inquired. "And +just where am I?" + +Anthony grabbed Gregory's hand and pumped it frantically. + +"I've dreamed of the day when I could say this!" he cried. +"Congratulations, Gregory!" + + * * * * * + +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. + +"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...." + +"He remembers!" Gregory exclaimed. "That confirms your first derivation +by symbolic logic, and it strengthens the validity of the second...." + +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. + +"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." + +"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." + +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. + +Anthony--the oldest of the lot, in a knee-length tunic--turned to +Gregory. + +"I believe you had better...." he began. + +"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." + +Nothing in the answer made sense but the name of the city. Benson +chuckled. + +"What happened; the Cardinals conquer the world? I knew they had a good +team, but I didn't think it was that good." + +"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." + +"I've been detecting symptoms of religious paranoia, messianic +delusions, about his public statements...." the woman began. + +"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!" + + * * * * * + +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. + +"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. + +"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...." + +The cadaverous man in the blue jacket turned to the man in the black +garment of similar cut. + +"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. + +Black-jacket shook his head. "You first, Gregory," he said. "Tell him +how he got here, and then I'll tell him why." + +"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." + +"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...." + +"That's no worry," Gregory reproved her. "I showed you that the rate was +too slow to have an effect on...." + +"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." + +"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!" + +"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_{2}O and H_{2}SO_{4}, 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?" + +"No, the United Nations," Anthony told him. "At least, they were the +least exhausted when both sides decided to quit." + +"Then what's this dictatorship.... The Guide? Extreme Rightist?" + +"Walter, you'd better tell him," Gregory said. + + * * * * * + +"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." + +"Capitalistic dictatorships, he means," the cadaverous man in the blue +jacket explained. + +"Be quiet, Carl," Anthony told him. "Let's not confuse this with any +class-struggle stuff." + +"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." + +"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." + +"The charter was changed shortly after ... er, that is, after...." +Walter was fumbling for words. + +"After my death." Benson finished politely. "Go on. Even with a changed +charter, how did one man get all the powers into his hands?" + +"By sorcery!" black-coat-and-white-bands fairly shouted. "By the help of +his master, Satan!" + +"You know, there are times when some such theory tempts me," Paula said. + +"He was a big moneybags," Carl said. "He bribed his way in. See, 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." + +Benson looked around at the others, who were nodding in varying degrees +of agreement. + +"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...." + +"Well, what's he been doing with his power?" Benson asked. "Wise things, +or stupid ones?" + +"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?" + +"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." + + * * * * * + +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." + +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. + +"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." + +"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." + + * * * * * + +"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!" + +"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." + +"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." + +"He won't let you strike," Benson chuckled. + +"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...." + +"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. + +"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." + +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." + + * * * * * + +"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?" + +"We can't. Everybody in the world today is conditioned against violence, +especially the taking of human life," Anthony told him. + +"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...." + +"That is not violence," Paula said bitterly. "That is humane +beneficence. Ugly people would be unhappy, and would make others +unhappy, in a world where everybody else is beautiful." + +"And all these oppressive and tyrannical laws," Benson continued. "How +does he enforce them, without violence, actual or threatened?" + +Samuel started to say something about the Power of the Evil One; Paula, +ignoring him, said: + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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. + +"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." + +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." + +A warning buzzer rasped in Benson's brain. He nodded, poker-faced. + +"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?" + +There was a long silence. Walter and Carl looked at one another +inquiringly; the others dithered helplessly. It was Carl who answered. + +"Your return to your own time and place." + +"And if I don't cooperate with you?" + +"Guess when and where else we could send you," Walter said. + +Benson dropped his cigarette and tramped it. + +"Exactly the same time and place?" he asked. + +"Well, the structure of space-time demands...." Paula began. + +"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." + +Benson nodded again, this time at the confirmation of his earlier +suspicion. Well, while he was alive, he still had a chance. + +"All right; tell me exactly what you want me to do." + + * * * * * + +A third outbreak of bedlam, this time of relief and frantic explanation. + +"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." + +"Can do," Benson agreed. "How do I kill him?" + +"I'm getting sick!" Paula murmured weakly. Her face was whiter than her +gown. + +"Take care of her, Samuel. Both of you'd better get out of here," +Gregory said. + +"The Lord of Hosts is my strength, He will.... Uggggh!" Samuel gasped. + +"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. + +"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. + +"It isn't a weapon. Industrial; we use it in mining. I used plenty of +them, in Walter's iron mines." + +He nodded again. "Where do I stand, now?" he asked. + +"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." + + * * * * * + +Benson drew his pistol and checked it; magazine full, a round in the +chamber, safety on. + +"Put that horrid thing out of sight!" Anthony gasped. "The ... the other +thing ... is what you want to use." + +"The bomb won't be any good if some of his guards come in before the +field re-builds," Benson said. + +"He has no guards. He lives absolutely alone. We told you...." + +"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?" + +"Here. Before you press the button, swallow it." Gregory gave him a +small blue pill. + +"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. + +"Conditioning got him. Getting me, too," Walter said. "Hurry up, man!" + +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. + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +A box, on the desk, caught Benson's eye, a cardboard box with an +envelope, stamped _Top Secret! For the Guide Only!_ 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. + + * * * * * + +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. + +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.... + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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. + + * * * * * + +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!" + +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. + +"Captain Benson? We were warned to be on watch for your patrol," he +said. "Any of the rest of you lads get out?" + +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?" + +"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." + +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"! + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +Ankara to Alexandria, Alexandria to Dakar, Dakar to Belem, Belem 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_{2}O and H_{2}SO_{4}. + + * * * * * + +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. + +"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...." + +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. + +"Bring home any souvenirs?" Myers asked. + +"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." + +They finished their drinks and went out. + +"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. + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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...." + +"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." + +"Well, let's see what's in it. I want this thing cleared up. I've been +having some of the nastiest dreams, lately...." + +"Well, be careful; it may be booby-trapped," Myers said urgently. + +"Don't worry; I will." + +He used a knife to slice the envelope open without untaping it from the +box, and exposed five sheets of typewritten onion-skin 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. + +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. + +"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." + + * * * * * + +At eight-thirty the next evening, after four and a half hours work, he +stopped to check what he had found out. + +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. + +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. + +The mechanical guinea-pig demonstrated that the syrup contained nothing +harmful to human tissue. + +Of course, there were the warnings about heightened psycho-physiological +effects.... + +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. + +"We do have something, Bill," he said. "We have something that's going +to give our income-tax experts headaches." + +"You have," Myers corrected. "Where do you start fitting me into it?" + +"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?" + +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. + +"Not a bit of difference, Fred," Myers said. "We have it!" + +Benson picked up the guitar and began plunking on it. + +"Hey!" Myers exclaimed. "Have you been finding time to take lessons on +that thing? I never heard you play as well as that!" + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +All the world could be like that, if only.... + + * * * * * + +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. + +"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." + +"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...." + +He stopped short, downing his drink and coughing over it. + +"Bill! You remember those sheets of onion-skin in that envelope?" + +"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!" + +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." + +"We'll have to stop it; pull Evri-Flave off the market," Myers said. "We +can't be responsible for letting this go on." + +"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." + +"We've got to do something, Fred!" There was almost a whiff of hysteria +in Myers' voice. + +"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...." + + * * * * * + +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. + + * * * * * + +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. + +Benson transferred the final results of this stage of the research to +the black notebook and burned the scratch-sheets. + +"That's how it happened, then," he said. "The Munich thing was the +result of all that Goetterdaemmerung 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...." + +"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." + +"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...." + +"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?" + +"Why, 1984," Benson said. + +"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." + +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. + +"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...." + + * * * * * + +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 _would_ be a beautiful and peaceful garden, in +his own lifetime! He had the means of making it so! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.... + +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. + +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 lethal +weapons unnecessary for police and defense purposes, or the new musical +combinations with which he was able to play upon every emotion and +instinct. + +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. + +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.... + + * * * * * + +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. + +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.... + +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. + + * * * * * + +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.... + +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. + +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. + +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.... + + * * * * * + +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. + +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.... + +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. + +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.... + +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.... + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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.... + +After a while, fugitive Communists began coming up the valley to make +their stand. + +Benson put away the notebook, picked up his carbine, and cuddled the +stock to his cheek.... + + +THE END + ++--------------------------------------------------------------+ +| | +| Transcriber's Note | +| | +| Bold text was surrounded by '+' symbols. | +| | +| One "onionskin" was converted to "onion-skin" to conform | +| with the majority usage in the text. | +| | +| "rebuilds" and "re-builds" were left alone as there was no | +| predominant usage | +| | +| The following typos were corrected: | +| | +| benificence beneficence | +| lethel lethal | +| "See See | +| tyranical tyrannical | +| | +| Subscripts | +| | +| Water was shown as H_{2}O, and | +| Sulfuric acid as H_{2}SO_{4} | +| | ++--------------------------------------------------------------+ + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Hunter Patrol, by +Henry Beam Piper and John J. 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