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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..37f0234 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #67364 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/67364) diff --git a/old/67364-0.txt b/old/67364-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index a0d2b9d..0000000 --- a/old/67364-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1126 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Likely Story, by Damon Knight - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: A Likely Story - -Author: Damon Knight - -Release Date: February 9, 2022 [eBook #67364] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LIKELY STORY *** - - - - - - _If you discovered a fantastic power - like this, you'd use it benevolently, - for the good of the entire human - race--wouldn't you?_ Sure _you would_! - - a likely story - - By DAMON KNIGHT - - [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from - Infinity Science Fiction, February 1956. - Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that - the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] - - -That was the damnedest December I ever saw in New York. Whatever the -weather is, Manhattan _always_ gets the worst of it--frying hot in -summer, snow or slush up to your ankles in winter--and all along the -seaboard, it was a mean season. Coming in from Pennsylvania the day -before, we'd been held up twice while the tracks were cleared. But when -I stepped out of the hotel that night, the Saturday after Christmas, -it was like a mild October; the air was just cool, with a fresh hint -of snow in it. There was a little slush in the gutters, not much; the -pavements were dry. - -I was late, or I would have gone back and ditched the rubbers; I -hate the foolish things to begin with, one reason I moved to the -country--out there, I wear house slippers half the year, galoshes the -rest; there's no in-between. I took off my gloves, opened my scarf, -and breathed deep lungfuls while I walked to the corner for a cab. I -began to wonder if it had been smart to move 90 miles out of town just -because I didn't like rubbers. - -The streets didn't seem overcrowded. I got a cab without any trouble. -Nobody was hurrying; it was as if the whole population was sitting -peacefully at home or in some bar, in no rush to be anywhere else. - -"Listen," I said to the cabbie, "this is still New York, isn't it?" - -He jerked his chin at me. "Hah?" - -"Where's the crowds?" I said. "Where's the rotten weather? What -happened?" - -He nodded. "I know whatcha mean. Sure is funny. Crazy weather." - -"Well, when did this happen?" - -"Hah?" - -"I said, how long has this been going on?" - -"Cleared up about three o'clock. I looked out the winda, and the sun -was shinin'. Jeez! You know what I think?" - -"You think it's them atom bombs," I told him. - -"That's right. You know what I think, I think it's them _atom_ bombs." -He pulled up opposite a canopy and folded down his flag. - -In the lobby, I found an arrow-shaped sign that said, "MEDUSA CLUB." - -The Medusa Club is, loosely speaking, an association for professional -science fiction writers. No two of them will agree on what science -fiction is--or on anything else--but they all write it, or have -written it, or pretend they can write it, or something. They have three -kinds of meetings, or two and a half. One is for club politics, one is -for drinking, and the third is also for drinking, only more so. As a -rule, they meet in people's apartments, usually Preacher Flatt's or Ray -Alvarez', but every year at this time they rent a hotel ballroom and -throw a whingding. I'm a member in bad standing; the last time I paid -my dues was in 1950. - -Rod Pfehl (the P is silent, as in Psmith) was standing in the doorway, -drunk, with a wad of dollar bills in his hand. "I'm the treasurer," he -said happily. "Gimme." Either he was the treasurer, or he had conned -a lot of people into thinking so. I paid him and started zigzagging -slowly across the floor, trading hellos, looking for liquor. - -Tom Q. Jones went by in a hurry, carrying a big camera. That was -unusual; Tom Q. is head components designer for a leading radio-TV -manufacturer, and has sold, I guess, about two million words of science -fiction, but this was the first time I had ever seen him in motion, -or with anything but a highball in his hand. I spotted Punchy Carrol, -nut-brown in a red dress; and Duchamp biting his pipe; and Leigh -MacKean with her pale protoNordic face, as wistful and fey as the -White Knight's; and there was a fan named Harry Somebody, nervously -adjusting his hornrims as he peered across the room; and, this being -the Christmas Party, there were a lot of the strangest faces on earth. - -Most of them were probably friends of friends, but you never knew; -one time there had been a quiet banker-type man at a Medusa meeting, -sitting in a corner and not saying much, who turned out to be Dorrance -Canning, an old idol of mine; he wrote the "Woman Who Slept" series -and other gorgeous stuff before I was out of knee pants. - -There were two blue-jacketed bartenders, and the drinks were -eighty-five cents. Another reason I moved to the country is that the -amusements are cheaper. Nursing my collins, I steered around two broad -rumps in flounced satin and ran into Tom Q. He snapped a flashbulb in -my face, chortled something, and went away while I was still dazzled. -Somebody else with a lemon-colored spot for a head shook my left hand -and muttered at me, but I wasn't listening; I had just figured out that -what Tom had said, was, "There's no _film_ in it!" - - * * * * * - -Somebody fell down on the waxed floor; there was a little flurry of -screams and laughter. I found myself being joggled, and managed to -put away an inch of the collins to save it. Then I thought I saw Art -Greymbergen, my favorite publisher, but before I could get anywhere -near him Carrol's clear Sunday-school voice began calling, "The program -is about to begin--please take your seats!" and a moment later people -were moving sluggishly through the bar archway. - -I looked at my watch, then hauled out my copy of the little -mimeographed sheet, full of earnest jocularity, that the club sent out -every year to announce the Party. It said that the program would begin -somewhere around 10, and it was that now. - -This was impossible. The program always pivoted on Bill Plass, and Bill -never got there, or anywhere, until the party was due to break up. - -But I looked when I got down near the bandstand, and by God there he -was, half as large as life, gesturing, flashing his Charlie Chaplin -grin, teetering like a nervous firewalker. He saw me and waved hello, -and then went on talking to Asa Akimisov, Ph.D. (A-K-I-M-I-S-O-V, -please, and never mind the Akimesian, or Akimsiov.) - -Maybe it _was_ them atom bombs, I found a vacant folding chair with -a good view of the platform, and a better one of a striking brunette -in blue. Akimisov got up on the platform, with his neck sticking out -of his collar like a potted palm (he had lost forty pounds, again) -and began telling jokes. Ace is the second funniest man in Medusa, -the first being Plass; the peculiar thing is that Plass writes humor -professionally, and delivers his annual set-pieces the same way--the -rest of the time he is merely a perfectly fascinating morbid wit--but -Akimisov, who writes nothing but the most heavily thoughtful fiction -in the business, bubbles with humor all the time, a poor man's Sam -Levenson. I was going to write an article once proving that a writer's -personality on paper was his real one turned inside out, but I fell -afoul of some exceptions. Like Tom Q., who was still flashing his bulbs -over at the side of the platform, and being noisily suppressed--you -could paper him all over with his published stories, and never know the -difference. - -The program was good, even for Medusa. Ned Burgeon, wearing a sky-blue -dinner jacket and a pepper-and-salt goatee, played his famous -twenty-one-string guitar; a dark-haired girl, a new one to me, sang in -a sweet, strong contralto; there was a skit involving Punchy Carrol as -a dream-beast, L. Vague Duchamp as a bewildered spaceman, and B. U. -Jadrys, the All-Lithuanian Boy, as a ticket agent for the Long Island -Railroad. Then came Plass's annual monologue, and there is just nothing -like those. I'm not exaggerating out of parochial pride (once a year -is enough Medusa for me): the simple truth is that Plass is a comic -genius. - -He had his audience laid out flat, gasping and clutching its sides. Why -should a man like that waste his time writing fiction? - -Toward the end he paused, looked up from his notes, and ad-libbed a -biting but not very funny wisecrack about--well, I'd better not say -about what. A certain member in the audience stiffened and half got -up, and there was a little embarrassed murmur under the laughter, but -it was over in a minute. Bill looked flustered. He went back to his -prepared speech, finished, and got a roar of applause. - -I did my share, but I was worried. Bill can charm the rattles off -a snake; if he wanted to go in for quack-doctoring, nut cultism or -Canadian mining stock, let alone night-club comedy, he could be a -millionaire. That _gaffe_ simply hadn't been like him, at all. Still, -it was Bill's Dostoevskian soul that made him the funny man he was, and -God only knew what had been happening to him in the year since I'd been -in town.... - -Akimisov, as m.c., delivered the final words. He bowed, straightened, -and his pants fell down. - -In the dressing room, when I got back there, Bill was busy apologizing -to the member on whose toes he had trodden--that apology would have -soothed a tiger with a toothache--and Akimisov, with a bewildered -expression, was holding up his pants. That was what I was curious -about; it was another false note--I didn't think Ace would stoop that -low for a laugh. The pants were too big for him, of course, but Ace had -always struck me as the kind of guy who wears a belt _and_ suspenders. - -He did; but the tongue had come out of the belt-buckle, and all the -suspenders buttons had popped, all at once. Scouts were being sent out -to look for a belt that would fit. - -I wandered out into the hall again. I was beginning to get a peculiar -feeling on one drink. Too many fresh vegetables; I can't take it like -I used to. So I went to the bar and got another. - -When I came out, the brunette in the blue evening gown was standing -near the doorway listening to Larry Bagsby. Next thing I knew, she let -out a whoop, grabbed her bosom, and fetched Larry a good one on the -ear. This was unfair. I was a witness, and Larry hadn't done a thing -except look; her overworked shoulder straps had simply given way, like -Akimisov's suspenders. - - * * * * * - -Curiouser and curiouser.... The noises around me were picking up in -volume and tempo, for all the world like a dancehall scene in a Western -movie, just before somebody throws the first table. There was a thud -and a screech off to my right; I gathered that somebody else had fallen -down. Then a tinkle of bursting glass, and another little chorus of -shouts, and then another thud. It went on like that. The crowd was on -the move, in no particular direction; everybody was asking everybody -else what was going on. - -I felt the same way, so I went looking for Ray Alvarez; you can always -count on him to tell you the answer, or make one up. - -Tom Q. went by, flashing that camera, and it wasn't till the mob had -swallowed him that I realized he wasn't replacing the bulb between -shots--the same one was blazing over and over. - -Well, a few years ago it was silly putty; the year before that, -Diarrhetics. This year, everlasting flash bulbs--and no film in the -camera. - -Ned Burgeon passed me, his grin tilting his whiskers dangerously near -the lighted stub in his cigarette holder; he was carrying the guitar -case as if he were wading ashore with it. I saw Duchamp off to one -side, talking to somebody, gesturing emphatically with his pipe. - -It isn't so, but occasionally you get the impression that science -fiction writers are either very tall or very short. I watched H. Drene -Pfeiffer stilt by, Ray Bolgerish in an astonishing skin-tight suit of -horseblanket plaid, followed by Will Kubatius and the _heldentenor_ -bulk of Don W. Gamble, Jr. I lowered my sights. Sandwiched between the -giants there ought to have been half a dozen people I'd have been glad -to see--if not Alvarez, then Bill Plass or his brother Horty; or Jerry -Thaw; Bagsby; Preacher Flatt, who looks too much like a marmoset to -be true.... But no: down on those lower levels there was nobody but an -eleven-year-old boy who had got in by mistake, and the ubiquitous fan, -Harry _You_-Know, the one with the glasses and all that hair. I tacked, -veering slightly, and beat across the room the other way. - -There was another crash of glass, a _big_ one, and a louder chorus of -yells. It wasn't all automatic female shrieks, this time; I caught a -couple of male voices, raised in unmistakable anger. - -The crowd was thinning out a little; droves of friends of friends -appeared to be heading for the coat room. Across one of the clear -spaces came a pretty blonde, looking apprehensive. In a minute I -saw why. Her skirt billowed out around her suddenly and she yelled, -crouched, holding the cloth down with both hands, then sunfished away -into the crowd. A moment later the same thing happened to a tall -brown-haired girl over to my left. - -That was too much. Glancing up, I happened to see the big cut-glass -chandelier begin swaying gently from side to side, jingling faintly, -working up momentum. I moved faster, buttonholing everyone I knew: -"Have you seen Ray? Have you seen Ray?" - -I heard my name, and there he was, standing like stout Cortez atop the -piano, where he could see the whole room like an anthill. I climbed up -beside him. Alvarez, to quote Duchamp's description, is a small rumpled -man with an air of sleepy good-nature. This is apt until you get close -to him, when you discover he is about as sleepy as a hungry catamount. -"Hi," he said, with a sidewise glance. - -"Hi. What do you think's doing it?" - -"It could be," said Ray, speaking firmly and rapidly, "a local -discontinuity in the four-dimensional plenum that we're passing -through. Or it could be poltergeists--that's perfectly possible, you -know." He gave me a look, daring me to deny it. - -"You think so?" - -"It _could_ be." - -"By golly, I believe you're right," I said. This is the only way to -handle Alvarez when he talks nonsense. If you give him the slightest -degree of resistance, he will argue along the same line till doomsday, -just to prove he can. - -"Mmm," he said thoughtfully, screwing up his face. "No, I -don't--think--so." - -"No?" - -"No," he said positively. "You notice how the thing seems to travel -around the room?" He nodded to a fist fight that was breaking out a -few yards from us, and then to a goosed girl leaping over by the bar -entrance. "There's a kind of irregular rhythm to it." He moved his -hand, illustrating. "One thing happens--then another thing--now here it -comes around this way again--" - -A fat friend of a friend and her husband backed up against the platform -just below us, quivering. There was something wrong with my fingers; -they felt warm. The collins glass was turning warm. Warm, _hell_--I -yelped and dropped it, sucking my fingers. The glass looped and fell -neatly on the flowered hat of the friend of a friend, and liquid -splattered. The woman hooted like a peanut whistle. She whirled, -slipped in the puddle and lurched off into the arms of a hairy authors' -agent. Her husband dithered after her a couple of steps, then came back -with blood in his eye. He got up as far as the piano stool when, as far -as I could make out, his pants split up the back and he climbed down -again, glaring and clutching himself. - -"Now it's over in the middle," said Ray imperturbably. "It _might_ -be poltergeists, I won't say it isn't. But I've got a hunch there's -another answer, actually." - -I said something dubious. A hotel-manager-looking kind of a man had -just come in and was looking wildly around. Punchy Carrol went up to -him, staring him respectfully right in the eye, talking a quiet six to -his dozen. After a moment he gave up and listened. I've known Punchy -ever since she was a puppy-eyed greenhorn from Philadelphia, and I -don't underestimate her any more. I knew the manager-type would go away -and not call any cops--at least for a while. - -I glanced down at the floor, and then looked again. There were little -flat chips of ice scattered in the wetness. That could have been from -the ice cubes; but there was _frost_ on some of the pieces of glass. - -_Hot on the bottom, cold on top!_ - -"Ray," I said, "something's buzzing around in my mind. Maxwell's -demon." I pointed to the frosted bits of glass. "That might--No, I'm -wrong, that couldn't account for all these--" - -He took it all in in one look. "Yes, it could!" he snapped. His -cat-eyes gleamed at me. "Maxwell had the theory of the perfect heat -pump--it would work if you could only find a so-called demon, about the -size of a molecule, that would bat all the hot molecules one way, and -all the cold ones the other." - -"I know," I said, "But--" - -"Okay, I'm just explaining it to you." - -What he told me was what I was thinking: Our unidentified friend had -some way of changing probability levels. I mean, all the molecules of -air under a woman's skirt _could_ suddenly decide to move in the same -direction--or all the molecules in a patch of flooring _could_ lose -their surface friction--it just wasn't likely. If you could _make_ it -likely--there wasn't any limit. You could make honest dice turn up a -thousand sevens in a row. You could run a car without an engine; make -rain or fair weather; reduce the crime index to zero; keep a demagogue -from getting re-elected.... - -Well, if all that was true, I wanted in. And I didn't have the ghost -of a chance--I was out of touch; I didn't know anybody. Ray knew -everybody. - - * * * * * - -"Spread out, folks!" said a bullhorn voice. It was Samwitz, of course, -standing on a bench at the far wall. Kosmo Samwitz, the Flushing -Nightingale; not one of the Medusa crowd, usually--a nice enough guy, -and a hard-working committeeman, but the ordinary Manhattan meeting -hall isn't big enough to hold his voice. "Spread out--make an equal -distance between you. That way we can't get into any fights." People -started following his orders, partly because they made sense, partly -because, otherwise, he'd go on bellowing. - -"That's good--that's good," said Samwitz. "All right, this meeting is -hereby called to order. The chair will entertain suggestions about what -the nature of these here phenomenon are...." - -Ray showed signs of wanting to get down and join the caucus; he loves -parliamentary procedure better than life itself; so I said hastily, -"Let's get down with the crowd, Ray. We can't see much better up here, -anyway." - -He stiffened. "You go if you want to," he said quietly. "I'm staying -here, where I can keep an eye on things." - -The chandelier was now describing stately circles, causing a good -deal of ducking and confusion, but the meeting was getting on with its -business, namely, arguing about whether to confirm Kosmo by acclamation -or nominate and elect a chairman in the usual way. That subject, I -figured, was good for at least twenty minutes. I said, "Ray, will you -tell me the truth if I ask you something?" - -"Maybe." He grinned. - -"Are you doing this?" - -He threw his head back and chuckled, "No-o, I'm not doing it." He -looked at me shrewdly, still grinning. "Is that why you were looking -for me?" - -I admitted it humbly. "It was just a foolish idea," I said. "Nobody we -know could possibly--" - -"_I_ don't know about that," he said, squinting thoughtfully. - -"Ah, come on, Ray." - -He was affronted. "Why not? We've got some pretty good scientific -brains in Medusa, you know. There's Gamble--he's an atomic physicist. -There's Don Bierce; there's Duchamp; there's--" - -"I know," I said, "I know, but where would any of them have got hold of -a thing like _this_?" - -"They could have invented it," he said stoutly. - -"You mean like Balmer and Phog Relapse running the Michelson experiment -in their cellar, and making it come out that there _is_ an ether drift, -only it's _down_?" - -He bristled. "No, I certainly don't--" - -"Or like Lobbard discovering Scatiology?" - -"Ptah! No! Like Watt, like Edison, Galileo--" He thumbed down three -fingers emphatically. "--Goodyear, Morse, Whitney--" - -Down below, the meeting had taken less than five minutes to confirm -Samwitz as chairman. I think the chandelier helped; they ought to -install one of those in every parliamentary chamber. - -The chair recognized Punchy, who said sweetly that the first order -of business ought to be to get opinions from the people who knew -something, beginning with Werner Kley. - -Werner accordingly made a very charming speech, full of Teutonic -rumbles, the essence of which was that he didn't know any more about -this than a rabbit. He suggested, however, that pictures should be -taken. There was a chorus of "Tom!" and Jones staggered forward with -his war-cry: "There isn't any _film_ in it!" - -Somebody was dispatched to get film; somebody else trotted out to -telephone for reporters and cameramen, and three or four other people -headed in a businesslike way for the men's room. - -Ray was simultaneously trying to get the chair's attention and -explaining to me, in staccato asides, how many epochal inventions had -been made by amateurs in attic workshops. I said--and this was really -bothering me--"But look: do you see anybody with any kind of a gadget? -How's he going to hide it? How's he going to focus it, or whatever?" - -Ray snorted. "It might be hidden in almost anything. Burgeon's -guitar--Gamble's briefcase--Mr. Chairman!" - -Duchamp was talking, but I could feel it in my bones that Samwitz was -going to get around to Ray next. I leaned closer. "Ray, listen--a thing -like this--they wouldn't keep it to themselves, would they?" - -"Why not? Wouldn't you--for a while, anyway?" He gave me his bobcat -grin. "I can think of quite--a--few things I could do, if I had it." - -So could I; that was the whole point. I said, "Yeah. I was hoping -we could spot him, before the crowd does." I sighed. "Fat chance, I -suppose." - -He gave me another side-long look. "That shouldn't be so hard," he -drawled. - -"You _know_ who it is?" - -He put on his most infuriating grin, peering to see how I took it. -"I've, got, a few, ideas." - -"Who?" - -Wrong question. He shook his head with a that-would-be-telling look. - -Somebody across the room went down with a crash; then somebody else. -"Sit on the floor!" Ray shouted, and they all did it, squatting -cautiously like old ladies at a picnic. The meeting gathered speed -again. - -I looked apprehensively at the narrow piano top we were standing on, -and sat down with my legs hanging over. Ray stayed where he was, -defying the elements to do their worst. - -"You know, all right," I said, looking up at him, "but you're keeping -it to yourself." I shrugged. "Well, why shouldn't you?" - -"O-kay," he said good-naturedly. "Let's figure it out. Where were you -when it started?" - -"In the bar." - -"Who else was there? Try to remember exact-ly." - -I thought. "Art Greymbergen. Fred Balester. Gamble was there--" - -"Okay, that eliminates him--and you, incidentally--because it started -in here. Right, so far?" - -"Right!" - -"Hmmm. Something happened _to_ Akimisov." - -"And Plass--that booboo he made?" - -Ray dismissed Plass with a gesture. He was looking a little restive; -another debate was under way down below, with Punchy and Leigh MacKean -vociferously presenting the case for psychokinesis, and being expertly -heckled by owlish little M. C. (Hotfoot) Burncloth's echo-chamber -voice. "It's too much," I said quickly. "There's too many of them left. -We'll never--" - -"It's perfectly simple!" Ray said incisively. He counted on his fingers -again. "Burgeon--Kley--Duchamp--Bierce--Burncloth--MacKean--Jibless. -Eight people." - -"One of the visitors?" I objected. - -He shook his head. "I know who all these people are, generally," he -said. "It's got to be one of those eight. I'll take Kley, Bierce, -Jibless and MacKean--you watch the other four. Sooner or later they'll -give themselves away." - -I had _been_ watching. I did it some more. - - * * * * * - -A wave of neck-clutching passed over the crowd. Cold breezes, I expect. -Or hot ones, in some cases. Tom Jones leaped up with a cry and sat down -again abruptly. - -"Did you see anything?" Ray asked. - -I shook my head. Where, I wondered, was the good old science fiction -cameraderie? If I'd been the lucky one, I would have let the crowd -in--well, a few of them, anyway--given them jobs and palaces and -things. Not that they would have been grateful, probably, the -treacherous, undependable, neurotic bums.... - -They were looking nervous now. There had been that little burst of -activity after a long pause (even the chandelier seemed to be swinging -slowly to rest), and now the--call it the stillness--was more than they -could stand. I felt it, too: that building up of tension. Whoever it -was, was getting tired of little things. - -A horrible jangling welled out of Burgeon's guitar case; it sounded -like a bull banjo with the heaves. Ned jumped, dropped his cigarette -holder, got the case open and I guess put his hand on the strings; the -noise stopped. That eliminated him ... or did it? - -Take it another way. What would the guy have to be like who would waste -a marvel like this on schoolboy pranks at a Medusa Christmas party? Not -Jibless, I thought--he abominates practical jokers. Bierce didn't seem -to be the type, either, although you could never tell; the damnedest -wry stories get hatched occasionally in that lean ecclesiastic skull. -Duchamp was too staid (but was I sure?); MacKean was an enigma. Gamble? -Just maybe. Burgeon? Jones? It could be either, I thought, but I -wasn't satisfied. - -I glanced at Ray again, and mentally crossed him off for the second or -third time. Ray's an honorable man, within his own complicated set of -rules; he might mislead me, with pleasure, but he wouldn't give me the -lie direct. - -But I had the feeling that the answer was square in front of me, and I -was blind to it. - -The meeting was just now getting around to the idea that somebody -present was responsible for all the nonsense. This shows you the -trouble with committees. - -A shocking idea hit me abruptly; I grabbed Ray by the coatsleeve. "Ray, -this cockeyed weather--I just remembered. _Suppose it's local._" - -His eyes widened; he nodded reluctantly. Then he stiffened and snapped -his fingers at somebody squatting just below us--the invisible fan, -Harry Somebody. I hadn't even noticed him there, but it's Ray's -business to know everything and keep track of everybody--that's why -he's up on his hill. - -The fan came over. Ray handed him something. "Here is some change, -Harry--run out and call up the weather bureau. Find out whether this -freak weather is local or not, and if it is, just where the boundaries -are. Got that?" - -Harry nodded and went out. He was back only a couple of minutes -later. "I got the Weather Bureau all right. They say it's local--just -Manhattan and Queens!" - -Something snapped. I did a fast jig on the piano top, slipped and -came crashing down over the keys, but I hardly noticed it. I got a -death-grip on Ray's trouser leg. "Listen! If he can do that--he doesn't -have to be in the same room. Doesn't Gamble live out in--" - -There were cries of alarm over by the open courtyard window. The room -was suddenly full of cats--brindle ones, black ones, tabbies, white -ones with pink ribbons around their necks, lunatic Siamese. - -After them came dogs: one indistinguishable wave of liquid leaping -torsos, flying ears, gullets. In half a second the room was an incident -written by Dante for the Mutascope. - -I caught a glimpse of a terrier bounding after two cats who were -climbing Samwitz' back; I saw Duchamp asprawl, pipe still in his mouth, -partially submerged under a tidal eddy of black and white. I saw -Tom Q. rise up like a lighthouse, only to be bowled over by a -frantically scrambling Leigh MacKean. - -Ray touched my arm and pointed. Over by the far wall, his back against -it, Gamble stood like a slightly potbound Viking. He was swinging that -massive briefcase of his, knocking a flying cat or dog aside at every -swipe. Two women had crawled into his lee for shelter; he seemed to be -enjoying himself. - -Then the briefcase burst. It didn't just come open; it flew apart like -a comedy suitcase, scattering a whirlwind of manuscript paper, shirts, -socks--and nothing else. - -The tide rushed toward the window again: the last screech and the last -howl funneled out. In the ringing silence, somebody giggled. I couldn't -place it, and neither could Ray, I think--then. Stunned, I counted -scratched noses. - -Samwitz was nowhere in sight; the crowd had thinned a good deal, but -all of the eight, thank heaven, were still there--MacKean sitting -groggily on a stranger's lap, Werner Kley nursing a bloody nose, -Tom Q., camera still dangling from his neck, crawling carefully on -hands and knees toward the door.... - -He reached it and disappeared. An instant later, we heard a full chorus -of feminine screams from the lobby, and then the sound of an enormous -J. Arthur Rank-type gong. - -Ray and I looked at each other with a wild surmise. "_Tom_ lives in -Queens!" he said. - -I scrambled down off the piano and the platform, but Ray was quicker. -He darted into the crowd, using his elbows in short, efficient jabs. By -the time I got to the door he was nowhere in sight. - -The lobby was full of large powdery women in flowered dresses, one of -them still shrieking. They slowed me down, and so did tripping over one -of those big cylindrical jardinieres full of sand and snipes. I reached -the street just in time to see Ray closing the door of a cab. - -I hadn't the wind to shout. I saw his cheerful face and Tom's in the -small yellow glow of the cab light; I saw Tom Q. raise the camera, and -Ray put out his hand to it. Then the cab pulled away into traffic, and -I watched its beady red tail lights down the avenue until they winked -out of sight. - - * * * * * - -Some time later, walking down the cold morning street, I discovered -there was somebody with me, keeping step, not saying anything. It was -Harry Er-Ah. - -He saw I had noticed him. "Some party," he remarked. - -I said yeah. - -"That was pretty funny, what happened in the lobby." - -"I didn't see it." - -"He came tearing through there on all fours. Right into the middle of -all those women. They probably thought he was a mad dog or something." - -I took two more steps, and stopped, and looked at him. "That was _all_ -he did?" I said. - -"Sure." - -"Well, then," I said with mounting exasperation, "in the name of--Oh. -Wait a minute. You're wrong," I told him, calming down again. "There -was the gong. He made that gong noise." - -"Did he?" said Harry. One nervous hand went up and adjusted the -hornrims. - -I felt a little tugging at my shirt front, and looked down to see my -necktie slithering out. I swatted at it instinctively, but it ducked -away and hovered, swaying like a cobra. - -Then it dropped. He showed me his open hand, and there was a wire -running up out of his sleeve, with a clip on the end of it. For the -first time, I noticed two rings of metal wired behind the lens frames -of his eyeglasses. - -He pulled his other hand out of his pocket, and there was a little -haywire rig in its batteries and a couple of tubes and three tuning -knobs. - -Fans, I was thinking frozenly--sixteen or eighteen, maybe, with pimples -and dandruff and black fingernails, and that wonderful, terrible -eagerness boiling up inside them ... slaving away at backyard rocketry -experiments, wiring up crazy gadgets that never worked, printing bad -fiction and worse poetry in mimeographed magazines.... How could I have -forgotten? - -"I wasn't going to tell anybody," he said. "No matter what happened. If -they'd _looked_ at me, just once, they would have seen. But as long as -you're worrying so much about it--" He blinked, and said humbly, "It -scares me. What do you think I ought to do?" - -My fingers twitched. I said, "Well, this will take some thinking about, -Harry. Uh, can I--" - -He backed off absent-mindedly as I stepped toward him. "I've been -thinking about it," he said. "As a matter of fact, I haven't been to -bed since yesterday morning. I worked on it straight through from four -o'clock yesterday. Twenty hours. I took caffeine tablets. But go ahead, -tell me. What would you do if you--" he said it apologetically--"were -me?" - -I swallowed. "I'd go at it slowly," I said. "You can make a lot of -mistakes by--" - -He interrupted me, with a sudden fiendish glint in his eye. "The man -that has this is pretty important, don't you think?" And he grinned. -"How would you like to see my face on all the stamps?" - -I shuddered in spite of myself. "Well--" - -"I wouldn't _bother_," he said. "I've got something better to do -first--" - -"Harry," I said, leaning, "if I've said anything...." - -"You didn't say anything." He gave me such a look as I hope I never get -from a human again. "Big shot!" - -I grabbed for him, but he was too quick. He leaped back, jamming the -gadget into his pocket, fumbling at the spectacles with his other hand. -I saw his feet lift clear of the pavement. He was hanging there like a -mirage, drifting backward and upward just a little faster than I could -run. - -His voice came down, thin and clear: "I'll send you a postcard from...." - -I lost the last part; anyhow, it couldn't have been what it sounded -like. - - * * * * * - -Just over a month later came Palomar's reports of unaccountable lights -observed on the dark limb of Mars. Every science fiction reader in the -world, I suppose, had the same thought--of a wanderer's footprints -fresh in the ancient dust, his handprints on controls not shaped for -hands, the old wild light wakened. But only a few of us pictured -hornrims gleaming there in the Martian night.... - -I drove over to Milford and had a look through Ham Jibless' homemade -telescope. I couldn't see the lights, of course, but I could see that -damned infuriating planet, shining away ruddy there across 36,000,000 -miles of space, with its eternal _Yah, yah, you can't catch me!_ - - * * * * * - -Medusa meetings have been badly attended since then, I'm told; for some -reason, it gives the members the green heaves to look at each other. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LIKELY STORY *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: A Likely Story</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Damon Knight</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: February 9, 2022 [eBook #67364]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LIKELY STORY ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/illus1.jpg" alt=""/> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="titlepage"> - -<p><i>If you discovered a fantastic power<br /> -like this, you'd use it benevolently, for<br /> -the good of the entire human race—wouldn't<br /> -you?</i> Sure <i>you would</i>!</p> - -<h1>a likely story</h1> - -<h2>By DAMON KNIGHT</h2> - -<p>[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from<br /> -Infinity Science Fiction, February 1956.<br /> -Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that<br /> -the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]</p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p>That was the damnedest December I ever saw in New York. Whatever the -weather is, Manhattan <i>always</i> gets the worst of it—frying hot in -summer, snow or slush up to your ankles in winter—and all along the -seaboard, it was a mean season. Coming in from Pennsylvania the day -before, we'd been held up twice while the tracks were cleared. But when -I stepped out of the hotel that night, the Saturday after Christmas, -it was like a mild October; the air was just cool, with a fresh hint -of snow in it. There was a little slush in the gutters, not much; the -pavements were dry.</p> - -<p>I was late, or I would have gone back and ditched the rubbers; I -hate the foolish things to begin with, one reason I moved to the -country—out there, I wear house slippers half the year, galoshes the -rest; there's no in-between. I took off my gloves, opened my scarf, -and breathed deep lungfuls while I walked to the corner for a cab. I -began to wonder if it had been smart to move 90 miles out of town just -because I didn't like rubbers.</p> - -<p>The streets didn't seem overcrowded. I got a cab without any trouble. -Nobody was hurrying; it was as if the whole population was sitting -peacefully at home or in some bar, in no rush to be anywhere else.</p> - -<p>"Listen," I said to the cabbie, "this is still New York, isn't it?"</p> - -<p>He jerked his chin at me. "Hah?"</p> - -<p>"Where's the crowds?" I said. "Where's the rotten weather? What -happened?"</p> - -<p>He nodded. "I know whatcha mean. Sure is funny. Crazy weather."</p> - -<p>"Well, when did this happen?"</p> - -<p>"Hah?"</p> - -<p>"I said, how long has this been going on?"</p> - -<p>"Cleared up about three o'clock. I looked out the winda, and the sun -was shinin'. Jeez! You know what I think?"</p> - -<p>"You think it's them atom bombs," I told him.</p> - -<p>"That's right. You know what I think, I think it's them <i>atom</i> bombs." -He pulled up opposite a canopy and folded down his flag.</p> - -<p>In the lobby, I found an arrow-shaped sign that said, "MEDUSA CLUB."</p> - -<p>The Medusa Club is, loosely speaking, an association for professional -science fiction writers. No two of them will agree on what science -fiction is—or on anything else—but they all write it, or have -written it, or pretend they can write it, or something. They have three -kinds of meetings, or two and a half. One is for club politics, one is -for drinking, and the third is also for drinking, only more so. As a -rule, they meet in people's apartments, usually Preacher Flatt's or Ray -Alvarez', but every year at this time they rent a hotel ballroom and -throw a whingding. I'm a member in bad standing; the last time I paid -my dues was in 1950.</p> - -<p>Rod Pfehl (the P is silent, as in Psmith) was standing in the doorway, -drunk, with a wad of dollar bills in his hand. "I'm the treasurer," he -said happily. "Gimme." Either he was the treasurer, or he had conned -a lot of people into thinking so. I paid him and started zigzagging -slowly across the floor, trading hellos, looking for liquor.</p> - -<p>Tom Q. Jones went by in a hurry, carrying a big camera. That was -unusual; Tom Q. is head components designer for a leading radio-TV -manufacturer, and has sold, I guess, about two million words of science -fiction, but this was the first time I had ever seen him in motion, -or with anything but a highball in his hand. I spotted Punchy Carrol, -nut-brown in a red dress; and Duchamp biting his pipe; and Leigh -MacKean with her pale protoNordic face, as wistful and fey as the -White Knight's; and there was a fan named Harry Somebody, nervously -adjusting his hornrims as he peered across the room; and, this being -the Christmas Party, there were a lot of the strangest faces on earth.</p> - -<p>Most of them were probably friends of friends, but you never knew; -one time there had been a quiet banker-type man at a Medusa meeting, -sitting in a corner and not saying much, who turned out to be Dorrance -Canning, an old idol of mine; he wrote the "Woman Who Slept" series -and other gorgeous stuff before I was out of knee pants.</p> - -<p>There were two blue-jacketed bartenders, and the drinks were -eighty-five cents. Another reason I moved to the country is that the -amusements are cheaper. Nursing my collins, I steered around two broad -rumps in flounced satin and ran into Tom Q. He snapped a flashbulb in -my face, chortled something, and went away while I was still dazzled. -Somebody else with a lemon-colored spot for a head shook my left hand -and muttered at me, but I wasn't listening; I had just figured out that -what Tom had said, was, "There's no <i>film</i> in it!"</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Somebody fell down on the waxed floor; there was a little flurry of -screams and laughter. I found myself being joggled, and managed to -put away an inch of the collins to save it. Then I thought I saw Art -Greymbergen, my favorite publisher, but before I could get anywhere -near him Carrol's clear Sunday-school voice began calling, "The program -is about to begin—please take your seats!" and a moment later people -were moving sluggishly through the bar archway.</p> - -<p>I looked at my watch, then hauled out my copy of the little -mimeographed sheet, full of earnest jocularity, that the club sent out -every year to announce the Party. It said that the program would begin -somewhere around 10, and it was that now.</p> - -<p>This was impossible. The program always pivoted on Bill Plass, and Bill -never got there, or anywhere, until the party was due to break up.</p> - -<p>But I looked when I got down near the bandstand, and by God there he -was, half as large as life, gesturing, flashing his Charlie Chaplin -grin, teetering like a nervous firewalker. He saw me and waved hello, -and then went on talking to Asa Akimisov, Ph.D. (A-K-I-M-I-S-O-V, -please, and never mind the Akimesian, or Akimsiov.)</p> - -<p>Maybe it <i>was</i> them atom bombs, I found a vacant folding chair with -a good view of the platform, and a better one of a striking brunette -in blue. Akimisov got up on the platform, with his neck sticking out -of his collar like a potted palm (he had lost forty pounds, again) -and began telling jokes. Ace is the second funniest man in Medusa, -the first being Plass; the peculiar thing is that Plass writes humor -professionally, and delivers his annual set-pieces the same way—the -rest of the time he is merely a perfectly fascinating morbid wit—but -Akimisov, who writes nothing but the most heavily thoughtful fiction -in the business, bubbles with humor all the time, a poor man's Sam -Levenson. I was going to write an article once proving that a writer's -personality on paper was his real one turned inside out, but I fell -afoul of some exceptions. Like Tom Q., who was still flashing his bulbs -over at the side of the platform, and being noisily suppressed—you -could paper him all over with his published stories, and never know the -difference.</p> - -<p>The program was good, even for Medusa. Ned Burgeon, wearing a sky-blue -dinner jacket and a pepper-and-salt goatee, played his famous -twenty-one-string guitar; a dark-haired girl, a new one to me, sang in -a sweet, strong contralto; there was a skit involving Punchy Carrol as -a dream-beast, L. Vague Duchamp as a bewildered spaceman, and B. U. -Jadrys, the All-Lithuanian Boy, as a ticket agent for the Long Island -Railroad. Then came Plass's annual monologue, and there is just nothing -like those. I'm not exaggerating out of parochial pride (once a year -is enough Medusa for me): the simple truth is that Plass is a comic -genius.</p> - -<p>He had his audience laid out flat, gasping and clutching its sides. Why -should a man like that waste his time writing fiction?</p> - -<p>Toward the end he paused, looked up from his notes, and ad-libbed a -biting but not very funny wisecrack about—well, I'd better not say -about what. A certain member in the audience stiffened and half got -up, and there was a little embarrassed murmur under the laughter, but -it was over in a minute. Bill looked flustered. He went back to his -prepared speech, finished, and got a roar of applause.</p> - -<p>I did my share, but I was worried. Bill can charm the rattles off -a snake; if he wanted to go in for quack-doctoring, nut cultism or -Canadian mining stock, let alone night-club comedy, he could be a -millionaire. That <i>gaffe</i> simply hadn't been like him, at all. Still, -it was Bill's Dostoevskian soul that made him the funny man he was, and -God only knew what had been happening to him in the year since I'd been -in town....</p> - -<p>Akimisov, as m.c., delivered the final words. He bowed, straightened, -and his pants fell down.</p> - -<p>In the dressing room, when I got back there, Bill was busy apologizing -to the member on whose toes he had trodden—that apology would have -soothed a tiger with a toothache—and Akimisov, with a bewildered -expression, was holding up his pants. That was what I was curious -about; it was another false note—I didn't think Ace would stoop that -low for a laugh. The pants were too big for him, of course, but Ace had -always struck me as the kind of guy who wears a belt <i>and</i> suspenders.</p> - -<p>He did; but the tongue had come out of the belt-buckle, and all the -suspenders buttons had popped, all at once. Scouts were being sent out -to look for a belt that would fit.</p> - -<p>I wandered out into the hall again. I was beginning to get a peculiar -feeling on one drink. Too many fresh vegetables; I can't take it like -I used to. So I went to the bar and got another.</p> - -<p>When I came out, the brunette in the blue evening gown was standing -near the doorway listening to Larry Bagsby. Next thing I knew, she let -out a whoop, grabbed her bosom, and fetched Larry a good one on the -ear. This was unfair. I was a witness, and Larry hadn't done a thing -except look; her overworked shoulder straps had simply given way, like -Akimisov's suspenders.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Curiouser and curiouser.... The noises around me were picking up in -volume and tempo, for all the world like a dancehall scene in a Western -movie, just before somebody throws the first table. There was a thud -and a screech off to my right; I gathered that somebody else had fallen -down. Then a tinkle of bursting glass, and another little chorus of -shouts, and then another thud. It went on like that. The crowd was on -the move, in no particular direction; everybody was asking everybody -else what was going on.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/illus2.jpg" alt=""/> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p>I felt the same way, so I went looking for Ray Alvarez; you can always -count on him to tell you the answer, or make one up.</p> - -<p>Tom Q. went by, flashing that camera, and it wasn't till the mob had -swallowed him that I realized he wasn't replacing the bulb between -shots—the same one was blazing over and over.</p> - -<p>Well, a few years ago it was silly putty; the year before that, -Diarrhetics. This year, everlasting flash bulbs—and no film in the -camera.</p> - -<p>Ned Burgeon passed me, his grin tilting his whiskers dangerously near -the lighted stub in his cigarette holder; he was carrying the guitar -case as if he were wading ashore with it. I saw Duchamp off to one -side, talking to somebody, gesturing emphatically with his pipe.</p> - -<p>It isn't so, but occasionally you get the impression that science -fiction writers are either very tall or very short. I watched H. Drene -Pfeiffer stilt by, Ray Bolgerish in an astonishing skin-tight suit of -horseblanket plaid, followed by Will Kubatius and the <i>heldentenor</i> -bulk of Don W. Gamble, Jr. I lowered my sights. Sandwiched between the -giants there ought to have been half a dozen people I'd have been glad -to see—if not Alvarez, then Bill Plass or his brother Horty; or Jerry -Thaw; Bagsby; Preacher Flatt, who looks too much like a marmoset to -be true.... But no: down on those lower levels there was nobody but an -eleven-year-old boy who had got in by mistake, and the ubiquitous fan, -Harry <i>You</i>-Know, the one with the glasses and all that hair. I tacked, -veering slightly, and beat across the room the other way.</p> - -<p>There was another crash of glass, a <i>big</i> one, and a louder chorus of -yells. It wasn't all automatic female shrieks, this time; I caught a -couple of male voices, raised in unmistakable anger.</p> - -<p>The crowd was thinning out a little; droves of friends of friends -appeared to be heading for the coat room. Across one of the clear -spaces came a pretty blonde, looking apprehensive. In a minute I -saw why. Her skirt billowed out around her suddenly and she yelled, -crouched, holding the cloth down with both hands, then sunfished away -into the crowd. A moment later the same thing happened to a tall -brown-haired girl over to my left.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/illus3.jpg" alt=""/> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p>That was too much. Glancing up, I happened to see the big cut-glass -chandelier begin swaying gently from side to side, jingling faintly, -working up momentum. I moved faster, buttonholing everyone I knew: -"Have you seen Ray? Have you seen Ray?"</p> - -<p>I heard my name, and there he was, standing like stout Cortez atop the -piano, where he could see the whole room like an anthill. I climbed up -beside him. Alvarez, to quote Duchamp's description, is a small rumpled -man with an air of sleepy good-nature. This is apt until you get close -to him, when you discover he is about as sleepy as a hungry catamount. -"Hi," he said, with a sidewise glance.</p> - -<p>"Hi. What do you think's doing it?"</p> - -<p>"It could be," said Ray, speaking firmly and rapidly, "a local -discontinuity in the four-dimensional plenum that we're passing -through. Or it could be poltergeists—that's perfectly possible, you -know." He gave me a look, daring me to deny it.</p> - -<p>"You think so?"</p> - -<p>"It <i>could</i> be."</p> - -<p>"By golly, I believe you're right," I said. This is the only way to -handle Alvarez when he talks nonsense. If you give him the slightest -degree of resistance, he will argue along the same line till doomsday, -just to prove he can.</p> - -<p>"Mmm," he said thoughtfully, screwing up his face. "No, I -don't—think—so."</p> - -<p>"No?"</p> - -<p>"No," he said positively. "You notice how the thing seems to travel -around the room?" He nodded to a fist fight that was breaking out a -few yards from us, and then to a goosed girl leaping over by the bar -entrance. "There's a kind of irregular rhythm to it." He moved his -hand, illustrating. "One thing happens—then another thing—now here it -comes around this way again—"</p> - -<p>A fat friend of a friend and her husband backed up against the platform -just below us, quivering. There was something wrong with my fingers; -they felt warm. The collins glass was turning warm. Warm, <i>hell</i>—I -yelped and dropped it, sucking my fingers. The glass looped and fell -neatly on the flowered hat of the friend of a friend, and liquid -splattered. The woman hooted like a peanut whistle. She whirled, -slipped in the puddle and lurched off into the arms of a hairy authors' -agent. Her husband dithered after her a couple of steps, then came back -with blood in his eye. He got up as far as the piano stool when, as far -as I could make out, his pants split up the back and he climbed down -again, glaring and clutching himself.</p> - -<p>"Now it's over in the middle," said Ray imperturbably. "It <i>might</i> -be poltergeists, I won't say it isn't. But I've got a hunch there's -another answer, actually."</p> - -<p>I said something dubious. A hotel-manager-looking kind of a man had -just come in and was looking wildly around. Punchy Carrol went up to -him, staring him respectfully right in the eye, talking a quiet six to -his dozen. After a moment he gave up and listened. I've known Punchy -ever since she was a puppy-eyed greenhorn from Philadelphia, and I -don't underestimate her any more. I knew the manager-type would go away -and not call any cops—at least for a while.</p> - -<p>I glanced down at the floor, and then looked again. There were little -flat chips of ice scattered in the wetness. That could have been from -the ice cubes; but there was <i>frost</i> on some of the pieces of glass.</p> - -<p><i>Hot on the bottom, cold on top!</i></p> - -<p>"Ray," I said, "something's buzzing around in my mind. Maxwell's -demon." I pointed to the frosted bits of glass. "That might—No, I'm -wrong, that couldn't account for all these—"</p> - -<p>He took it all in in one look. "Yes, it could!" he snapped. His -cat-eyes gleamed at me. "Maxwell had the theory of the perfect heat -pump—it would work if you could only find a so-called demon, about the -size of a molecule, that would bat all the hot molecules one way, and -all the cold ones the other."</p> - -<p>"I know," I said, "But—"</p> - -<p>"Okay, I'm just explaining it to you."</p> - -<p>What he told me was what I was thinking: Our unidentified friend had -some way of changing probability levels. I mean, all the molecules of -air under a woman's skirt <i>could</i> suddenly decide to move in the same -direction—or all the molecules in a patch of flooring <i>could</i> lose -their surface friction—it just wasn't likely. If you could <i>make</i> it -likely—there wasn't any limit. You could make honest dice turn up a -thousand sevens in a row. You could run a car without an engine; make -rain or fair weather; reduce the crime index to zero; keep a demagogue -from getting re-elected....</p> - -<p>Well, if all that was true, I wanted in. And I didn't have the ghost -of a chance—I was out of touch; I didn't know anybody. Ray knew -everybody.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>"Spread out, folks!" said a bullhorn voice. It was Samwitz, of course, -standing on a bench at the far wall. Kosmo Samwitz, the Flushing -Nightingale; not one of the Medusa crowd, usually—a nice enough guy, -and a hard-working committeeman, but the ordinary Manhattan meeting -hall isn't big enough to hold his voice. "Spread out—make an equal -distance between you. That way we can't get into any fights." People -started following his orders, partly because they made sense, partly -because, otherwise, he'd go on bellowing.</p> - -<p>"That's good—that's good," said Samwitz. "All right, this meeting is -hereby called to order. The chair will entertain suggestions about what -the nature of these here phenomenon are...."</p> - -<p>Ray showed signs of wanting to get down and join the caucus; he loves -parliamentary procedure better than life itself; so I said hastily, -"Let's get down with the crowd, Ray. We can't see much better up here, -anyway."</p> - -<p>He stiffened. "You go if you want to," he said quietly. "I'm staying -here, where I can keep an eye on things."</p> - -<p>The chandelier was now describing stately circles, causing a good -deal of ducking and confusion, but the meeting was getting on with its -business, namely, arguing about whether to confirm Kosmo by acclamation -or nominate and elect a chairman in the usual way. That subject, I -figured, was good for at least twenty minutes. I said, "Ray, will you -tell me the truth if I ask you something?"</p> - -<p>"Maybe." He grinned.</p> - -<p>"Are you doing this?"</p> - -<p>He threw his head back and chuckled, "No-o, I'm not doing it." He -looked at me shrewdly, still grinning. "Is that why you were looking -for me?"</p> - -<p>I admitted it humbly. "It was just a foolish idea," I said. "Nobody we -know could possibly—"</p> - -<p>"<i>I</i> don't know about that," he said, squinting thoughtfully.</p> - -<p>"Ah, come on, Ray."</p> - -<p>He was affronted. "Why not? We've got some pretty good scientific -brains in Medusa, you know. There's Gamble—he's an atomic physicist. -There's Don Bierce; there's Duchamp; there's—"</p> - -<p>"I know," I said, "I know, but where would any of them have got hold of -a thing like <i>this</i>?"</p> - -<p>"They could have invented it," he said stoutly.</p> - -<p>"You mean like Balmer and Phog Relapse running the Michelson experiment -in their cellar, and making it come out that there <i>is</i> an ether drift, -only it's <i>down</i>?"</p> - -<p>He bristled. "No, I certainly don't—"</p> - -<p>"Or like Lobbard discovering Scatiology?"</p> - -<p>"Ptah! No! Like Watt, like Edison, Galileo—" He thumbed down three -fingers emphatically. "—Goodyear, Morse, Whitney—"</p> - -<p>Down below, the meeting had taken less than five minutes to confirm -Samwitz as chairman. I think the chandelier helped; they ought to -install one of those in every parliamentary chamber.</p> - -<p>The chair recognized Punchy, who said sweetly that the first order -of business ought to be to get opinions from the people who knew -something, beginning with Werner Kley.</p> - -<p>Werner accordingly made a very charming speech, full of Teutonic -rumbles, the essence of which was that he didn't know any more about -this than a rabbit. He suggested, however, that pictures should be -taken. There was a chorus of "Tom!" and Jones staggered forward with -his war-cry: "There isn't any <i>film</i> in it!"</p> - -<p>Somebody was dispatched to get film; somebody else trotted out to -telephone for reporters and cameramen, and three or four other people -headed in a businesslike way for the men's room.</p> - -<p>Ray was simultaneously trying to get the chair's attention and -explaining to me, in staccato asides, how many epochal inventions had -been made by amateurs in attic workshops. I said—and this was really -bothering me—"But look: do you see anybody with any kind of a gadget? -How's he going to hide it? How's he going to focus it, or whatever?"</p> - -<p>Ray snorted. "It might be hidden in almost anything. Burgeon's -guitar—Gamble's briefcase—Mr. Chairman!"</p> - -<p>Duchamp was talking, but I could feel it in my bones that Samwitz was -going to get around to Ray next. I leaned closer. "Ray, listen—a thing -like this—they wouldn't keep it to themselves, would they?"</p> - -<p>"Why not? Wouldn't you—for a while, anyway?" He gave me his bobcat -grin. "I can think of quite—a—few things I could do, if I had it."</p> - -<p>So could I; that was the whole point. I said, "Yeah. I was hoping -we could spot him, before the crowd does." I sighed. "Fat chance, I -suppose."</p> - -<p>He gave me another side-long look. "That shouldn't be so hard," he -drawled.</p> - -<p>"You <i>know</i> who it is?"</p> - -<p>He put on his most infuriating grin, peering to see how I took it. -"I've, got, a few, ideas."</p> - -<p>"Who?"</p> - -<p>Wrong question. He shook his head with a that-would-be-telling look.</p> - -<p>Somebody across the room went down with a crash; then somebody else. -"Sit on the floor!" Ray shouted, and they all did it, squatting -cautiously like old ladies at a picnic. The meeting gathered speed -again.</p> - -<p>I looked apprehensively at the narrow piano top we were standing on, -and sat down with my legs hanging over. Ray stayed where he was, -defying the elements to do their worst.</p> - -<p>"You know, all right," I said, looking up at him, "but you're keeping -it to yourself." I shrugged. "Well, why shouldn't you?"</p> - -<p>"O-kay," he said good-naturedly. "Let's figure it out. Where were you -when it started?"</p> - -<p>"In the bar."</p> - -<p>"Who else was there? Try to remember exact-ly."</p> - -<p>I thought. "Art Greymbergen. Fred Balester. Gamble was there—"</p> - -<p>"Okay, that eliminates him—and you, incidentally—because it started -in here. Right, so far?"</p> - -<p>"Right!"</p> - -<p>"Hmmm. Something happened <i>to</i> Akimisov."</p> - -<p>"And Plass—that booboo he made?"</p> - -<p>Ray dismissed Plass with a gesture. He was looking a little restive; -another debate was under way down below, with Punchy and Leigh MacKean -vociferously presenting the case for psychokinesis, and being expertly -heckled by owlish little M. C. (Hotfoot) Burncloth's echo-chamber -voice. "It's too much," I said quickly. "There's too many of them left. -We'll never—"</p> - -<p>"It's perfectly simple!" Ray said incisively. He counted on his fingers -again. "Burgeon—Kley—Duchamp—Bierce—Burncloth—MacKean—Jibless. -Eight people."</p> - -<p>"One of the visitors?" I objected.</p> - -<p>He shook his head. "I know who all these people are, generally," he -said. "It's got to be one of those eight. I'll take Kley, Bierce, -Jibless and MacKean—you watch the other four. Sooner or later they'll -give themselves away."</p> - -<p>I had <i>been</i> watching. I did it some more.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>A wave of neck-clutching passed over the crowd. Cold breezes, I expect. -Or hot ones, in some cases. Tom Jones leaped up with a cry and sat down -again abruptly.</p> - -<p>"Did you see anything?" Ray asked.</p> - -<p>I shook my head. Where, I wondered, was the good old science fiction -cameraderie? If I'd been the lucky one, I would have let the crowd -in—well, a few of them, anyway—given them jobs and palaces and -things. Not that they would have been grateful, probably, the -treacherous, undependable, neurotic bums....</p> - -<p>They were looking nervous now. There had been that little burst of -activity after a long pause (even the chandelier seemed to be swinging -slowly to rest), and now the—call it the stillness—was more than they -could stand. I felt it, too: that building up of tension. Whoever it -was, was getting tired of little things.</p> - -<p>A horrible jangling welled out of Burgeon's guitar case; it sounded -like a bull banjo with the heaves. Ned jumped, dropped his cigarette -holder, got the case open and I guess put his hand on the strings; the -noise stopped. That eliminated him ... or did it?</p> - -<p>Take it another way. What would the guy have to be like who would waste -a marvel like this on schoolboy pranks at a Medusa Christmas party? Not -Jibless, I thought—he abominates practical jokers. Bierce didn't seem -to be the type, either, although you could never tell; the damnedest -wry stories get hatched occasionally in that lean ecclesiastic skull. -Duchamp was too staid (but was I sure?); MacKean was an enigma. Gamble? -Just maybe. Burgeon? Jones? It could be either, I thought, but I -wasn't satisfied.</p> - -<p>I glanced at Ray again, and mentally crossed him off for the second or -third time. Ray's an honorable man, within his own complicated set of -rules; he might mislead me, with pleasure, but he wouldn't give me the -lie direct.</p> - -<p>But I had the feeling that the answer was square in front of me, and I -was blind to it.</p> - -<p>The meeting was just now getting around to the idea that somebody -present was responsible for all the nonsense. This shows you the -trouble with committees.</p> - -<p>A shocking idea hit me abruptly; I grabbed Ray by the coatsleeve. "Ray, -this cockeyed weather—I just remembered. <i>Suppose it's local.</i>"</p> - -<p>His eyes widened; he nodded reluctantly. Then he stiffened and snapped -his fingers at somebody squatting just below us—the invisible fan, -Harry Somebody. I hadn't even noticed him there, but it's Ray's -business to know everything and keep track of everybody—that's why -he's up on his hill.</p> - -<p>The fan came over. Ray handed him something. "Here is some change, -Harry—run out and call up the weather bureau. Find out whether this -freak weather is local or not, and if it is, just where the boundaries -are. Got that?"</p> - -<p>Harry nodded and went out. He was back only a couple of minutes -later. "I got the Weather Bureau all right. They say it's local—just -Manhattan and Queens!"</p> - -<p>Something snapped. I did a fast jig on the piano top, slipped and -came crashing down over the keys, but I hardly noticed it. I got a -death-grip on Ray's trouser leg. "Listen! If he can do that—he doesn't -have to be in the same room. Doesn't Gamble live out in—"</p> - -<p>There were cries of alarm over by the open courtyard window. The room -was suddenly full of cats—brindle ones, black ones, tabbies, white -ones with pink ribbons around their necks, lunatic Siamese.</p> - -<p>After them came dogs: one indistinguishable wave of liquid leaping -torsos, flying ears, gullets. In half a second the room was an incident -written by Dante for the Mutascope.</p> - -<p>I caught a glimpse of a terrier bounding after two cats who were -climbing Samwitz' back; I saw Duchamp asprawl, pipe still in his mouth, -partially submerged under a tidal eddy of black and white. I saw -Tom Q. rise up like a lighthouse, only to be bowled over by a -frantically scrambling Leigh MacKean.</p> - -<p>Ray touched my arm and pointed. Over by the far wall, his back against -it, Gamble stood like a slightly potbound Viking. He was swinging that -massive briefcase of his, knocking a flying cat or dog aside at every -swipe. Two women had crawled into his lee for shelter; he seemed to be -enjoying himself.</p> - -<p>Then the briefcase burst. It didn't just come open; it flew apart like -a comedy suitcase, scattering a whirlwind of manuscript paper, shirts, -socks—and nothing else.</p> - -<p>The tide rushed toward the window again: the last screech and the last -howl funneled out. In the ringing silence, somebody giggled. I couldn't -place it, and neither could Ray, I think—then. Stunned, I counted -scratched noses.</p> - -<p>Samwitz was nowhere in sight; the crowd had thinned a good deal, but -all of the eight, thank heaven, were still there—MacKean sitting -groggily on a stranger's lap, Werner Kley nursing a bloody nose, -Tom Q., camera still dangling from his neck, crawling carefully on -hands and knees toward the door....</p> - -<p>He reached it and disappeared. An instant later, we heard a full chorus -of feminine screams from the lobby, and then the sound of an enormous -J. Arthur Rank-type gong.</p> - -<p>Ray and I looked at each other with a wild surmise. "<i>Tom</i> lives in -Queens!" he said.</p> - -<p>I scrambled down off the piano and the platform, but Ray was quicker. -He darted into the crowd, using his elbows in short, efficient jabs. By -the time I got to the door he was nowhere in sight.</p> - -<p>The lobby was full of large powdery women in flowered dresses, one of -them still shrieking. They slowed me down, and so did tripping over one -of those big cylindrical jardinieres full of sand and snipes. I reached -the street just in time to see Ray closing the door of a cab.</p> - -<p>I hadn't the wind to shout. I saw his cheerful face and Tom's in the -small yellow glow of the cab light; I saw Tom Q. raise the camera, and -Ray put out his hand to it. Then the cab pulled away into traffic, and -I watched its beady red tail lights down the avenue until they winked -out of sight.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Some time later, walking down the cold morning street, I discovered -there was somebody with me, keeping step, not saying anything. It was -Harry Er-Ah.</p> - -<p>He saw I had noticed him. "Some party," he remarked.</p> - -<p>I said yeah.</p> - -<p>"That was pretty funny, what happened in the lobby."</p> - -<p>"I didn't see it."</p> - -<p>"He came tearing through there on all fours. Right into the middle of -all those women. They probably thought he was a mad dog or something."</p> - -<p>I took two more steps, and stopped, and looked at him. "That was <i>all</i> -he did?" I said.</p> - -<p>"Sure."</p> - -<p>"Well, then," I said with mounting exasperation, "in the name of—Oh. -Wait a minute. You're wrong," I told him, calming down again. "There -was the gong. He made that gong noise."</p> - -<p>"Did he?" said Harry. One nervous hand went up and adjusted the -hornrims.</p> - -<p>I felt a little tugging at my shirt front, and looked down to see my -necktie slithering out. I swatted at it instinctively, but it ducked -away and hovered, swaying like a cobra.</p> - -<p>Then it dropped. He showed me his open hand, and there was a wire -running up out of his sleeve, with a clip on the end of it. For the -first time, I noticed two rings of metal wired behind the lens frames -of his eyeglasses.</p> - -<p>He pulled his other hand out of his pocket, and there was a little -haywire rig in its batteries and a couple of tubes and three tuning -knobs.</p> - -<p>Fans, I was thinking frozenly—sixteen or eighteen, maybe, with pimples -and dandruff and black fingernails, and that wonderful, terrible -eagerness boiling up inside them ... slaving away at backyard rocketry -experiments, wiring up crazy gadgets that never worked, printing bad -fiction and worse poetry in mimeographed magazines.... How could I have -forgotten?</p> - -<p>"I wasn't going to tell anybody," he said. "No matter what happened. If -they'd <i>looked</i> at me, just once, they would have seen. But as long as -you're worrying so much about it—" He blinked, and said humbly, "It -scares me. What do you think I ought to do?"</p> - -<p>My fingers twitched. I said, "Well, this will take some thinking about, -Harry. Uh, can I—"</p> - -<p>He backed off absent-mindedly as I stepped toward him. "I've been -thinking about it," he said. "As a matter of fact, I haven't been to -bed since yesterday morning. I worked on it straight through from four -o'clock yesterday. Twenty hours. I took caffeine tablets. But go ahead, -tell me. What would you do if you—" he said it apologetically—"were -me?"</p> - -<p>I swallowed. "I'd go at it slowly," I said. "You can make a lot of -mistakes by—"</p> - -<p>He interrupted me, with a sudden fiendish glint in his eye. "The man -that has this is pretty important, don't you think?" And he grinned. -"How would you like to see my face on all the stamps?"</p> - -<p>I shuddered in spite of myself. "Well—"</p> - -<p>"I wouldn't <i>bother</i>," he said. "I've got something better to do -first—"</p> - -<p>"Harry," I said, leaning, "if I've said anything...."</p> - -<p>"You didn't say anything." He gave me such a look as I hope I never get -from a human again. "Big shot!"</p> - -<p>I grabbed for him, but he was too quick. He leaped back, jamming the -gadget into his pocket, fumbling at the spectacles with his other hand. -I saw his feet lift clear of the pavement. He was hanging there like a -mirage, drifting backward and upward just a little faster than I could -run.</p> - -<p>His voice came down, thin and clear: "I'll send you a postcard from...."</p> - -<p>I lost the last part; anyhow, it couldn't have been what it sounded -like.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Just over a month later came Palomar's reports of unaccountable lights -observed on the dark limb of Mars. Every science fiction reader in the -world, I suppose, had the same thought—of a wanderer's footprints -fresh in the ancient dust, his handprints on controls not shaped for -hands, the old wild light wakened. But only a few of us pictured -hornrims gleaming there in the Martian night....</p> - -<p>I drove over to Milford and had a look through Ham Jibless' homemade -telescope. I couldn't see the lights, of course, but I could see that -damned infuriating planet, shining away ruddy there across 36,000,000 -miles of space, with its eternal <i>Yah, yah, you can't catch me!</i></p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Medusa meetings have been badly attended since then, I'm told; for some -reason, it gives the members the green heaves to look at each other.</p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LIKELY STORY ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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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