diff options
Diffstat (limited to '43041-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 43041-0.txt | 961 |
1 files changed, 961 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/43041-0.txt b/43041-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b09433b --- /dev/null +++ b/43041-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,961 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 43041 *** + + DOUBLE or NOTHING + + By JACK SHARKEY + + [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Stories + of Imagination May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any + evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] + + + + + _The mind quails before certain contemplations?_ + + _The existence of infinity, for instance._ + + _Or finity, for that matter._ + + _Or 50,000 batches of cornflakes dumped from the sky._ + + +I don't know why I listen to Artie Lindstrom. Maybe it's because at +times (though certainly not--I hope--on as permanent a basis as Artie) +I'm as screwy as he is. At least, I keep letting myself get sucked into +his plans, every time he's discovered the "invention that will change +the world". He discovers it quite a bit; something new every time. +And, Artie having a natural mechanical aptitude that would probably +rate as point-nine-nine-ad-infinitum on a scale where one-point-oh was +perfection, all his inventions work. Except-- + +Well, take the last thing we worked on. (He usually includes me in his +plans because, while he's the better cooker-upper of these gadgets, +I've got the knack for building them. Artie can't seem to slip a radio +tube into its socket without shattering the glass, twist a screwdriver +without gouging pieces out of his thumb, nor even solder an electrical +connection without needing skin-grafts for the hole he usually burns in +his hand.) + +So we're a team, Artie and me. He does the planning, I do the +constructing. Like, as I mentioned, the last thing we worked on. He +invented it; I built it. A cap-remover (like for jars and ketchup +bottles). But not just a clamp-plus-handle, like most of the same +gadgets. Nope, this was electronic, worked on a tight-beam radio-wave, +plus something to do with the expansion coefficients of the metals +making up the caps, so that, from anyplace in line-of-sight of her home, +the housewife could shove a stud, and come home to find all the caps +unscrewed on her kitchen shelves, and the contents ready for getting at. +It did, I'll admit, have a nice name: The Teletwist. + +Except, where's the point in unscrewing caps unless you're physically +present to make use of the contents of the jars? I mentioned this to +Artie when I was building the thing, but he said, "Wait and see. It'll +be a novelty, like hula hoops a couple of decades back. Novelties always +catch on." + + * * * * * + +Well, he was wrong. When we finally found a manufacturer softheaded +enough to mass-produce a few thousand of the gadgets, total sales for +the entire country amounted to seventeen. Of course, the price was kind +of prohibitive: Thirteen-fifty per Teletwist. Why would a housewife +lay that kind of money on the line when she'd already, for a two-buck +license, gotten a husband who could be relied upon (well, most of the +time) to do the same thing for her? + +Not, of course, that we didn't finally make money on the thing. It was +just about that time, you'll remember, that the Imperial Martian Fleet +decided that the third planet from Sol was getting a bit too powerful, +and they started orbiting our planet with ultimatums. And while they +were waiting for our answer, our government quietly purchased Artie's +patent, made a few little adjustments on his cap-twister, and the _next_ +thing the Martians knew, all their airlocks were busily unscrewing +themselves with nothing outside them except hungry vacuum. It was also +the _last_ thing the Martians knew. + +So Artie's ideas seem to have their uses, all right. Only, for some +reason, Artie never thinks of the proper application for his latest +newfound principle. That neat little disintegrator pistol carried by the +footsoldiers in the Three Day War (with Venus; remember Venus?) was a +variation on a cute little battery-powered device of Artie's, of which +the original function had been to rid one's house of roaches. + +At any rate--at a damned _good_ rate, in fact--the government always +ended up paying Artie (and me, as his partner-confederate-cohort) an +anything-but-modest fee for his patents. We weren't in the millionaire +class, yet, but neither were we very far out of it. And we were much +better off than any millionaires, since Artie had persuaded the +government to let us, in lieu of payment for another patent of his +(for his Nixsal; the thing that was supposed to convert sea-water into +something drinkable, and did: Gin.), be tax-free for the rest of our +lives. + +(It was quite a concession for the government to make. But then, the +government-produced "George Washington Gin" is quite a concession in +itself.) + +So I guess you could say I keep listening to Artie Lindstrom because +of the financial rewards. I must admit they're nice. And it's kind of +adventurous, when I'm working on Artie's latest brainstorm, to let +myself wonder what--since I generally scrap Artie's prognosis for the +gadget's future--the damned thing will _actually_ be used for. + +Or, at least, it _was_ kind of adventurous, until Artie started in on +his scheme of three weeks ago: a workable anti-gravity machine. And now, +I'm feeling my first tremors of regret that I ever hooked up with the +guy. Because--Well, it happened like this: + + * * * * * + +"It looks great," I said, lifting my face from the blueprint, and +nodding across the workbench at Artie. "But what the hell does it do?" + +Artie shoved a shock of dust-colored hair back off his broad, dull pink +forehead, and jabbed excitedly with a grimy forefinger at the diagram. +"Can't you _tell_, Burt? What does _this_ look like!" + +My eyes returned to the conglomeration of sketchy cones beneath his +flailing finger, and I said, as truthfully as possible, "A pine forest +on a lumpy hill." + +"Those," he said, his tone hurt as it always was when I inadvertently +belittled his draftmanship, "are flywheels." + +"Cone-shaped flywheels?" I said. "Why, for pete's sake?" + +"Only," he said, with specious casualness, "in order to develop a +centrifugal thrust that runs in a _straight line_!" + +"A centr--" I said, then sat back from the drawings, blinking. "That's +impossible, Artie." + +"And why should it be?" he persisted. "Picture an umbrella, with the +fabric removed. Now twirl the handle on its axis. What do the ribs do?" + +"I suppose they splay out into a circle?" + +"Right," he exulted. "And if they _impeded_ from splaying out? If, +instead of separate ribs, we have a hollow, bottomless cone of metal? +Where does the force go?" + +I thought it over, then said, with deliberation, "In _all_ directions, +Artie. One part shoving up-to-the-right, one part up-to-the-left, like +that." + +"Sure," he said, his face failing to fight a mischievous grin. "And +since none of them move, where does the _resultant_ force go?" + +I shrugged, "Straight up, I guess--" Then my ears tuned in belatedly on +what I'd said, and a moment later I squeaked, "Artie! Straight _up_!" + + * * * * * + +He nodded eagerly. "Or, of course, straight east, straight west, or +whichever way the ferrule of this here theoretical umbrella was pointed +at the time the twirling began. The point is, we can generate pure force +in _any_ direction. What do you think? Can you build it?" + +"It'd be child's play. In fact, Artie, it's _too_ damned simple to be +believed! What's the hitch? Why hasn't anyone tried it before _now_?" + +"Who knows?" he said, his blue eyes dancing. "Maybe no one ever thought +of it before. You could sit down and twist a paper clip out of a hunk +of soft wire, couldn't you? Easy as pie. But someone had to invent the +thing, first. All the great inventions have been simple. Look at the +wheel." + +"Okay, okay," I said, since I'd been sold on his gadget the moment +I pictured that umbrella moving ferruleward like a whirling arrow. +"Still, it looks like you're getting something for nothing. A kind of +by-your-own-bootstraps maneuver...." + +"An inventor," said Artie, quoting his favorite self-coined aphorism, +"must never think like a scientist!" + +"But"--I said, more to stem the tide I expected than to really make a +coherent objection. + +"An inventor," he went dreamily onward, "is essentially a dreamer; a +scientist is an observer. An inventor tries to make a result he wants +happen; a scientist tries to tell the inventor that the result cannot be +achieved." + +"Please. Artie. Don't tell me about the bee again." + +But Artie told me about the bumblebee, and how there were still some +scientists who insisted, according to the principles of aerodynamics, +that it was not constructed properly to enable it to fly. And about +how men of this short-sighted ilk were still scoffing at the ancient +alchemist's talk of the Philosopher's Stone for transmuting metals, even +though transmutation of metals was being done every day in atomic piles. +And how he'd theorized that there _was_ once a genuine Philosopher's +Stone, probably a hunk of pure U-235, that someone had managed to make, +which might explain why so many alchemists (lacking, unfortunately, any +knowledge of heavy radiations or Geiger counters) sort of died off in +their quest for the stone. + + * * * * * + +It was nearly lunchtime when he finished his spiel, and I was kicking +myself in my short-memoried brain for having let him get onto the +subject, when abruptly the joyous glow behind his eyes damped its +sparkle a bit. + +"There _is_ one little hitch--" + +"I thought it looked too easy," I sighed, waiting for the clinker. +"Don't tell me it has to be made out of pure Gallium, which has the +regrettable tendency to liquiefy at about thirty degrees centigrade? Or +perhaps of the most elusive of its eleven isotopes?" + +"No, no, nothing like that," he murmured almost distractedly. "It's the +force-per-gram part that's weak." + +"Don't tell me," I said unhappily, "that this thing'll only generate +enough force to lift itself?" + +A feeble ghost of his erstwhile grin rode briefly across his lips. +"That's the way it works out on paper," he said. + +"Which means," I realized aloud, "that it's commercially useless, +because what's the good of an anti-gravity machine that can't lift +anything except _itself_! It falls into the class of lifeboats that +float up to the gunwales in the water while still _empty_. Fun to watch, +but impossible to use. Hell, Artie, if that's the setup, then this +thing wouldn't be any more help to a space-aiming government than an +aborigine's boomerang; it flies beautifully, but not if the aborigine +tries to go _with_ it." + +"However," he said, a bit more brightly, "I've been wrong on paper +before. Remember the bumblebee, Burt! _That_ theory still holds up on +paper. But the bee still flies." + +He had me, there. "So you want I should build it anyhow, just on the +off-chance that it _won't_ follow the rules of physical logic, and will +decide to generate a force above and beyond its own gravitic drag?" + +"That's it," he said happily. "And even if it only manages to negate +its own weight, we'll have an easier time ironing the bugs out of a +model than we would out of a diagram. After all, who'd have figured that +beyond _Mach I_, all the lift-surfaces on a plane work in _reverse_?" + +It wasn't, I had to admit, anything that an inventor could have +reasonably theorized at the outset.... So I locked myself in the lab for +a week, and built his gadget, while he spent his time pacing through his +fourteen-room mansion across the way from the lab building (the "way" +being the flat grassy region on Artie's estate that housed his swimming +pool, private heliport, and movie theatre), trying to coin a nifty name +for the thing. We both finished in a dead heat. + + * * * * * + +I unlocked the door of the lab, blinked hard against the sting of warm +yellow sunlight after a week of cool blue fluorescents, and just as I +wheezed, "Got it," Artie was counterpointing with, "We'll call it The +_Uuaa_!" (He made four syllables out of it.) + +"The Oo-oo-_ah_-ah?" I glottaled. "In honor of the fiftieth state, or +what? I know 'aa' is a type of lava, but what the hell's 'uu', besides +the noise a man makes getting into an overheated bath?" + +Artie pouted. "'Uuaa' is initials. For 'Up, up, and away!' I thought it +was pretty good." + +I shook my head. "Why feed free fodder to the telecomics? I can hear +them now, doing monologues about people getting beri-beri flying from +Walla Walla to Pago Pago on their Uuaas...." + +"So what would _you_ call it!" he grunted. + +"A bust," I sighed, left-thumbing over my shoulder at the lab. "It sits +and twirls and whistles a little, but that's about the size of it, +Artie." + +He spanieled with his eyes, basset-hounded with his mouth, and +orangutaned with his cheeks, then said, with dim hope, "Did you weigh +it? Maybe if you weighed it--" + +"Oh, it lost, all right," I admitted. "When I connected the batteries, +the needle on the scale dropped down to zero, and stopped there. And I +found that I could lift the machine into the air, and it'd stay where it +was put, just whistling and whirling its cones. But then it started to +settle." I beckoned him back inside. + +"Settle? Why?" Artie asked. + +"Dust," I said. "There's always a little dust settling out of the air. +It doesn't weigh _much_, but it made the machine weigh at least what the +dust-weight equalled, and down it went. Slow and easy, but down." + +Artie looked at the gadget, sitting and whistling on the floor of the +lab, then turned a bleak-but-still-hopeful glance my way. "Maybe--If we +could make a _guy_ take on a cone-shape, and whirled him--" + +"Sure," I muttered. "Bend over, grab his ankles, and fly anywhere in +the world, with his torso and legs pivoting wildly around his peaked +behind." I shook my head. "Besides the manifestly undignified posturing +involved, we have to consider the other effects; like having his +eyeballs fly out." + +"If--If we had a bunch of men lie in a circle around a kind of +Maypole-thing, each guy clutching the ankles of the next one...." + +"Maybe they'd be weightless, but they _still_ wouldn't go _up_," I +said. "Unless they could be towed, somehow. And by the time they +landed, they'd be too nauseous to be of any use for at least three +days. Always assuming, of course, that the weak-wristed member of the +sick circlet didn't lose his grip, and have them end up playing mid-air +crack-the-whip before they fell." + +"So all right, it's got a couple of bugs!" said Artie. "But the +principle's sound, right?" + +"Well--Yeah, there you got me, Artie. The thing _cancels_ weight, +anyhow...." + +"Swell. So we work from there," He rubbed his hands together joyously. +"And who knows what we'll come up with." + +"_We_ never do, that's for sure," I mumbled. + +But Artie just shrugged. "I like surprises," he said. + + * * * * * + +The end of the day--me working, Artie inventing--found us with some +new embellishments for the machine. Where it was originally a sort +of humped metal box (the engine went inside the hump) studded with +toothbrush-bristle rows of counter-revolving cones (lest elementary +torque send the machine swinging the other way, and thus destroy the +thrust-effect of the cones), it now had an additional feature: A helical +flange around each cone. + +"You see," Artie explained, while I was torching them to order from +plate metal, "the helices will provide _lift_ as the cones revolve." + +"Only in the atmosphere of the planet," I said. + +"Sure, I know. But by the time the outer limits of the air are reached, +the machine, with the same mass-thrust, will have less gravity-drag +to fight, being that much farther from the Earth. The effect will be +cumulative. The higher it gets, the more outward thrust it'll generate. +Then nothing'll stop it!" + +"You could be right," I admitted, hammering out helix after helix on an +electric anvil (another gadget of Artie's; the self-heating anvil--The +Thermovil--had begun life as a small inspiration in Artie's mind for a +portable toaster). + +It was just after sunset when we figured the welds were cool enough so +we could test it. Onto the scale it went again, I flicked the toggle, +and we stood back to watch the needle as the cones picked up speed. +Along with the original whistling sound made by the cones we began to +detect a shriller noise, one which abruptly became a genuine pain in the +ear. As Artie and I became somewhat busy with screaming (the only thing +we could think of on the spur of the moment to counteract the terrible +waves of noise assaulting our tympana), it was all at once much easier +to see the needle of the scale dropping toward zero, as the glass disc +facing the dial dissolved into gritty powder, along with the glass panes +in every window in the lab, the house, the heliport, and the movie +theatre. (Not to mention those of a few farmhouses a couple of miles +down the highway, but we didn't find that out till their lawyers showed +up with bills for damages.) + +Sure enough, though, the thing lifted. Up it bobbed, like a metal +dirigible with agonizing gas pains, shrieking louder by the second. +When the plaster started to trickle and flake from the walls, and the +fillings in my teeth rose to a temperature just short of incandescence, +I decided it was time to cancel this phase of the experiment, and, with +very little regret, I flung a blanket-like canvas tarpaulin up and over +the ascending machine before it started using its helices to screw into +the ceiling. The cones bit into the tarpaulin, tangled, jammed, and the +machine--mercifully noiseless, now--crashed back onto the scale, and +lost a lot of symmetry and a couple of rivets. + +"What's Plan C?" I said to Artie. + +"_Quiet!_" he said, either because I'd interrupted his thinking or +because that was our next goal. + + * * * * * + +The next four days were spent in the arduous and quite tricky business +of reaming acoustically spaced holes along the flanges. Artie's theory +was that if we simply ("simply" was his word, not mine) fixed it so +that the sound made by each flange (anything whirly with a hole or two +in it is bound to make a calculated noise) was of the proper number of +vibrations to intermesh with the compression/rarefaction phases of the +sounds made by the other flanges, a veritable sphere of silence would be +thereby created, since there'd be no room for any sound waves to pass +through the already crowded atmosphere about the machine. + +"It'll make less noise than a mouse in sneakers drooling on a blotter!" +enthused Artie, when I had it rigged again, and ready to go. + +"Still," I said uncertainly, "whether we _hear_ it or not, all that +soundwave-energy has to do _something_, Artie. If it turns ultrasonic, +we may suddenly find ourselves in a showerbath of free electrons and +even _worse_ subatomic particles from disrupted air molecules. Or the +lab might turn molten on us. Or--" + +"Oh, turn it _on_, Burt!" said Artie. "That's just a chance we have to +take." + +"Don't see why we _have_ to take it...." I groused, but I'm as curious +as the next man, so I turned it on. (I could have arranged to do it by +remote control, except for two pressing deterrents: One--At a remote +point of control, I wouldn't be able to watch what, if anything, +the machine did, and Two--Who knows where the _safe_ spot is where +soundwaves are concerned? With some sonic forces, you're safer the +_nearer_ you get to the source.) So, like I said, I turned it on. + +Silence. Beautiful, blissful, silence. There before us twirled the rows +of shiny cones, lifting slowly into the air, and there was nothing +to hear at all. Beside me, Artie's lips moved, but I couldn't catch +a syllable. This time around, we'd looped a rope through a few metal +grommets in the base of the machine, and as it rose, Artie slipped the +trailing ends under his arms from behind, and proceeded to lash it +across his chest, to test the thing's lift-power. As he fumbled with the +knot, I shouted at him, "Use a firm hitch!" + + * * * * * + +Nothing came out, but Artie wasn't a bad lip-reader. He scowled, and +his lips made a "_What?!_" motion, so I repeated my caution. Next thing +I knew, he was taking a poke at me, and I, to fend him off, ended up +wrestling on the floor with him, while the untended machine burred its +way into the ceiling, until the engine overheated and burned away the +electrical insulation on the wires, and the machine, plus a good two +feet square of lab-ceiling, once more descended to demolish the scale. + +"--your language!" Artie was snarling, as sound returned. + +"All I said was 'Use a firm hitch!'" I pleaded, trying to shove his +shins off my floor-pinned biceps. + +Artie stared at me, then rocked off my prostrate body, convulsed in +a fit of laughter. "Say it silently in front of a mirror, sometime," +he choked out. Before I had time to see what he was talking about, +I smelled smoke, above and beyond that engendered by the scorched +insulation. + +I ran to the door, and opened it to observe the last glowing, +crackling timbers of the house, the theatre, and the heliport vanish +into hot orange sparks, in the grip of a dandy ring of fire that--in +a seventy-yard path--had burned up everything in a sixty-five to +hundred-thirty-five yard radius of the lab. + +"I told you those soundwaves had to do something," I said. "Ready to +give up?" + +But Artie was already staring at the debris around the scale and making +swift notes on a memo pad.... + + * * * * * + +"It looks awfully damned complex--" I hedged, eight days later, +looking at the repaired, refurbished, and amended gadget on the table. +"Remember, Artie, the more parts to an invention, the more things can go +wrong with it. In geometric progression...." + +"Unh-uh," he shook his head. "Not the more parts, Burt. The more +_moving_ parts. All we've done is added a parabolic sound-reflector, to +force all the waves the cones make down through a tube in the middle of +the machine. And we've insulated the tube to keep extraneous vibration +from shattering it with super-induced metal fatigue." + +"Yeah," I said, "but about that _insulation_, Artie--" + +"You got a _better_ idea?" he snapped. "We tried rubber; it charred +and flaked away. We tried plastics; they bubbled, melted, extruded, +or burned. We tried metal and mineral honeycombs; they distorted, +incandesced, fused or vaporized. Ceramic materials shattered. Fabrics +tore, or petrified and cracked. All the regular things failed us. So +what's wrong with trying something new?" + +"Nothing, Artie, nothing. But--_Cornflakes_?" + +"Well, we sogged 'em down good with water, right? And they've still got +enough interstices between the particles to act as sound-baffles, right? +And by the time they get good and hot and dry, they'll cook onto the +metal, right? (Ask anyone who ever tried to clean a pot after scorching +cereal just how hard they'll stick!) And even when most of them flake +away, the random distribution of char will circumvent any chance the +soundwaves have of setting up the regular pulse-beat necessary to +fatigue the metal in the tube, okay?" + +"Yeah, sure, Artie, it's okay, but--_Cornflakes_?" + +"I take it your objections are less scientific than they are esthetic?" +he inquired. + +"Well, something like that," I admitted. "I mean, aw--For pete's sake, +Artie! The patent office'll laugh at us. They'll start referring us to +the copyright people, as inventors of cookbooks!" + +"Maybe not," he said philosophically. "The thing _still_ may not _work_, +you know." + +"Well, _there's_ one bright spot, anyhow!" I agreed, fiddling with the +starting switch. "So okay, I'm game if you are." + +"Let 'er rip," he pontificated, and I flicked the switch. + + * * * * * + +It worked beautifully. Not even a faint hum. The only way we could tell +it was working was from the needle on the--rebuilt again--scale, as it +dropped lazily down to the zero mark. Our ears didn't sting, no glass +went dusting into crystalline powder, and a quick peek through the door +showed no ring of fire surrounding the lab. + +"We may just have _done_ it!" I said, hopefully, as the silver-nosed +machine began to float upward (We hadn't _had_ to mount the parabolic +reflector in the position of a nose-cone, but it made the thing look +neater, somehow.) + +It seemed a little torpid in its ascent, but that could be credited to +the extra weight of the reflector and cornflakes, not to mention the +fact that the helices had to suck all their air in under the lip of the +silvery nose-cone before they could thrust properly. But its rise was +steady. Six inches, ten inches-- + +Then, at precisely one foot in height, something unexpected happened. +Under the base of the machine, where the sound-heated air was at its +most torrid, a shimmering disc-like thing began to materialize, and +warp, and hollow out slightly, and beside it, a glinting metal rod-thing +flattened at one end, then the flat end went concave in the center and +kind of oval about the perimeter, and something brownish and shreddy +plopped and hissed into the now-very-concave disc-like thing. + +"Artie--!" I said, uneasily, but by then, he, too, had recognized the +objects for what they were. + +"Burt--" he said excitedly. "Do you realize what we've done? We've +invented a _syntheticizer_!" + +Even as he was saying it, the objects completed their mid-air +materialization (time: five seconds, start to finish), and clattered +and clinked onto the scale. We stood and looked down at them: A bowl of +cornflakes and a silver spoon. + +"How--?" I said, but Artie was already figuring it out, aloud. + +"It's the soundwaves," he said. "At ultrasonic, molecule-disrupting +vibrations, they're doing just what that Philosopher's Stone was +supposed to: Transmuting. Somehow, we didn't clean out the reflector +sufficiently, and some of the traces of our other trial insulations +remained inside. The ceramics formed the bowl, the metals formed the +spoon, the cornflakes formed the cornflakes!" + +"But," I said logically (or as logically as could be expected under the +circumstances), "what about the rubber, or the fabrics?" + + * * * * * + +Artie's face lit up, and he nodded toward the machine, still hovering at +one foot above the scale. In its wake, amid the distorting turbulence of +the sound-tortured air, two more objects were materializing: a neatly +folded damask napkin, and a small rubber toothpick. As they dropped down +to join their predecessors, the machine gave a satisfied shake, and +rose steadily to the two-foot level. I was scribbling frantically in my +notebook: _Bowl + cereal + spoon: 5 seconds. Lag: 10 seconds. Napkin + +toothpick: 3 seconds. Total synthesizing time: 18 seconds. Allowance for +rise of machine per foot: 2 seconds._ + +"Burt--!" Artie yelled joyously, just as I completed the last item, +"Look at that, will you?!" + +I looked, and had my first presentiment of disaster. At two feet, the +machine was busily fabricating--out of the air molecules themselves, for +all I knew--_two_ bowls, _two_ spoons, and _two_ bowlfuls of cereal. + +"Hey, Artie--" I began, but he was too busy figuring out this latest +development. + +"It's the altimeter," he said. "We had it gauged by the foot, but it's +taking the numerical calibrations as a kind of output-quota, instead!" + +"Look, Artie," I interrupted, as twin napkins and toothpicks dropped +down beside the new bowls on the table where the scale lay. "We're going +to have a little problem--" + +"You're telling _me_!" he sighed, unhappily. "All those damned _random_ +factors! How many times did the machine have to be repaired after each +faulty test! What thickness of ceramics, or fabric, or rubber, or metal +remained! What was the precise distribution and dampness of each of +those soggy cornflakes! Hell, Burt, we may be _forever_ trying to make a +duplicate of this!" + +"Artie--" I said, as three toothpick-napkin combinations joined the +shattered remains of triple bowl-cereal-spoon disasters from the +one-yard mark over the scale, "that is _not_ the problem I had in mind." + +"Oh?" he said, as four shimmering discs began to coalesce and shape +themselves. "What, then?" + +"It's not that I don't appreciate the side-effect benefits of free +cornflake dinners," I said, speaking carefully and somberly, to hold +his attention. "But isn't it going to put a crimp in our anti-gravity +machine sales? Even at a mere mile in height, it means that the spot +beneath it is due for a deluge of five-thousand-two-hundred-eighty bowls +of cornflakes. Not to mention all those toothpicks, napkins and spoons!" + +Artie's face went grave. "Not to mention the +five-thousand-two-hundred-seventy-nine of the same that the spot beneath +would get from the gadget when it was just one foot _short_ of the mile!" + +"Of course," I said, calculating rapidly as the five-foot mark produced +a neat quintet of everything, a quintet which crashed noisily onto the +ten lookalikes below it as the machine bobbed silently to the six-foot +mark, "we have one interesting thing in our favor: the time element." + +"How so?" said Artie, craning over my shoulder to try and read my lousy +calligraphics on the pad. + + * * * * * + +"Well," I said, pointing to each notation in turn, "the first batch, +bowl-to-toothpick, took twenty seconds, if we include the time-lapse +while the machine was ascending to the one-foot mark." + +"Uh-huh," he nodded. "I see. So?" + +"So the second batch took double. Forty seconds. Not only did it require +thirty-six seconds for the formation of the stuff, it took the machine +twice as many seconds to reach the two-foot mark." + +"I get it," he said. "So I suppose it took three times the base number +for the third batch?" + +"Right. A full minute. And the materialization of the objects is--Boy, +that's noisy!" I interrupted myself as batch number six came smashing +down. "--always at a point where the objects fit into a theoretical +conical section below the machine." + +"How's that again?" said Artie. + +"Well, bowl number one formed just below the exhaust vent of the central +cylinder. Bowls two and three, or--if you prefer--bowl-batch two, +formed about six inches lower, edge to edge, at the cross-section of an +imaginary cone (whose rather truncated apex is the exhaust vent) that +seems to form a vertical angle of thirty degrees." + +"In other words," said Artie, "each new formation comes in a spot +beneath this cone where it's possible for the new formations to +materialize side-by-side, right?" When I nodded, he said, "Fine. But so +what?" + +"It means that each new materialization occurs at a steadily increasing +height, but one which--" I calculated briefly on the pad "--is never +greater than two-thirds the height of the machine itself." + +Artie looked blank. "Thank you very kindly for the math lesson," he said +finally, "but I still don't see what you are driving at, Burt. How does +this present a problem?" + +I pointed toward the un-repaired hole in the lab ceiling, where the +machine, after dutifully disgorging the number-seven load, was slowly +heading. "It means that unless we grab that thing before it gets too +much higher, the whole damn planet'll be up to its ears in cornflakes. +And the one-third machine-height gap between artifacts and machine means +that we can't even use the mounding products to climb on and get it. +We'd always be too low, and an _increasing_ too-low at that!" + +"Are you trying to say, in your roundabout mathematical way, let's grab +that thing, fast?" + +"Right," I said, glad I had gotten through to him. "I would've said as +much sooner, only you never listen until somebody supplies you with all +the pertinent data on a crisis first." + + * * * * * + +Load number nine banged and splintered down into the lab, bringing the +cumulative total of bowl-cereal-spoon-napkin-toothpick debris up to +forty-five. + +"Come on, Burt," said Artie. "We'll have to get to the roof of the lab. +There's a ladder up at the--" + +He'd been going to say "house", but realized that there wasn't a house +anymore. "Quick!" he rasped, anxiously. "We can still get there by--" He +stopped before saying "helicopter", for similar reasons. + +"Burt--" he said, after a pause that allowed the total to rise to +fifty-five with a crash. "What'll we _do_?" + +"As usual with your inventions," I said, "we get on the phone and alert +the government." + +"The phone," said Burt, his face grey, "was in the house." + +I felt the hue of my face match his, then. "The car," I blurted. "We'll +have to drive someplace where there's a phone!" + +We ran out of the lab, dodged a few flying shards of pottery that +sprayed out after us from load-eleven-total-sixty-six, and roared off +down the road in Artie's roadster. He did the driving, I kept my eyes on +my watch, timing the arrivals of each new load. (Formula: _n × 20 = lag +between loads in seconds_.) + +By the time Artie discovered we were out of gas in the middle of a +deserted country road, load number twenty had fallen. + +By the time we arrived on foot at the nearest farmhouse, and were +ordered off the property by the irate farmer who still had bare boards +on his windowless house, and a shotgun in his gnarled brown hands, load +twenty-five had fallen. + +By the time we hitchhiked into town and got on the phone in time to find +all the governmental agencies had closed their offices for the day, load +thirty had fallen. + +By the time we finally convinced the Washington Operator that this +was a national emergency that could _not_ (though she kept suggesting +it) be handled by the ordinary Civil Defense members (the town had a +population of two hundred, and a one-percent enrollment in CD. Those +two guys wouldn't be any more help than we were, ourselves.), and were +able to locate Artie's congressional contact (he was out at a movie), +load fifty had dropped, and I was bone-tired, and it was (since load +fifty took a thousand seconds to form, load one had taken twenty, and +their total--one thousand twenty seconds--divided by two made an +average formulation-time of five hundred ten seconds per formulation) +over seven hours since that first bowl had started to appear, and my +mind, whether I wanted it to or not, gave me the distressing information +that by now Artie's estate was cluttered with a numbing totality of +one-thousand-two-hundred-seventy-five bowl-cereal-spoon-napkin-toothpick +sets. And fifty-one more due in seventeen minutes. + + * * * * * + +"What's he say?" I asked Artie, leaning into the phone booth. + +"He thinks I'm drunk!" Artie groaned, slamming down the receiver. "I +only wish I were!" + +I gave a stoical shrug, and pointed to the bright red neon lure across +the street. "Don't just stand there wishing. Join me?" I started across +toward the bar. + +"But Burt--" Artie babbled, hurrying along beside me. "We can't just +_forget_ about it...." + +"We did our bit," I said. "You told your contact, right? Well, by +tomorrow morning, when the total is up to over three thousand (I +calculated five-thousand-fifty sets by the time the machine reaches the +hundred-foot mark, a little better than twenty-eight hours from the +starting time), somebody's sure to notice all the birds in the region, +if only an ornithologist, and--" + +"Birds?" + +"Eating the cornflakes," I said, and when he nodded in comprehension, +went on, "--pretty soon the word'll get to the government." + +"Or," said Artie, hopefully, "the batteries and engine'll wear out.... +Won't they?" + +"It's a radium-powered motor," I said, as we slipped into the coolness +of a booth at the rear of the bar. "The power-source will deplete itself +by half in about six hundred years, maybe. Meantime, what'll we do with +all those cornflakes?" + +The waiter came by and we ordered two beers. + +"Wait--" said Artie, gripping my sleeve. "As the machine reaches the +upper atmosphere, the soundwaves'll thin out, weaken, as the medium +grows scarce." + +"Sure," I said, prying my cuff free of his fingers, "so we only get +bombarded with _badly made_ artifacts by the time the thing gets ten +miles up. But that's about fifty-thousand artifacts per foot rise, +Artie, at that height! No, I take that back. Fifty thousand _sets_! And +at five items per set (if we don't count the precise number of flakes +per batch of cereal), we have twenty-five thousand items per foot per +batch, merely a _rough_ estimate!" + +The beers came, and we ordered two more, the orders to keep coming until +we said whoa. + + * * * * * + +"You know," said Artie, after draining half the bottle, "I just had a +horrible thought--" + +"Horrible above and beyond the _present_ horrors?" I said, horrified. + +He nodded, thoughtfully. "What happens to anything that gets sucked into +the machine under the lip of the reflector? Does the machine just use it +as more raw material ... Or does it start duplicating _that_?" + +"Holy hell!" I choked. "As if there weren't too many pigeons already!" + +"There's no room for a pigeon to fit under that lip," said Artie, +patting the back of my hand as though he thought it was soothing me (it +wasn't), "or any other bird, for that matter. What I was thinking of was +stuff like nits and gnats and mosquitoes and--" + +"Stop!" I shuddered, reaching for my beer and finding the bottle empty. +I looked for the waiter, but he was at the front window, watching +a crowd that was gathering in the street. They were looking in the +direction of the lab. It was a few miles away, of course, but that +machine was--if on time, and why shouldn't it be?--due to deliver +fifty-two sets just about now, and even a few miles away, fifty-two +bowl-spoon-napkin-toothpick-cereal combinations, shimmering in the air +as they took form, would be hard to miss if you were looking in the +right direction. I said as much to Artie, but he shook his head. + +"It's ten o'clock of a moonless night, Burt. They couldn't see a damned +thing, unless there were some kind of illumination--" I saw by his face +that he'd thought of a possible source. + +"What?" I said. + +"Fireflies?" he hypothesized weakly. + + * * * * * + +We got out of the booth and joined our waiter as he hurried out into the +street. And there, in the distant blackness of the skies, was a sight +like a Fourth of July celebration gone berserk. From the number of those +fireflies, I figure the first one got sucked in at about the fifteen +mark, and possibly a few of his pals with him. + +"Despite everything--" said Artie, softly, "it sure is beautiful." + +"A gorgeous sight," I had to agree. "But--What the hell is that thing in +the air under the fireflies? You can just make it out in the reflected +flashes. It kind of looks like the--the _lab_...." + +Artie's fingers sank into my forearm. "But. It _is_ the lab! Not _the_ +lab, but another like it! With all those falling bowls and things, +enough plaster-dust and wood-splinters and glass-spicules must've been +sucked in to let the machine make a dupl--_There it goes!_" + +A one-story building dropping from a height of around thirty feet onto +another one-story building covered over with spoons, crunchy cereal, +and broken pottery makes much more racket than can be absorbed by the +cushioning effect of thousands of napkins and rubber toothpicks. We were +a few miles off, so the sound--when it finally got to us--was muted by +distance, but it was still a lulu. + +"And to think," Artie murmured, "that this is happening because we tried +to make it _noiseless_!" + +"What I'm worried about," I said sickly, "is that new cloud of dust +rising from the latest debris. There are crumbs of _two_ smashed +buildings in it, Artie. And in roughly twenty minutes the process is +going to repeat, and there'll be crumbs from _four_ labs in the air; two +labs that'll be the second duplicate of the original, and two that'll be +the first duplicate of the original-plus-first-duplicate!" + +Artie shook his head sadly. "Crumbs from _six_, Burt. Remember, when +those four new labs fall in twenty minutes, they're going to raise dust +from the wreckage of the two _already_ on the ground!" + +"Maybe," I said, less lackadaisically than I'd spoken when we left the +phone booth for the bar, "you'd better get your man in Washington, +again." + +"He'll never believe I'm sober, _now_!" Artie complained. + +"Oops--Never mind, Artie," I said, resignedly, looking at the latest +development in the distant sky. "He'll get the word indirectly, from the +forest rangers." + +"Huh?" said Artie, and looked toward the machine. + + * * * * * + +Amid the sparking cloud of fireflies, fluttering cornflakes, glinting +spoons, and a foursome of hazy, still-processing new labs, there was a +newcomer to the chaos. Something in one of the plunging artifacts must +have rubbed something else the wrong way, made a spark, and--Well, the +machine was complacently sucking in raw blazing energy, now, tongue upon +tongue of orange flame and black, spiralling smoke that rose from the +pyre of shattered synthetics. It was the first geometrically cone-shaped +blaze I'd ever seen in my life, but that suction was going pretty good, +now. And all that glaring heat was going to be suddenly re-created going +in the _other_ direction in about twenty minutes. But-- + +"Flames go _up_," said Artie, his thought-processes apparently running +parallel to mine. "So the new fires...." + +"Will be sucked in with the next batch," I finished. "And come out +double-strength next time around." + +"Burt--" said Artie, "What's the temperature at which water breaks down +into free hydrogen and oxygen again?" + +"A little less than the melting point of iron," I said. "Figure about +fifteen hundred degrees Centigrade. Why?" + +"I just wondered if perhaps the machine might not only double the amount +of the fire, but its temperature as well...." + +I didn't _want_ to theorize about _that_. It was summer, and the air +was pretty humid, and that meant an awful lot of free hydrogen and +oxygen, all at once, ready to re-combine explosively in the heat from +the flames that had separated them in the first place, thence to become +disrupted again, thence to explode again.... The mind refuses certain +contemplations. I turned away from the chaotic display in the distant +skies, and said to Artie, "How's chances of the _machine_ getting melted +down?" + +He shook his head with great sadness. "We made it out of damn near +heat-proof metals, remember? So it wouldn't burn up at entry speeds from +outer space?" + +"Oh, yeah," I said. "So what'll we do, now?" + +He glanced at the increasing holocaust on the horizon. "Pray for rain?" + + * * * * * + +Well, that was yesterday. Today, as I write this, the government has +finally gotten wind of the thing, and the area is under martial law. Not +that all those uniformed men standing just out of heat-range about the +ever-increasing perimeter are going to be of much help. Maybe to keep +the crowds back, they'd help, except no one in his right mind is heading +any direction but away from the mound. A few trees went up in smoke +during the blaze, too, and now, every _n_-times-twenty seconds, a whole +uprooted forest is joining the crash. + +No one knows quite what to do about it. The best weapon we possess is +Artie's inadvertent disintegrator pistol (remember Venus?), and ever +since the Three Day War, they've been banned. There's a proposition up +before Congress to un-ban the things and blast the machine, of course, +but the opposition keeps putting the kibosh on things by simply asking, +"What if the machine doesn't vanish? And what if, during the attempted +shooting, it starts duplicating disintegrator-beams?" + +The vote was negative. + +We figure it'll take quite a few years before the machine gets +beyond the point where the atmosphere stops acting as a medium for +the soundwaves. And that, of course, is only if the machine isn't +duplicating the atmosphere, too. And why couldn't it be? + +In the meantime, the avian population in the region is on the increase, +thanks to all those cornflakes-and-firefly dinners. Not to mention the +birds the machine has started to produce since a few foolish sparrows +got incinerated in the blaze. + +Artie figures that if enough snow falls on the machine, it may weight +it down and stop the process. So far, that's the only hope we have. +Meantime, it's still the middle of June. + +It looks like a long summer. + + +THE END + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Double or Nothing, by Jack Sharkey + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 43041 *** |