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diff --git a/30869-8.txt b/30869-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dc0d716 --- /dev/null +++ b/30869-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1660 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Thin Edge, by Gordon Randall Garrett + +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: Thin Edge + +Author: Gordon Randall Garrett + +Illustrator: John Schoenherr + +Release Date: January 6, 2010 [EBook #30869] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THIN EDGE *** + + + + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + Transcriber's Note: + + This etext was produced from Analog Science Fact & Fiction December + 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. + copyright on this publication was renewed. + + + THIN EDGE + + + There are inventions of great value that one type of society + can use--and that would, for another society, be most + nastily deadly! + + + BY JOHNATHAN BLAKE MAC KENZIE + + + ILLUSTRATED BY JOHN SCHOENHERR + + * * * * * + + + + +I + +"Beep!" said the radio smugly. "_Beep! Beep! Beep!_" + +"There's one," said the man at the pickup controls of tugship 431. He +checked the numbers on the various dials of his instruments. Then he +carefully marked down in his log book the facts that the radio finder +was radiating its beep on such-and-such a frequency and that that +frequency and that rate-of-beep indicated that the asteroid had been +found and set with anchor by a Captain Jules St. Simon. The direction +and distance were duly noted. + +That information on direction and distance had already been +transmitted to the instruments of the tugship's pilot. "Jazzy-o!" said +the pilot. "Got 'im." + +He swiveled his ship around until the nose was in line with the beep +and then jammed down on the forward accelerator for a few seconds. +Then he took his foot off it and waited while the ship approached the +asteroid. + +In the darkness of space, only points of light were visible. Off to +the left, the sun was a small, glaring spot of whiteness that couldn't +be looked at directly. Even out here in the Belt, between the orbits +of Mars and Jupiter, that massive stellar engine blasted out enough +energy to make it uncomfortable to look at with the naked eye. But it +could illuminate matter only; the hard vacuum of space remained dark. +The pilot could have located the planets easily, without looking +around. He knew where each and every one of them were. He had to. + +A man can navigate in space by instrument, and he can take the time to +figure out where every planet ought to be. But if he does, he won't +really be able to navigate in the Asteroid Belt. + +In the Nineteenth Century, Mark Twain pointed out that a steamboat +pilot who navigated a ship up and down the Mississippi had to be able +to identify every landmark and every changing sandbar along the river +before he would be allowed to take charge of the wheel. He not only +had to memorize the whole river, but be able to predict the changes in +its course and the variations in its eddies. He had to be able to know +exactly where he was at every moment, even in the blackest of moonless +nights, simply by glancing around him. + +An asteroid man has to be able to do the same thing. The human mind is +capable of it, and one thing that the men and women of the Belt Cities +had learned was to use the human mind. + +"Looks like a big 'un, Jack," said the instrument man. His eyes were +on the radar screen. It not only gave him a picture of the body of the +slowly spinning mountain, but the distance and the angular and radial +velocities. A duplicate of the instrument gave the same information to +the pilot. + +The asteroid was fairly large as such planetary debris went--some five +hundred meters in diameter, with a mass of around one hundred +seventy-four million metric tons. + + * * * * * + +Within twenty meters of the surface of the great mountain of stone, +the pilot brought the ship to a dead stop in relation to that surface. + +"Looks like she's got a nice spin on her," he said. "We'll see." + +He waited for what he knew would appear somewhere near the equator of +the slowly revolving mass. It did. A silvery splash of paint that had +originally been squirted on by the anchor man who had first spotted +the asteroid in order to check the rotational velocity. + +The pilot of the space tug waited until the blotch was centered in the +crosshairs of his peeper and then punched the timer. When it came +around again, he would be able to compute the angular momentum of the +gigantic rock. + +"Where's he got his anchor set?" the pilot asked his instrument man. + +"The beep's from the North Pole," the instrument man reported +instantly. "How's her spin?" + +"Wait a bit. The spot hasn't come round again yet. Looks like we'll +have some fun with her, though." He kept three stars fixed carefully +in his spotters to make sure he didn't drift enough to throw his +calculations off. And waited. + +Meanwhile, the instrument man abandoned his radar panel and turned to +the locker where his vacuum suit waited at the ready. By the time the +pilot had seen the splotch of silver come round again and timed it, +the instrument man was ready in his vacuum suit. + +"Sixteen minutes, forty seconds," the pilot reported. "Angular +momentum one point one times ten to the twenty-first gram centimeters +squared per second." + +"So we play Ride 'Em Cowboy," the instrument man said "I'm evacuating. +Tell me when." He had already poised his finger over the switch that +would pull the air from his compartments, which had been sealed off +from the pilot's compartment when the timing had started. + +"Start the pump," said the pilot. + +The switch was pressed, and the pumps began to evacuate the air from +the compartment. At the same time, the pilot jockeyed the ship to a +position over the north pole of the asteroid. + +"Over" isn't quite the right word. "Next to" is not much better, but +at least it has no implied up-and-down orientation. The surface +gravity of the asteroid was only two millionths of a Standard Gee, +which is hardly enough to give any noticeable impression to the human +nervous system. + +"Surface at two meters," said the pilot. "Holding." + + * * * * * + +The instrument man opened the outer door and saw the surface of the +gigantic rock a couple of yards in front of him. And projecting from +that surface was the eye of an eyebolt that had been firmly anchored +in the depths of the asteroid, a nickel-steel shaft thirty feet long +and eight inches in diameter, of which only the eye at the end showed. + +The instrument man checked to make sure that his safety line was +firmly anchored and then pushed himself across the intervening space +to grasp the eye with a space-gloved hand. + +This was the anchor. + +Moving a nickel-iron asteroid across space to nearest processing plant +is a relatively simple job. You slap a powerful electromagnet on her, +pour on the juice, and off you go. + +The stony asteroids are a different matter. You have to have something +to latch on to, and that's where the anchor-setter comes in. His job +is to put that anchor in there. That's the first space job a man can +get in the Belt, the only way to get space experience. Working by +himself, a man learns to preserve his own life out there. + +Operating a space tug, on the other hand, is a two-man job because a +man cannot both be on the surface of the asteroid and in his ship at +the same time. But every space tug man has had long experience as an +anchor setter before he's allowed to be in a position where he is +capable of killing someone besides himself if he makes a stupid +mistake in that deadly vacuum. + +"On contact, Jack," the instrument man said as soon as he had a firm +grip on the anchor. "Release safety line." + +"Safety line released, Harry," Jack's voice said in his earphones. + +Jack had pressed a switch that released the ship's end of the safety +line so that it now floated free. Harry pulled it towards himself and +attached the free end to the eye of the anchor bolt, on a loop of +nickel-steel that had been placed there for that purpose. "Safety line +secured," he reported. "Ready for tug line." + +In the pilot's compartment, Jack manipulated the controls again. The +ship moved away from the asteroid and yawed around so that the "tail" +was pointed toward the anchor bolt. Protruding from a special port was +a heavy-duty universal joint with special attachments. Harry reached +out, grasped it with one hand, and pulled it toward him, guiding it +toward the eyebolt. A cable attached to its other end snaked out of +the tug. + +Harry worked hard for some ten or fifteen minutes to get the universal +joint firmly bolted to the eye of the anchor. When he was through, he +said: "O.K., Jack. Try 'er." + +The tug moved gently away from the asteroid, and the cable that bound +the two together became taut. Harry carefully inspected his handiwork +to make sure that everything had been done properly and that the +mechanism would stand the stress. + +"So far so good," he muttered, more to himself than to Jack. + +Then he carefully set two compact little strain gauges on the anchor +itself, at ninety degrees from each other on the circumference of the +huge anchor bolt. Two others were already in position in the universal +joint itself. When everything was ready, he said: "Give 'er a try at +length." + +The tug moved away from the asteroid, paying out the cable as it +went. + +Hauling around an asteroid that had a mass on the order of one hundred +seventy-four million metric tons required adequate preparation. The +nonmagnetic stony asteroids are an absolute necessity for the Belt +Cities. In order to live, man needs oxygen, and there is no trace of +an atmosphere on any of the little Belt worlds except that which Man +has made himself and sealed off to prevent it from escaping into +space. Carefully conserved though that oxygen is, no process is or can +be one hundred per cent efficient. There will be leakage into space, +and that which is lost must be replaced. To bring oxygen from Earth in +liquid form would be outrageously expensive and even more outrageously +inefficient--and no other planet in the System has free oxygen for the +taking. It is much easier to use Solar energy to take it out of its +compounds, and those compounds are much more readily available in +space, where it is not necessary to fight the gravitational pull of a +planet to get them. The stony asteroids average thirty-six per cent +oxygen by mass; the rest of it is silicon, magnesium, aluminum, +nickel, and calcium, with respectable traces of sodium, chromium, +phosphorous manganese, cobalt, potassium, and titanium. The metallic +nickel-iron asteroids made an excellent source of export products to +ship to Earth, but the stony asteroids were for home consumption. + +This particular asteroid presented problems. Not highly unusual +problems, but problems nonetheless. It was massive and had a high rate +of spin. In addition, its axis of spin was at an angle of eighty-one +degrees to the direction in which the tug would have to tow it to get +it to the processing plant. The asteroid was, in effect, a huge +gyroscope, and it would take quite a bit of push to get that axis +tilted in the direction that Harry Morgan and Jack Latrobe wanted it +to go. In theory, they could just have latched on, pulled, and let the +thing precess in any way it wanted to. The trouble is that that would +not have been too good for the anchor bolt. A steady pull on the +anchor bolt was one thing: a nickel-steel bolt like that could take a +pull of close to twelve million pounds as long as that pull was along +the axis. Flexing it--which would happen if they let the asteroid +precess at will--would soon fatigue even that heavy bolt. + +The cable they didn't have to worry about. Each strand was a fine wire +of two-phase material--the harder phase being borazon, the softer +being tungsten carbide. Winding these fine wires into a cable made a +flexible rope that was essentially a three-phase material--with the +vacuum of space acting as the third phase. With a tensile strength +above a hundred million pounds per square inch, a half inch cable +could easily apply more pressure to that anchor than it could take. +There was a need for that strong cable: a snapping cable that is +suddenly released from a tension of many millions of pounds can be +dangerous in the extreme, forming a writhing whip that can lash +through a spacesuit as though it did not exist. What damage it did to +flesh and bone after that was of minor importance; a man who loses all +his air in explosive decompression certainly has very little use for +flesh and bone thereafter. + +"All O.K. here," Jack's voice came over Harry's headphones. + +"And here," Harry said. The strain gauges showed nothing out of the +ordinary. + +"O.K. Let's see if we can flip this monster over," Harry said, +satisfied that the equipment would take the stress that would be +applied to it. + +He did not suspect the kind of stress that would be applied to him +within a few short months. + + +II + +The hotel manager was a small-minded man with a narrow-minded outlook +and a brain that was almost totally unable to learn. He was, in short, +a "normal" Earthman. He took one look at the card that had been +dropped on his desk from the chute of the registration computer and +reacted. His thin gray brows drew down over his cobralike brown eyes, +and he muttered, "Ridiculous!" under his breath. + +The registration computer wouldn't have sent him the card if there +hadn't been something odd about it, and odd things happened so rarely +that the manager took immediate notice of it. One look at the title +before the name told him everything he needed to know. Or so he +thought. + +The registration robot handled routine things routinely. If they were +not routine, the card was dropped on the manager's desk. It was then +the manager's job to fit everything back into the routine. He grasped +the card firmly between thumb and forefinger and stalked out of his +office. He took an elevator down to the registration desk. His trouble +was that he had seized upon the first thing he saw wrong with the card +and saw nothing thereafter. To him, "out of the ordinary" meant +"wrong"--which was where he made his mistake. + +There was a man waiting impatiently at the desk. He had put the card +that had been given him by the registration robot on the desk and was +tapping his fingers on it. + +The manager walked over to him. "Morgan, Harry?" he asked with a firm +but not arrogant voice. + +"Is this the city of York, New?" asked the man. There was a touch of +cold humor in his voice that made the manager look more closely at +him. He weighed perhaps two-twenty and stood a shade over six-two, but +it was the look in the blue eyes and the bearing of the man's body +that made the manager suddenly feel as though this man were someone +extraordinary. That, of course, meant "wrong." + +Then the question that the man had asked in rebuttal to his own +penetrated the manager's mind, and he became puzzled. "Er ... I beg +your pardon?" + +"I said, 'Is this York, New?'" the man repeated. + +"This is New York, if that's what you mean," the manager said. + +"Then I am Harry Morgan, if that's what you mean." + +The manager, for want of anything better to do to cover his +confusion, glanced back at the card--without really looking at it. +Then he looked back up at the face of Harry Morgan. "Evidently you +have not turned in your Citizen's Identification Card for renewal, Mr. +Morgan," he said briskly. As long as he was on familiar ground, he +knew how to handle himself. + +"Odd's Fish!" said Morgan with utter sadness, "How did you know?" + +The manager's comfortable feeling of rightness had returned. "You +can't hope to fool a registration robot, Mr. Morgan," he said "When a +discrepancy is observed, the robot immediately notifies a person in +authority. Two months ago, Government Edict 7-3356-Hb abolished titles +of courtesy absolutely and finally. You Englishmen have clung to them +for far longer than one would think possible, but that has been +abolished." He flicked the card with a finger. "You have registered +here as 'Commodore Sir Harry Morgan'--obviously, that is the name and +anti-social title registered on your card. When you put the card into +the registration robot, the error was immediately noted and I was +notified. You should not be using an out-of-date card, and I will be +forced to notify the Citizen's Registration Bureau." + +"Forced?" said Morgan in mild amazement. "Dear me! What a terribly +strong word." + +The manager felt the hook bite, but he could no more resist the +impulse to continue than a cat could resist catnip. His brain did not +have the ability to overcome his instinct. And his instinct was wrong. +"You may consider yourself under arrest, Mr. Morgan." + +"I thank you for that permission," Morgan said with a happy smile. +"But I think I shall not take advantage of it." He stood there with +that same happy smile while two hotel security guards walked up and +stood beside him, having been called by the manager's signal. + +Again it took the manager a little time to realize what Morgan had +said. He blinked. "Advantage of it?" he repeated haphazardly. + + * * * * * + +Harry Morgan's smile vanished as though it had never been. His blue +eyes seemed to change from the soft blue of a cloudless sky to the +steely blue of a polished revolver. Oddly enough, his lips did not +change. They still seemed to smile, although the smile had gone. + +"Manager," he said deliberately, "if you will pardon my using your +title, you evidently cannot read." + +The manager had not lived in the atmosphere of the Earth's Citizen's +Welfare State as long as he had without knowing that dogs eat dogs. He +looked back at the card that had been delivered to his desk only +minutes before and this time he read it thoroughly. Then, with a +gesture, he signaled the Security men to return to their posts. But he +did not take his eyes from the card. + +"My apologies," Morgan said when the Security police had retired out +of earshot. There was no apology in the tone of his voice. "I perceive +that you can read. Bully, may I say, for you." The bantering tone was +still in his voice, the pseudo-smile still on his lips, the chill of +cold steel still in his eyes. "I realize that titles of courtesy are +illegal on earth," he continued, "because courtesy itself is illegal. +However, the title 'Commodore' simply means that I am entitled to +command a spaceship containing two or more persons other than myself. +Therefore, it is not a title of courtesy, but of ability." + +[Illustration] + +The manager had long since realized that he was dealing with a Belt +man, not an Earth citizen, and that the registration robot had sent +him the card because of that, not because there was anything illegal. +Men from the Belt did not come to Earth either willingly or often. + +Still unable to override his instincts--which erroneously told him +that there was something "wrong"--the manager said: "What does the +'Sir' mean?" + +Harry Morgan glowed warmly. "Well, now, Mr. Manager, I will tell you. +I will give you an analogy. In the time of the Roman Republic, +twenty-one centuries or so ago, the leader of an Army was given the +title _Imperator_. But that title could not be conferred upon him by +the Senate of Rome nor by anyone else in power. No man could call +himself _Imperator_ until his own soldiers, the men under him, had +publicly acclaimed him as such. If, voluntarily, his own men shouted +'_Ave, Imperator!_' at a public gathering, then the man could claim +the title. Later the title degenerated--" He stopped. + +The manager was staring at him with uncomprehending eyes, and Morgan's +outward smile became genuine. "Sorry," he said condescendingly. "I +forgot that history is not a popular subject in the Welfare World." +Morgan had forgotten no such thing, but he went right on. "What I +meant to say was that the spacemen of the Belt Cities have voluntarily +agreed among themselves to call me 'sir'. Whether that is a title of +ability or a title of courtesy, you can argue about with me at another +time. Right now, I want my room key." + +[Illustration] + +Under the regulations, the manager knew there was nothing else he +could do. He had made a mistake, and he knew that he had. If he had +only taken the trouble to read the rest of the card-- + +"Awfully sorry, Mr. Morgan," he said with a lopsided smile that didn't +even look genuine. "The--" + +"Watch those courtesy titles," Morgan reprimanded gently. "'Mister' +comes ultimately from the Latin _magister_, meaning 'master' or +'teacher'. And while I may be your master, I wouldn't dare think I +could teach you anything." + +"All citizens are entitled to be called 'Mister'," the manager said +with a puzzled look. He pushed a room key across the desk. + +"Which just goes to show you," said Harry Morgan, picking up the key. + +He turned casually, took one or two steps away from the registration +desk, then--quite suddenly--did an about-face and snapped: "_What +happened to Jack Latrobe?_" + +"Who?" said the manager, his face gaping stupidly. + +Harry Morgan knew human beings, and he was fairly certain that the +manager couldn't have reacted that way unless he honestly had no +notion of what Morgan was talking about. + +He smiled sweetly. "Never you mind, dear boy. Thank you for the key." +He turned again and headed for the elevator bank, confident that the +manager would find the question he had asked about Jack Latrobe so +completely meaningless as to be incapable of registering as a useful +memory. + +He was perfectly right. + + +III + +The Belt Cities could survive without the help of Earth, and the +Supreme Congress of the United Nations of Earth knew it. But they +also knew that "survive" did not by any means have the same semantic +or factual content as "live comfortably". If Earth were to vanish +overnight, the people of the Belt would live, but they would be +seriously handicapped. On the other hand, the people of Earth could +survive--as they had for millennia--without the Belt Cities, and while +doing without Belt imports might be painful, it would by no means be +deadly. + +But both the Belt Cities and the Earth knew that the destruction of +one would mean the collapse of the other as a civilization. + +Earth needed iron. Belt iron was cheap. The big iron deposits of Earth +were worked out, and the metal had been widely scattered. The removal +of the asteroids as a cheap source would mean that iron would become +prohibitively expensive. Without cheap iron, Earth's civilization +would have to undergo a painfully drastic change--a collapse and +regeneration. + +But the Belt Cities were handicapped by the fact that they had had as +yet neither the time nor the resources to manufacture anything but +absolute necessities. Cloth, for example, was imported from Earth. A +society that is still busy struggling for the bare necessities--such +as manufacturing its own air--has no time to build the huge looms +necessary to weave cloth ... or to make clothes, except on a minor +scale. Food? You can have hydroponic gardens on an asteroid, but +raising beef cattle, even on Ceres, was difficult. Eventually, +perhaps, but not yet. + +The Belt Cities were populated by pioneers who still had not given up +the luxuries of civilization. Their one weakness was that they had +their cake and were happily eating it, too. + +Not that Harry Morgan didn't realize that fact. A Belt man is, above +all, a realist, in that he must, of necessity, understand the Laws of +the Universe and deal with them. Or die. + +Commodore Sir Harry Morgan was well aware of the stir he had created +in the lobby of the Grand Central Hotel. Word would leak out, and he +knew it. The scene had been created for just that purpose. + + "_Grasshopper sittin' on a railroad track, + Singin' polly-wolly-doodle-alla-day! + A-pickin' his teeth with a carpet tack, + Singin' polly-wolly-doodle-alla-day!_" + +He sang with gusto as the elevator lifted him up to the seventy-fourth +floor of the Grand Central Hotel. The other passengers in the car did +not look at him directly; they cast sidelong glances. + +_This guy_, they seemed to think in unison, _is a nut. We will pay no +attention to him, since he probably does not really exist. Even if he +does, we will pay no attention in the hope that he will go away._ + +On the seventy-fourth floor, he _did_ go away, heading for his room. +He keyed open the door and strolled over to the phone, where a message +had already been dropped into the receiver slot. He picked it up and +read it. + + COMMODORE SIR HARRY MORGAN, RM. 7426, GCH: REQUEST YOU CALL + EDWAY TARNHORST, REPRESENTATIVE OF THE PEOPLE OF GREATER LOS + ANGELES, SUPREME CONGRESS. PUNCH 33-981-762-044 COLLECT. + +"How news travels," Harry Morgan thought to himself. He tapped out the +number on the keyboard of the phone and waited for the panel to light +up. When it did, it showed a man in his middle fifties with a lean, +ascetic face and graying hair, which gave him a look of saintly +wisdom. + + * * * * * + +"Mr. Tarnhorst?" Morgan asked pleasantly. + +"Yes. Commodore Morgan?" The voice was smooth and precise. + +"At your service, Mr. Tarnhorst. You asked me to call." + +"Yes. What is the purpose of your visit to Earth, commodore?" The +question was quick, decisive, and firm. + +Harry Morgan kept his affability. "That's none of your business, Mr. +Tarnhorst." + +Tarnhorst's face didn't change. "Perhaps your superiors haven't told +you, but--and I can only disclose this on a sealed circuit--I am in +sympathy with the Belt Cities. I have been out there twice and have +learned to appreciate the vigor and worth of the Belt people. I am on +your side, commodore, in so far as it does not compromise my position. +My record shows that I have fought for the rights of the Belt Cities +on the floor of the Supreme Congress. Have you been informed of that +fact?" + +"I have," said Harry Morgan. "And that is precisely why it is none of +your business. The less you know, Mr. Tarnhorst, the safer you will +be. I am not here as a representative of any of the City governments. +I am not here as a representative of any of the Belt Corporations. I +am completely on my own, without official backing. You have shown +yourself to be sympathetic towards us in the past. We have no desire +to hurt you. Therefore I advise that you either keep your nose out of +my business or actively work against me. You cannot protect yourself +otherwise." + +Edward Tarnhorst was an Earthman, but he was not stupid. He had +managed to put himself in a position of power in the Welfare World, +and he knew how to handle that power. It took him exactly two seconds +to make his decision. + +"You misunderstand me, commodore," he said coldly. "I asked what I +asked because I desire information. The People's Government is trying +to solve the murder of Commodore Jack Latrobe. Assuming, of course, +that it was murder--which is open to doubt. His body was found three +days ago in Fort Tryon Park, up on the north end of Manhattan Island. +He had apparently jumped off one of the old stone bridges up there and +fell ninety feet to his death. On the other hand, it is possible that, +not being used to the effects of a field of point nine eight Standard +gees, he did not realize that the fall would be deadly, and +accidentally killed himself. He was alone in the park at night, as far +as we can tell. It has been ascertained definitely that no +representative of the People's Manufacturing Corporation Number 873 +was with him at the time. Nor, so far as we can discover, was anyone +else. I asked you to call because I wanted to know if you had any +information for us. There was no other reason." + +"I haven't seen Jack since he left Juno," Morgan said evenly. "I don't +know why he came to Earth, and I know nothing else." + +"Then I see no further need for conversation," Tarnhorst said. "Thank +you for your assistance, Commodore Morgan. If Earth's Government needs +you again, you will be notified if you gain any further information, +you may call this number. Thank you again. Good-by." + +The screen went blank. + + * * * * * + +_How much of this is a trap?_ Morgan thought. + +There was no way of knowing at this point. Morgan knew that Jack +Latrobe had neither committed suicide nor died accidentally, and +Tarnhorst had told him as much. Tarnhorst was still friendly, but he +had taken the hint and got himself out of danger. There had been one +very important piece of information. The denial that any +representative of PMC 873 had been involved. PMC 873 was a +manufacturer of biological products--one of the several corporations +that Latrobe had been empowered to discuss business with when he had +been sent to Earth by the Belt Corporations Council. Tarnhorst would +not have mentioned them negatively unless he intended to imply a +positive hint. Obviously. Almost too obviously. + +Well? + +Harry Morgan punched for Information, got it, got a number, and +punched that. + +"People's Manufacturing Corporation Ey-yut Seven Tha-ree," said a +recorded voice. "Your desire, pu-leeze?" + +"This is Commodore Jack Latrobe," Morgan said gently. "I'm getting +tired of this place, and if you don't let me out I will blow the whole +place to Kingdom Come. Good bye-eye-eye." + +He hung up without waiting for an answer. + +Then he looked around the hotel suite he had rented. It was an +expensive one--very expensive. It consisted of an outer room--a +"sitting room" as it might have been called two centuries before--and +a bedroom. Plus a bathroom. + +Harry Morgan, a piratical smile on his face, opened the bathroom door +and left it that way. Then he went into the bedroom. His luggage had +already been delivered by the lift tube, and was sitting on the floor. +He put both suitcases on the bed, where they would be in plain sight +from the sitting room. Then he made certain preparations for invaders. + +He left the door between the sitting room and the bedroom open and +left the suite. + +Fifteen minutes later, he was walking down 42nd Street toward Sixth +Avenue. On his left was the ancient Public Library Building. In the +middle of the block, somebody shoved something hard into his left +kidney and said. "Keep walking, commodore. But do what you're told." + +Harry Morgan obeyed, with an utterly happy smile on his lips. + + +IV + +In the Grand Central Hotel, a man moved down the hallway toward Suite +7426. He stopped at the door and inserted the key he held in his hand, +twisting it as it entered the keyhole. The electronic locks chuckled, +and the door swung open. + +The man closed it behind him. + +He was not a big man, but neither was he undersized. He was five-ten +and weighed perhaps a hundred and sixty-five pounds. His face was dark +of skin and had a hard, determined expression on it. He looked as +though he had spent the last thirty of his thirty-five years of life +stealing from his family and cheating his friends. + +He looked around the sitting room. Nothing. He tossed the key in his +hand and then shoved it into his pocket. He walked over to the nearest +couch and prodded at it. He took an instrument out of his inside +jacket pocket and looked at it. + +"Nothin'," he said to himself. "Nothin'." His detector showed that +there were no electronic devices hidden in the room--at least, none +that he did not already know about. + +He prowled around the sitting room for several minutes, looking at +everything--chairs, desk, windows, floor--everything. He found +nothing. He had not expected to, since the occupant, a Belt man named +Harry Morgan, had only been in the suite a few minutes. + +Then he walked over to the door that separated the sitting room from +the bedroom. Through it, he could see the suitcases sitting temptingly +on the bed. + +Again he took his detector out of his pocket. After a full minute, he +was satisfied that there was no sign of any complex gadgetry that +could warn the occupant that anyone had entered the room. Certainly +there was nothing deadly around. + +Then a half-grin came over the man's cunning face. There was always +the chance that the occupant of the suite had rigged up a really +old-fashioned trap. + +He looked carefully at the hinges of the door. Nothing. There were no +tiny bits of paper that would fall if he pushed the door open any +further, no little threads that would be broken. + +It hadn't really seemed likely, after all. The door was open wide +enough for a man to walk through without moving it. + +Still grinning, the man reached out toward the door. + +He was quite astonished when his hand didn't reach the door itself. + +There was a sharp feeling of pain when his hand fell to the floor, +severed at the wrist. + +The man stared at his twitching hand on the floor. He blinked stupidly +while his wrist gushed blood. Then, almost automatically, he stepped +forward to pick up his hand. + +As he shuffled forward, he felt a _snick! snick!_ of pain in his +ankles while all sensation from his feet went dead. + +It was not until he began toppling forward that he realized that his +feet were still sitting calmly on the floor in their shoes and that he +was no longer connected to them. + +It was too late. He was already falling. + +He felt a stinging sensation in his throat and then nothing more as +the drop in blood pressure rendered him unconscious. + +His hand lay, where it had fallen. His feet remained standing. His +body fell to the floor with a resounding _thud!_ His head bounced once +and then rolled under the bed. + +When his heart quit pumping, the blood quit spurting. + +A tiny device on the doorjamb, down near the floor, went _zzzt!_ and +then there was silence. + + +V + +When Representative Edway Tarnhorst cut off the call that had come +from Harry Morgan, he turned around and faced the other man in the +room. "Satisfactory?" he said. + +"Yes. Yes, of course," said the other. He was a tall, hearty-looking +man with a reddish face and a friendly smile. "You said just the right +thing, Edway. Just the right thing. You're pretty smart, you know +that? You got what it takes." He chuckled. "They'll never figure +anything out now." He waved a hand toward the chair. "Sit down, Edway. +Want a drink?" + +Tarnhorst sat down and folded his hands. He looked down at them as if +he were really interested in the flat, unfaceted diamond, engraved +with the Tarnhorst arms, that gleamed on the ring on his finger. + +"A little glass of whiskey wouldn't hurt much, Sam," he said, looking +up from his hands. He smiled. "As you say, there isn't much to worry +about now. If Morgan goes to the police, they'll give him the same +information." + +Sam Fergus handed Tarnhorst a drink. "Damn right. Who's to know?" He +chuckled again and sat down. "That was pretty good. Yes sir, pretty +good. Just because he thought that when you voted for the Belt Cities +you were on their side, he believed what you said. Hell, _I've_ voted +on their side when it was the right thing to do. Haven't I now, Ed? +Haven't I?" + +"Sure you have," said Tarnhorst with an easy smile. "So have a lot of +us." + +"Sure we have," Fergus repeated. His grin was huge. Then it changed to +a frown. "I don't figure them sometimes. Those Belt people are crazy. +Why wouldn't they give us the process for making that cable of theirs? +Why?" He looked up at Tarnhorst with a genuinely puzzled look on his +face. "I mean, you'd think they thought that the laws of nature were +private property or something. They don't have the right outlook. A +man finds out something like that, he ought to give it to the human +race, hadn't he, Edway? How come those Belt people want to keep +something like that secret?" + +Edway Tarnhorst massaged the bridge of his nose with a thumb and +forefinger, his eyes closed. "I don't know, Sam. I really don't know. +Selfish, is all I can say." + +_Selfish?_ he thought. _Is it really selfish? Where is the dividing +line? How much is a man entitled to keep secret, for his own benefit, +and how much should he tell for the public?_ + +He glanced again at the coat of arms carved into the surface of the +diamond. A thousand years ago, his ancestors had carved themselves a +tiny empire out of middle Europe--a few hundred acres, no more. Enough +to keep one family in luxury while the serfs had a bare existence. +They had conquered by the sword and ruled by the sword. They had taken +all and given nothing. + +But had they? The Barons of Tarnhorst had not really lived much better +than their serfs had lived. More clothes and more food, perhaps, and a +few baubles--diamonds and fine silks and warm furs. But no Baron +Tarnhorst had ever allowed his serfs to starve, for that would not be +economically sound. And each Baron had been the dispenser of Justice; +he had been Law in his land. Without him, there would have been +anarchy among the ignorant peasants, since they were certainly not fit +to govern themselves a thousand years ago. + +Were they any better fit today? Tarnhorst wondered. For a full +millennium, men had been trying, by mass education and by mass +information, to bring the peasants up to the level of the nobles. Had +that plan succeeded? Or had the intelligent ones simply been forced to +conform to the actions of the masses? Had the nobles made peasants of +themselves instead? + +Edway Tarnhorst didn't honestly know. All he knew was that he saw a +new spark of human life, a spark of intelligence, a spark of ability, +out in the Belt. He didn't dare tell anyone--he hardly dared admit it +to himself--but he thought those people were better somehow than the +common clods of Earth. Those people didn't think that just because a +man could slop color all over an otherwise innocent sheet of canvas, +making outré and garish patterns, that that made him an artist. They +didn't think that just because a man could write nonsense and use +erratic typography, that that made him a poet. They had other beliefs, +too, that Edway Tarnhorst saw only dimly, but he saw them well enough +to know that they were better beliefs than the obviously stupid belief +that every human being had as much right to respect and dignity as +every other, that a man had a _right_ to be respected, that he +_deserved_ it. Out there, they thought that a man had a right only to +what he earned. + +But Edway Tarnhorst was as much a product of his own society as Sam +Fergus. He could only behave as he had been taught. Only on +occasion--on very special occasion--could his native intelligence +override the "common sense" that he had been taught. Only when an +emergency arose. But when one did, Edway Tarnhorst, in spite of his +environmental upbringing, was equal to the occasion. + +Actually, his own mind was never really clear on the subject. He did +the best he could with the confusion he had to work with. + +"Now we've got to be careful, Sam," he said. "Very careful. We don't +want a war with the Belt Cities." + +Sam Fergus snorted. "They wouldn't dare. We got 'em outnumbered a +thousand to one." + +"Not if they drop a rock on us," Tarnhorst said quietly. + +"They wouldn't dare," Fergus repeated. + +But both of them could see what would happen to any city on Earth if +one of the Belt ships decided to shift the orbit of a good-sized +asteroid so that it would strike Earth. A few hundred thousand tons of +rock coming in at ten miles per second would be far more devastating +than an expensive H-bomb. + +"They wouldn't dare," Fergus said again. + +"Nevertheless," Tarnhorst said, "in dealings of this kind we are +walking very close to the thin edge. We have to watch ourselves." + +[Illustration] + + +VI + +Commodore Sir Harry Morgan was herded into a prison cell, given a +shove across the smallish room, and allowed to hear the door slam +behind him. By the time he regained his balance and turned to face the +barred door again, it was locked. The bully-boys who had shoved him in +turned away and walked down the corridor. Harry sat down on the floor +and relaxed, leaning against the stone wall. There was no furniture of +any kind in the cell, not even sanitary plumbing. + +"What do I do for a drink of water?" he asked aloud of no one in +particular. + +"You wait till they bring you your drink," said a whispery voice a few +feet from his head. Morgan realized that someone in the cell next to +his was talking. "You get a quart a day--a halfa pint four times a +day. Save your voice. Your throat gets awful dry if you talk much." + +"Yeah, it would," Morgan agreed in the same whisper. "What about +sanitation?" + +"That's your worry," said the voice. "Fella comes by every Wednesday +and Saturday with a honey bucket. You clean out your own cell." + +"I _thought_ this place smelled of something other than attar of +roses," Morgan observed. "My nose tells me this is Thursday." + +There was a hoarse, humorless chuckle from the man in the next cell. +"'At's right. The smell of the disinfectant is strongest now. Saturday +mornin' it'll be different. You catch on fast, buddy." + +"Oh, I'm a whiz," Morgan agreed. "But I thought the Welfare World took +care of its poor, misled criminals better than this." + +Again the chuckle. "You shoulda robbed a bank or killed somebody. Then +theyda given you a nice rehabilitation sentence. Regular prison. Room +of your own. Something real nice. Like a hotel. But this's +different." + +"Yeah," Morgan agreed. This was a political prison. This was the place +where they put you when they didn't care what happened to you after +the door was locked because there would be no going out. + +Morgan knew where he was. It was a big, fortresslike building on top +of one of the highest hills at the northern end of Manhattan +Island--an old building that had once been a museum and was built like +a medieval castle. + +"What happens if you die in here?" he asked conversationally. + +"Every Wednesday and Saturday," the voice repeated. + +"Um," said Harry Morgan. + +"'Cept once in a while," the voice whispered. "Like a couple days ago. +When was it? Yeah. Monday that'd be. Guy they had in here for a week +or so. Don't remember how long. Lose tracka time here. Yeah. Sure lose +tracka time here." + +There was a long pause, and Morgan, controlling the tenseness in his +voice, said: "What about the guy Monday?" + +"Oh. Him. Yeah, well, they took him out Monday." + +Morgan waited again, got nothing further, and asked: "Dead?" + +"'Course he was dead. They was tryin' to get somethin' out of him. +Somethin' about a cable. He jumped one of the guards, and they +blackjacked him. Hit 'im too hard, I guess. Guard sure got hell for +that, too. Me, I'm lucky. They don't ask me no questions." + +"What are you in for?" Morgan asked. + +"Don't know. They never told me. I don't ask for fear they'll +remember. They might start askin' questions." + +Morgan considered. This could be a plant, but he didn't think so. The +voice was too authentic, and there would be no purpose in his +information. That meant that Jack Latrobe really was dead. They had +killed him. An ice cold hardness surged along his nerves. + + * * * * * + +The door at the far end of the corridor clanged, and a brace of heavy +footsteps clomped along the floor. Two men came abreast of the +steel-barred door and stopped. + +One of them, a well-dressed, husky-looking man in his middle forties, +said: "O.K., Morgan. How did you do it?" + +"I put on blue lipstick and kissed my elbows--both of 'em. Going +widdershins, of course." + +"What are you talking about?" + +"What are you talking about?" + +"The guy in your hotel suite. You killed him. You cut off both feet, +one hand, and his head. How'd you do it?" + +Morgan looked at the man. "Police?" + +"Nunna your business. Answer the question." + +"I use a cobweb I happened to have with me. Who was he?" + +The cop's face was whitish. "You chop a guy up like that and then +don't know who he is?" + +"I can guess. I can guess that he was an agent for PMC 873 who was +trespassing illegally. But I didn't kill him. I was in ... er ... +custody when it happened." + +"Not gonna talk, huh?" the cop said in a hard voice. "O.K., you've had +your chance. We'll be back." + +"I don't think I'll wait," said Morgan. + +"You'll wait. We got you on a murder charge now. You'll wait. Wise +guy." He turned and walked away. The other man followed like a trained +hound. + + * * * * * + +After the door clanged, the man in the next cell whispered: "Well, +you're for it. They're gonna ask you questions." + +Morgan said one obscene word and stood up. It was time to leave. + +He had been searched thoroughly. They had left him only his clothes, +nothing else. They had checked to make sure that there were no +microminiaturized circuits on him. He was clean. + +So they thought. + +Carefully, he caught a thread in the lapel of his jacked and pulled it +free. Except for a certain springiness, it looked like an ordinary +silon thread. He looped it around one of the bars of his cell, high +up. The ends he fastened to a couple of little decorative hooks in his +belt--hooks covered with a shell of synthetic ruby. + +Then he leaned back, putting his weight on the thread. + +Slowly, like a knife moving through cold peanut butter, the thread +sank into the steel bar, cutting through its one-inch thickness with +increasing difficulty until it was half-way through. Then it seemed to +slip the rest of the way through. + +He repeated the procedure thrice more, making two cuts in each of two +bars. Then he carefully removed the sections he had cut out. He put +one of them on the floor of his cell and carried the other in his +hand--three feet of one-inch steel makes a nice weapon if it becomes +necessary. + +Then he stepped through the hole he had made. + +The man in the next cell widened his eyes as Harry Morgan walked by. +But Morgan could tell that he saw nothing. He had only heard. His eyes +had been removed long before. It was the condition of the man that +convinced Morgan with utter finality that he had told the truth. + + +VII + +Mr. Edway Tarnhorst felt fear, but no real surprise when the shadow in +the window of his suite in the Grand Central Hotel materialized into a +human being. But he couldn't help asking one question. + +"How did you get there?" His voice was husky. "We're eighty floors +above the street." + +"Try climbing asteroids for a while," said Commodore Sir Harry Morgan. +"You'll get used to it. That's why I knew Jack hadn't died +'accidentally'--he was murdered." + +"You ... you're not carrying a gun," Tarnhorst said. + +"Do I need one?" + +Tarnhorst swallowed. "Yes. Fergus will be back in a moment." + +"Who's Fergus?" + +"He's the man who controls PMC 873." + +Harry Morgan shoved his hand into his jacket pocket "Then I have a +gun. You saw it, didn't you?" + +"Yes. Yes ... I saw it when you came in." + +"Good. Call him." + +When Sam Fergus came in, he looked as though he had had about three or +four too many slugs of whiskey. There was an odd fear an his face. + +"Whats matter, Edway? I--" The fear increased when he saw Morgan. +"Whadda you here for?" + +"I'm here to make a speech Fergus. Sit down." When Fergus still stood, +Morgan repeated what he had said with only a trace more emphasis. "Sit +down." + +Fergus sat. So did Tarnhorst. + +"Both of you pay special attention," Morgan said, a piratical gleam in +his eyes. "You killed a friend of mine. My best friend. But I'm not +going to kill either of you. Yet. Just listen and listen carefully." + +Even Tarnhorst looked frightened. "Don't move, Sam. He's got a gun. I +saw it when he came in." + +"What ... what do you want?" Fergus asked. + +"I want to give you the information you want. The information that you +killed Jack for." There was cold hatred in his voice. "I am going to +tell you something that you have thought you wanted, but which you +really will wish you had never heard. I'm going to tell you about that +cable." + +Neither Fergus nor Tarnhorst said a word. + +"You want a cable. You've heard that we use a cable that has a tensile +strength of better than a hundred million pounds per square inch, and +you want to know how it's made. You tried to get the secret out of +Jack because he was sent here as a commercial dealer. And he wouldn't +talk, so one of your goons blackjacked him too hard and then you had +to drop him off a bridge to make it look like an accident. + +"Then you got your hands on me. You were going to wring it out of me. +Well, there is no necessity of that." His grin became wolfish. "I'll +give you everything." He paused. "If you want it." + +Fergus found his voice. "I want it. I'll pay a million--" + +"You'll pay nothing," Morgan said flatly. "You'll listen." + +Fergus nodded wordlessly. + +"The composition is simple. Basically, it is a two-phase material-like +fiberglass. It consists of a strong, hard material imbedded in a +matrix of softer material. The difference is that, in this case, the +stronger fibers are borazon--boron nitride formed under tremendous +pressure--while the softer matrix is composed of tungsten carbide. If +the fibers are only a thousandth or two thousandths of an inch in +diameter--the thickness of a human hair or less--then the cable from +which they are made has tremendous strength and flexibility. + +"Do you want the details of the process now?" His teeth were showing +in his wolfish grin. + +Fergus swallowed. "Yes, of course. But ... but why do you--" + +"Why do I give it to you? Because it will kill you. You have seen what +the stuff will do. A strand a thousandth of an inch thick, encased in +silon for lubrication purposes, got me out of that filthy hole you +call a prison. You've heard about that?" + +Fergus blinked. "You cut yourself out of there with the cable you're +talking about?" + +"Not with the cable. With a thin fiber. With one of the hairlike +fibers that makes up the cable. Did you ever cut cheese with a wire? +In effect, that wire is a knife--a knife that consists only of an +edge. + +"Or, another experiment you may have heard of. Take a block of ice. +Connect a couple of ten-pound weights together with a few feet of +piano wire and loop it across the ice block to that the weights hang +free on either side, with the wire over the top of the block. The wire +will cut right through the ice in a short time. The trouble is that +the ice block remains whole--because the ice melts under the pressure +of the wire and then flows around it and freezes again on the other +side. But if you lubricate the wire with ordinary glycerine, it +prevents the re-freezing and the ice block will be cut in two." + +Tarnhorst nodded. "I remember. In school. They--" He let his voice +trail off. + + * * * * * + +"Yeah. Exactly. It's a common experiment in basic science. Borazon +fiber works the same way. Because it is so fine and has such +tremendous tensile strength, it is possible to apply a pressure of +hundreds of millions of pounds per square inch over a very small area. +Under pressures like that, steel cuts easily. With silon covering to +lubricate the cut, there's nothing to it. As you have heard from the +guards in your little hell-hole. + +"Hell-hole?" Tarnhorst's eyes narrowed and he flicked a quick glance +at Fergus. Morgan realized that Tarnhorst had known nothing of the +extent of Fergus' machinations. + +"That lovely little political prison up in Fort Tryon Park that the +World Welfare State, with its usual solicitousness for the common man, +keeps for its favorite guests," Morgan said. His wolfish smile +returned. "I'd've cut the whole thing down if I'd had had the time. +Not the stone--just the steel. In order to apply that kind of pressure +you have to have the filament fastened to something considerably +harder than the stuff you're trying to cut, you see. Don't try it with +your fingers or you'll lose fingers." + +Fergus' eyes widened again and he looked both ill and frightened. "The +man we sent ... uh ... who was found in your room. You--" He stopped +and seemed to have trouble swallowing. + +"Me? _I_ didn't do anything." Morgan did a good imitation of a shark +trying to look innocent. "I'll admit that I looped a very fine +filament of the stuff across the doorway a few times, so that if +anyone tried to enter my room illegally I would be warned." He didn't +bother to add that a pressure-sensitive device had released and reeled +in the filament after it had done its work. "It doesn't need to be +nearly as tough and heavy to cut through soft stuff like ... er ... +say, a beefsteak, as it does to cut through steel. It's as fine as +cobweb almost invisible. Won't the World Welfare State have fun when +that stuff gets into the hands of its happy, crime-free populace?" + +Edway Tarnhorst became suddenly alert. "What?" + +"Yes. Think of the fun they'll have, all those lovely slobs who get +their basic subsistence and their dignity and their honor as a free +gift from the State. The kids, especially. They'll _love_ it. It's so +fine it can be hidden inside an ordinary thread--or woven into the +hair--or...." He spread his hands. "A million places." + +Fergus was gaping. Tarnhorst was concentrating on Morgan's words. + +"And there's no possible way to leave fingerprints on anything that +fine," Morgan continued. "You just hook it around a couple of nails or +screws, across an open doorway or an alleyway--and wait." + +"We wouldn't let it get into the people's hands," Tarnhorst said. + +"You couldn't stop it," Morgan said flatly. "Manufacture the stuff and +eventually one of the workers in the plant will figure out a way to +steal some of it." + +"Guards--" Fergus said faintly. + +"_Pfui._ But even you had a perfect guard system, I think I can +guarantee that some of it would get into the hands of the--common +people. Unless you want to cut off all imports from the Belt." + +Tarnhorst's voice hardened. "You mean you'd deliberately--" + +"I mean exactly what I said," Morgan cut in sharply. "Make of it what +you want." + +"I suppose you have that kind of trouble out in the Belt?" Tarnhorst +asked. + +"No. We don't have your kind of people out in the Belt, Mr. Tarnhorst. +We have men who kill, yes. But we don't have the kind of juvenile and +grown-up delinquents who will kill senselessly, just for kicks. That +kind is too stupid to live long out there. We are in no danger from +borazon-tungsten filaments. You are." He paused just for a moment, +then said: "I'm ready to give you the details of the process now, Mr. +Fergus." + +"I don't think I--" Fergus began with a sickly sound in his voice. But +Tarnhorst interrupted him. + +"We don't want it, commodore. Forget it." + +"Forget it?" Morgan's voice was as cutting as the filament he had been +discussing. "Forget that Jack Latrobe was murdered?" + +"We will pay indemnities, of course," Tarnhorst said, feeling that it +was futile. + +"_Fergus_ will pay indemnities," Morgan said. "In money, the +indemnities will come to the precise amount he was willing to pay for +the cable secret. I suggest that your Government confiscate that +amount from him and send it to us. That may be necessary in view of +the second indemnity." + +"Second indemnity?" + +"Mr. Fergus' life." + +Tarnhorst shook his head briskly. "No. We can't execute Fergus. +Impossible." + +"Of course not," Morgan said soothingly. "I don't suggest that you +should. But I do suggest that Mr. Fergus be very careful about going +through doorways--or any other kind of opening--from now on. I suggest +that he refrain from passing between any pair of reasonably solid, +well-anchored objects. I suggest that he stay away from bathtubs. I +suggest that he be very careful about putting his legs under a table +or desk. I suggest that he not look out of windows. I could make +several suggestions. And he shouldn't go around feeling in front of +him, either. He might lose something." + +"I understand," said Edway Tarnhorst. + +So did Sam Fergus. Morgan could tell by his face. + + * * * * * + +When the indemnity check arrived on Ceres some time later, a short, +terse note came with it. + +"I regret to inform you that Mr. Samuel Fergus, evidently in a state +of extreme nervous and psychic tension, took his own life by means of +a gunshot wound in the head on the 21st of this month. The enclosed +check will pay your indemnity in full. Tarnhorst." + +Morgan smiled grimly. It was as he had expected. He had certainly +never had any intention of going to all the trouble of killing Sam +Fergus. + + * * * * * + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Thin Edge, by Gordon Randall Garrett + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THIN EDGE *** + +***** This file should be named 30869-8.txt or 30869-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/8/6/30869/ + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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