path: root/79008-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79008 ***




                                 Wheels

                            by Michael Zuroy

                          Illustrated by Freas




  =Ker Kermit plotted better than he realized when he entered his
  superior’s name, along with his own, in the Fly-Wheels exhibition in
  honor of visiting aliens. For if Alph Agar lost, he would lose his
  life!=




Alone in his office, Alph Agar, Director of the Ossining Unit of
Budd-Jarvis Fly-Wheels, was crouching over his desk, clenched hands
rotating alternately clock-wise and counterclockwise. Thus occupied, he
did not hear his secretary come in. “What--what’s the matter?” gasped
Jean-Jean.

Agar straightened slowly, feeling a complete fool. A man should not
allow his secretary to catch him in such a ridiculous position. What
was he to tell Jean-Jean? Not the truth, certainly.

“Torgian calisthenics,” explained Agar. “No need to be alarmed,
Jean-Jean. Simply a new variation; very relaxing.”

Jean-Jean gave him a long look and went to her desk. He grew absorbed
in the back of her neck, the coppery hair, and the clean-limbed figure
in the iridescent green tunic. Why, thought Agar, must he always be
remembering his dignity as a Director? Why couldn’t he just stride over
to her, and....

And what? When had he ever known how to handle a woman? Preparation for
the Director of a Fly-Wheel unit had not included instruction on the
opposite sex. From his boyhood there had been long years of scientific,
mathematical, engineering, statistical, financial, economic and legal
schooling; there had been single-minded dedication to his job as he
struggled up wards through man-killing competition. There had been no
time for women.

So that here he was at thirty-six, holder of one of the world’s more
responsible positions, director and coordinator of a complex plant
covering more than five square miles and employing over eight thousand
people, and without the slightest notion as to how to approach a girl
like Jean-Jean.

       *       *       *       *       *

He hadn’t minded too much, up to now. But Jean-Jean... well, it was a
warming, if far-fetched, thought that someday she might call him by the
intimate, Alph, instead of the formal, Alph Agar. Close friends and
relatives, wives and sweethearts used the intimate; nobody, except his
immediate family, had ever called him Alph....

Ker Kermit, Assistant Director of the Fly-Wheel unit, stepped into the
office, crackling, “Good-morning, good-morning, good-morning.” He threw
his wiry frame into a zilxitron chair and ran a hand over his crisp
black hair, watching Agar with an alert expression.

Agar passed a hand over his eyes. The man made him weary. It wasn’t so
much that he knew Kermit was after his job; that was to be expected,
he supposed. It was that boundless, efficient energy. He, himself, was
exhausted at the end of a day; where did Kermit get that eternal drive?

“What can I do for you, Ker Kermit?”

“Old fellow,” said Kermit. When Kermit said, ‘old fellow’, thought
Agar, it did not sound idiomatic; it sounded as if it meant, old
fellow. “I knew you’d be pleased,” said Kermit, a combination of
mockery and triumph glinting in his eyes. “I took the liberty of
entering your name together with my own. I know you must be a crack
Fly-Wheel pilot. Of course, the Board will contact you for personal
confirmation, and if you’d like to back out, I’m sure they’ll
understand.”

Agar noticed Jean-Jean’s ears assume a listening look. “Wait a minute,”
he said slowly. “Are you talking about the exhibitions in honor of the
visiting Betelgeusians? You entered my name, as a participant?”

       *       *       *       *       *

Kermit looked at him with a show of anxiety. “You are pleased, I hope,
Alph Agar? I’m in it myself, you know. The notice from the Board
expressed a desire for volunteers from the executive level, and so
I thought the least we could do.... Like most executives, you are a
crack pilot--I’m sure of that, even though I can’t recall ever seeing
you pilot a Fly-Wheel. You seem to prefer a personal chauffeur at all
times, don’t you, Alph Agar? Some narrow minds might deduce from that,
that... but that would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it? I am positive that
you are an expert pilot, Alph Agar.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Agar. “Well, thank you Ker Kermit.”

“You’re entirely welcome.” The glint of mockery showed once more in
Kermit’s eyes and he left.

Jean-Jean swung around in her chair. “That Ker Kermit!” she burst out,
her pretty face tight with anger. “Of all the insufferable....”

“Jean-Jean,” said Agar dully. “I may as well tell you. I can’t operate
a Fly-Wheel.”

“You mean... at all?”

“At all.”

“But that’s impossible, Alph Agar! _Everybody_ operates Fly-Wheels
nowadays! Old ladies, invalids, children, everybody! Even dogs have
been trained to pilot Fly-Wheels. Do you expect me to believe that you,
Director of a Fly-Wheel Manufacturing Unit, can’t pilot one?”

“No, I can’t,” said Agar.

       *       *       *       *       *

Jean-Jean stared at him, adjusting herself to the idea. Once adjusted,
she became decisive. “All right then, you’ll simply tell the Board that
Ker Kermit submitted your name without your knowledge or permission,
and that you don’t wish to participate in the exhibition.”

“No,” said Agar, miserably. “I can’t do that either. In the first
place, they wouldn’t like my backing out; but more important than
that, in their thorough-going way they would investigate further, and
discover that I don’t hold a Fly-Wheel operator’s license.”

Jean-Jean looked impatient. “So what? A Director is not required to
operate Fly-Wheels.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Agar extracted an old, green-bound book
from his desk drawer, and flipped it open. “I ran across this recently.
Listen.”

He read aloud: “Article 1382 of Budd-Jarvis Regulations of 2124; ‘_No
person may hold an office higher than that of Sub-chief unless he is
the holder of a license to drive a Fly-Wheel, and furthermore possesses
such skill in operation of said vehicle as to warrant a rating of .85-L
Wullen or better from a competent board of examiners_’.”

Jean-Jean’s clear grey eyes met Agar’s, and hastily he tried to tune
out something that went beat-beat-beat under his ribs. “They made you
Director anyway, didn’t they?” said Jean-Jean. “Doesn’t that mean that
this old regulation no longer applies? After all, it’s dated 2124,
sixty years ago.”

“No,” said Agar. “It simply means that they’ve lost track of the
regulation, and so didn’t bother to check me for a Fly-Wheel license.
I suppose that after Fly-Wheel operation became so easy and universal
that everybody satisfied the requirement, the Board dropped examination
on this point and the regulation passed into obscurity. However,
I’ve looked into it, and it’s still a legitimate company rule. An
investigation would dredge it up, and you know how the Board abides by
rules, and how nosey they are. That’s why I can’t back out now and risk
arousing their disapproval and curiosity.”

“All right, I see that. But they’ll find you out at the exhibition
anyway.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“No, they won’t,” said Agar grimly. “The exhibition is a few weeks off,
and by that time I intend to have my license. I’m taking lessons from
my chauffeur; been doing so since I discovered Article 1382. Practice
all the time. That’s what I was doing when you walked in before;
practicing parking.”

“Oh! I wondered. I’m glad it was only that. How are you doing?”

“Well, I admit I’m having a little trouble. Can’t seem to get the feel
of it exactly. Never had any time for that kind of thing before. But
I’ll get it, Jean-Jean, see if I don’t.”

“Yes, but what about Ker Kermit? How much does he know?”

“Ker Kermit suspects that I am not a good pilot, and so is trying to
embarrass me; but you may be sure he knows nothing about Article 1382.
If he did, in the time it takes to buzz a Talkasee the Prime Executive
Board would have had the information, and....”

The Talkasee buzzed. Jean-Jean answered, and switched the call to Agar.
The slight frame of Pawl Pastin, Secretary of the Prime Executive Board
appeared on the screen. “Good day,” said Pastin in his dry, precise
tones. “I understand that you wish to volunteer for the Betelgeusian
exhibition. I hope this is correct?”

“Well... yes, it’s correct.”

“Good!” said Pastin, rubbing his hands together. “The Board is pleased.
Although, we’ve put this on a voluntary basis, we’re extremely desirous
that our top executives participate. You understand that this is
meant to secure the approval of the Betelgeusians, among whom it is a
tradition that those who are highly placed should risk their lives in
competition. But you’ve read about all this in the notice. Brave man,
Alph Agar, brave man! Good luck!” Pastin clicked off.

       *       *       *       *       *

Agar sat appalled. Brave man? What was this about risk of life? He
hadn’t read the notice, only glanced at the first couple of lines.
“Jean-Jean!” he yelled; “hand me that notice!”

He read, with Jean-Jean following over his shoulder:

“..._competitive races and exhibitions of skill in the operation of
Fly-Wheels to be held in honor of the Betelgeusians, since they are
considering importing Fly-Wheels for use as their principal mode of
transportation ... would mean largest mass-order in Budd-Jarvis history
... also top diplomatic importance to Earth Government in view of
pending trade agreements ... in accordance with Betelgeusian tradition,
participant who makes poorest rating will be killed. BY ORDER OF THE
PRIME EXECUTIVE BOARD_...”

“Killed?” Jean-Jean’s face looked worried.

“Must be a typographical error. What could they mean?” speculated Agar.
“Spilled? Chilled? Billed? Filled? Get me Pawl Pastin again.”

“Killed,” said Pastin dryly, after they were connected. “Put to death.
Executed. Deprived of life. I thought you understood that.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“That’s ridiculous,” snapped Agar. “Budd-Jarvis has no legal right to
put anyone to death, nor has the Government. This is the Twenty-Second
century, you know. Execution is not legal.”

“Incorrect. Quote: Article 101,379, Budd-Jarvis Code: ‘_Any person
in the employ of Budd-Jarvis holding office higher than that of
Sub-Chief having signed the standard acceptance of the Budd-Jarvis
Code, is subject to deprivation of life when continuance of said life
constitutes a threat of .798 Bakli rating or better to the interests
of the Company. Said rating to be verified by a board of Government
Raters, and said deprivation to be performed with the permission of and
under the supervision of the Government. Compensation to beneficiaries
of the deceased to be made in the amount of fifty-thousand munits.
Precedents: Dool Dooling case, 2085. Zeno Zerkel Case, 2096._’ Unquote.”

“The continuance of the life of the loser of the forth-coming
competition would cause disapproval among the Betelgeusians, and
therefore constitute a threat to the interests of the Company. Is that
clear?”

“The Government will never approve this!”

“The Government,” said Pastin drily, “has rated the threat at .839
Bakli, and has therefore already approved it.”

“In that case, I withdraw from the exhibition.”

“I am sorry; you have volunteered of your own free will and been
accepted. We cannot change that any more. The only way you can withdraw
is to resign your Directorship.”

“We’ll see about that!” yelled Agar, and clicked off. “Get me Unit
C4439 of the Information Bank of the Master Law and Policy Machine,” he
directed Jean-Jean.

       *       *       *       *       *

Through its fixed smile, C4439 said in its pleasantly human voice.
“Data, please.”

Agar gave the data.

“Point,” said C4439. “B-J Code, Article 101,379 does so state.
Point: Employee who has signed standard acceptance agreement of Code
is legally bound by 101,379. Point: Government, however, rarely
grants permission to execute. Point: Exception: Where execution is
sufficiently to the public interest, Government grants permission.
Point: This is now the case. Point: All agreements being binding,
only way to withdraw from competition is to exercise the one right
remaining: resignation of Directorship. End of points. Further data,
please?”

“No further data!” Agar shouted.

“Thank you,” smiled Unit C4439. “I am disconnecting. May you dwell in
happiness.” The screen went blank.

“Now what fool put that expression into that robot!” raged Agar.

Jean-Jean was standing before him, worried. “Alph Agar, you must
resign.”

Alph Agar went to the window. The panorama spreading below him was the
Unit: the huge, low buildings, the landscaped parks, the testing fields
stretching to the horizon, the web of roads, the Fly-Wheels of all
classes, rolling across the skies, rising and landing, spinning along
the roads.

       *       *       *       *       *

Agar watched the Fly-Wheels that had been all of his life up to
now: the tremendous flat-rimmed wheel rotating about the stationery
cylindrical cabin; the all-purpose vehicle that was equally at home in
the air, on land, on water or under water. He knew every last detail of
its construction, every principle and theory upon which it was founded.
He knew, down to the ninth decimal place, the critical angular velocity
which would take it off the vanes along its periphery on lift and
velocity; the intricacies of its sealed atomic power plant that never
needed attention and would outlast the vehicle itself.

He knew these things, he thought, but he couldn’t operate a Fly-Wheel.
Because of this; and because of Ker Kermit, who wanted his job; and
because of a quirk of circumstance, was he to relinquish everything
that had given his existence meaning? No, thought Agar, not this
easily, not without a struggle.

“I will not resign,” he said to Jean-Jean. “I will acquire a license
and enter that exhibition and do my best.”

“And lose. Honestly, Alph Agar, you’re the most stubborn....” She
was beginning to look angry. “How can you compete with people who
are born pilots? You’re not the pilot type, you know. You’re stiff,
you’re methodical, you’re deliberate. You don’t know how to relax. In a
Fly-Wheel, you have to let yourself go; you have to become part of it,
move with it, feel with it, not sit in it like a passenger.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Stiff, thought Alph Agar. Methodical. Deliberate. So this was
Jean-Jean’s picture of him. Hardly a romantic conception. Well, he
supposed he was a fool to imagine she might someday come tenderly into
his arms, her brisk manner turned soft for him, her ripe lips waiting
for his, her body that was both girl’s and woman’s yielding for him,
her.... “Hrrrmph!” He cleared his throat and shook his head.

What was the matter with him? Where was his mental discipline? For a
fleeting moment, he wondered what would happen if he simply followed
his impulse and walked up to Jean-Jean and grasped her firmly; then the
discipline took rigid hold. Impulses, he knew, should not be trusted.
What, after all, would Jean-Jean want with a man like him?

“Alph Agar,” said Jean-Jean again, “is the Directorship more important
than your life?”

“The Directorship is my life.”

She stared at him, her hazel eyes seeming to moisten and then narrow.
“Yes. I suppose it is. I suppose it is. Oh, you boob!”

“Boob?”

“Archaic, twentieth century. Look it up.”

“Wait a minute. Where are you going?”

“I’m taking the rest of the day off,” said Jean-Jean tightly. “I’m
going to see my boy-friend.”

“Jean-Jean....” But she was gone.

       *       *       *       *       *

From several thousand feet above the ground, Alph Agar surveyed the
view. Beautiful, he supposed, but frightening. Once he got up here, he
could never quite escape the notion that man’s natural place was on the
ground. However, he thought, he wasn’t doing too badly lately. His grip
on the controls was firm. The Fly-Wheel was coursing along smoothly,
maintaining a consistent level. He glanced at the man sitting beside
him, his chauffeur, Kim Koom. “All right?”

Kim Koom licked his lips nervously. “All right, Alph Agar, but please
don’t look at me; don’t let your attention wander from your piloting.”

“Come, come, I’ve made some improvement, Koom. I might be allowed a
little more freedom don’t you think?”

“The controls,” said Koom. “Watch the controls.”

Agar focused on his piloting again. Any way, he thought, he was feeling
a shade more confident. He had handled things pretty well, lately.
Take the matter of that weasel, Ker Kermit. He had been icily distant
to Kermit, but polite, not allowing the man to suspect that he was
worried. And Jean-Jean; he had been pleasant but impersonal with her,
restraining any hint of his feelings.

“All right,” said Koom. “Land.”

Absently, Agar headed the Fly-Wheel towards the secluded field behind
his house. “No!” yelled Koom abruptly. “Not like that!”

       *       *       *       *       *

The clouds above them began speeding down towards them, then receding
even faster. The big wheel started a drunken wobble about the sky
which changed into a wild, tilted dance. Spinning like a top, it went
plummeting into the woods, levelling off at the tree tops, sending
down showers of leaves and branches, frightening small animals into
scurrying panic; it scraped over a high, rocky ledge, hopped high one
last time, and plowed deep furrows, finally rolling to a trembling halt.

Koom seemed shaken. He opened his mouth several times, producing only a
gulp. Agar helped him out of the cabin, noticing that a young man who
had been standing at the edge of the field was heading their way. “Alph
Agar,” said Koom weakly. “I have had enough. I cannot instruct you any
longer. My nerve is gone. I’m sorry.”

“Look here, Kim Koom, I admit that landing wasn’t perfect, but....”

“No,” said Koom with finality, staggering off.

What was the use, thought Agar? If even Koom was giving him up.... The
young man was close now. With surprise, Agar recognized Lar Lerry, one
of the Unit’s crack pilots. What was he doing here?

“Zoops!” said Lerry. “What a landing!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Agar eyed him sternly. “Why aren’t you at work?”

“Zoops!” repeated Lerry. “What a landing.” He grinned. “Look, Alph
Agar, I know all about it. Don’t ask me how I know; I’m not supposed
to tell, but I’m here to help you. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe
with me. Now let’s take her up again; I can teach you how to handle a
Fly-Wheel if anybody can.”

In the days that followed, Agar had to admit that Lerry was helping
him. For the first time, his awkwardness at the controls seemed to be
lessening. The Fly-Wheel was actually obeying him for more than five
minutes at a time. When he wanted to soar, he soared. When he wanted to
tilt, he tilted. When he wanted to roll along the ground, he rolled.
He began to feel hope, real hope. Perhaps he might fool Ker Kermit and
Jean-Jean and come out of that exhibition alive, after all.

“You’ll be taking your license qual pretty soon,” Lerry told him. “Just
a few more lessons. Then I’ll show you how to make this rolly-polly sit
up and beg.”

But getting any other type of information out of Lerry was impossible.
He wouldn’t explain why he was helping Agar, or who might have put
him up to it, or how he had discovered Agar’s predicament. Agar spent
hours in surmise, and always returned to the suspicion that this was
Jean-Jean’s doing. Was Lerry the boy-friend she kept mentioning? Was
Jean-Jean doing this because she felt sorry for him? Pity wasn’t what
he wanted from her.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Don’t be silly, Alph Agar,” Jean-Jean said, tossing her shining,
coppery hair back, when he asked her point-blank. “Why should I try to
help a man as stubborn as you are? In my opinion, you ought to resign
right now. That’s the only way to save your life. Suppose I call the
Board?” She looked eager.

“Never mind.” Jean-Jean turned away and began furiously talking at the
Speak-a-Type, which rattled and stuttered as the type keys tried to
keep up with her.

Still, Agar’s confidence was rising, despite frequent periods of
disquiet, as for example whenever he spoke to Ker Kermit. Kermit
seemed a mine of unsettling information lately. “Old fellow,” he would
say, “have you heard how they intend to conduct the execution of the
unfortunate loser? Not in decent privacy, but according to Betelgeusian
custom, out on the field before all the spectators. They’re going to
chop the poor chap’s head quite off with an axe. Barbarous, don’t you
think? Fortunately, I don’t suppose either of us has anything to worry
about.” He would look at Agar blandly.

As the date of the exhibition drew nearer, Agar found it difficult to
avoid thinking of that axe, but his increasing proficiency with the
Fly-Wheel helped a lot. He was a long way from the effortless control
that a good pilot had, but still he felt that he had a chance.

“One more hop,” Lar Lerry said, “and then you’ll take the license qual.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The take-off was good. Agar sent the Wheel rolling up towards the
clouds as though it were climbing an easy hill. Levelling, he cruised
for a while, approaching the Unit. It was a warming feeling, doing his
own flying near the Unit instead of being chauffeured.

A line of Fly-Wheels from the Unit appeared dead ahead, crossing in
front of him. Plenty of time to clear, thought Agar. Deliberately,
he selected what he believed to be the elevation control and pulled
it. The Wheel did not elevate, but tilted to a forty-five degree
angle, still closing in fast on the other Fly-Wheels. Hastily, Agar
did several other things, none of which he was entirely clear about
afterwards.

[Illustration: The Fly-Wheel zoomed into the shop....]

The sound of the air stream changed into a hideous scream, and
end-over-end, the Fly-Wheel flipped over the other vehicles; spun
wildly; dropped earthwards and skimmed the ground, scattering a group
of Unit employees. It headed for one of the buildings; swerved through
the huge open window into the shop, paralyzing the workers in there,
and shot out the opposite window taking the glass with it. It traced
a perfect series of sine curves in the air; sheared off a flag pole;
neatly clipped a line of hedges, darted about the testing fields like
an insane horse fly; mounted towards the stratosphere until it was a
scarcely-visible dot, and came whistling down at a fearful velocity,
causing a nearby meteorological observatory to suspect the presence
of a small meteorite. It levelled off just before smashing into the
ground, chased itself around the field and came to a teetering halt. A
moment of shocked silence held the entire Unit motionless; then from
all directions people began streaming towards the Fly-Wheel. Lar Lerry
sat motionless in his seat, a dreamy look in his eyes, nodding his head
slowly as though he had discovered some age-old secret.

       *       *       *       *       *

A husky foreman pounded on the door. “Come out of there, you miserable
idiots. What kind of stuff are you... oh, it’s you, Alph Agar. I beg
your pardon, Alph Agar.”

Agar descended from the Wheel, leading Lar Lerry, and found himself
in the midst of a buzzing crowd. “It’s quite all right,” he said, and
looked about at the curious, startled faces. “I... er... that is, well
I was flying, merely flying. What is all the disturbance about?” Ker
Kermit pushed through the mob, smiling. “Oh, Director! A trifle wild,
wouldn’t you say? You aren’t hurt, I hope?”

Jean-Jean appeared. “Alph Agar, for goodness sake!”

Lar Lerry came awake. He eyed Agar skittishly. “No,” he said. “No more.
I’m through.” He spotted Jean-Jean. “Honey, I’m sorry, but I’ve had
enough. I’d like to finish this job for you, but it’s too risky. I give
up.”

Agar stared at Jean-Jean and the world slowly grew dreary. Pity!
Jean-Jean _had_ influenced her boy-friend, Lar Lerry, to help him
because she felt sorry for him. Pity! He didn’t want it.

Well, he thought, it didn’t matter anyway. He was through. He couldn’t
operate a Fly-Wheel and he’d never learn. He could feel the sharp edge
of that axe slicing through his neck now. Unless he resigned.

“Alph Agar,” said Jean-Jean. “Pawl Pastin called. He wants you to call
him back.” She didn’t meet his eyes.

       *       *       *       *       *

Glad to escape the crowd, Agar returned to the office, accompanied by a
silent Jean-Jean, and part of the way by a lively Ker Kermit. He’d been
deluding himself, Agar thought. He didn’t have a chance. Should he give
up the Directorship? To save his life, could he throw away everything
he had worked for?

Frankly, thought Agar, he could. When the chips were down, he would
react the same as anybody else to save his life, he realized. Life,
after all, was worth more than a Directorship, it came to him. Whatever
Pastin had in mind, he would hand in his resignation now.

But when Pastin appeared on the Talkassee screen, his first words
staggered Agar. His dry, precise voice had a suggestion of asperity
in it. “Good day. It has come to the attention of the board that in
violation of Article 1382 you do not hold a Fly-Wheel operator’s
license. Is this correct?”

How had Pastin found out? Well, the decision was out of his hands now.
In a way, it was a relief that it was over. “Yes, that is correct.”

“Therefore it is necessary that you be dismissed from your
Directorship, after the exhibition.”

“Yes, of course, Pawl Pastin ... did you say _after_ the exhibition?”

“After the exhibition.”

“But that’s ridiculous! Why should I risk my life when I’m to be
dismissed? I resign now!”

“Sorry. Whether you resign or are dismissed, it is now too late to
withdraw. The list of participants has already been presented to the
Betelgeusian delegation and cannot be altered. You must participate in
the exhibition. If you wished to resign, you should have done so when
you had the chance. Rules are rules, Alph Agar. This organization has
become great through its policy of rigid adherence to rules. You should
know that.”

“I refuse to participate!” snapped Agar.

“In that case you will automatically receive low rating and will be
executed.”

“We’ll see about that! Good day!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Agar called Unit C4439 of the Information Bank of the Master Law and
Policy Machine and described the situation.

“Point,” intoned Unit C4439, “it is true that list has been submitted.
Point: Betelgeusian custom requires that low rating be given to any who
withdraw. Execution must follow. Point: To be consistent with previous
policy, Budd-Jarvis and Government must go along with Betelgeusian
custom. Point: Your violation of Article 1382 now gives Budd-Jarvis
option of dismissal date, as per Company Article 589,624.3. Point:
Therefore Budd-Jarvis attitude in this matter is legal and correct. No
appeal possible. End of points. Further data, please?”

“No further data.”

“Thank you,” smiled Unit C4439. “I am disconnecting. May you dwell in
happiness.”

“May you--oh, well, what’s the use. Betelgeusian custom! Who’s running
this world anyway, the Terrans or the Betelgeusians?”

Heavily, Agar dropped into a chair. He was finished. Jean-Jean came to
him. Her voice was throaty. “Oh, Alph....”

“What did you say?”

“I mean, oh Alph Agar, what are you going to do?”

“Never mind,” said Agar dully. “Never mind. We have work to do. Let’s
get at it.”

“But....”

“Never mind, I said.” They worked.

       *       *       *       *       *

After a while, Agar said through his teeth, “That Ker Kermit. He got me
into this. Probably he informed on me too, although I don’t know how he
found out. If I weren’t a civilized man....”

“Alph Agar,” broke in Jean-Jean in a small voice, “it was I who
informed the board that you were in violation of Article 1382.”

“You?”

A tear escaped from under an eye-lash and trickled down her lovely
cheek. “I... I thought he would fire you and you wouldn’t have to
compete. I really didn’t think you had a chance, even with Lar Lerry
teaching you.”

“Yes,” said Agar. “Lar Lerry. And now this. If by some wild chance
I should escape with my life, I’d lose the Directorship anyway.
Jean-Jean, why can’t you mind your own business?”

She stiffened. “I was only trying to....”

“Yes,” he said morosely. “I know. Take a letter.”

“Why, oh why,” muttered Jean-Jean, “did I have to fall in love with
a jerk?” There, thought Agar, was a woman for you. Despite all the
trouble he was in now, she had to talk about her personal affairs. So
easily, so lightly, she changed the subject. Was it Lar Lerry she was
talking about? Severely, he repressed a pang.

“In love?” he questioned. “Who might you be in love with, Jean-Jean?
And what is a jerk?”

She glared at him. “Who, never mind. ‘Jerk’, archaic, twentieth
century, ‘damn fool’, ‘jackass’. Let’s have that letter.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The whole thing got out pretty fast, and the news travelled all over
the Unit. Agar found himself treated with the respect and deference
that might be accorded a corpse. His every order was followed with
alacrity. He heard a rumor that the employees were taking up a
collection for a tombstone. Whispers trailed him as he walked around
the plant. “Poor guy ... good Director ... shame to lose him....” He
began to wish for opposition, hostility, even disrespect, some sign
that he was still alive and lusty. He acted high handed and arrogant at
times. “Nerves are shot,” he would overhear.

Ker Kermit’s actions became increasingly obnoxious; his ever-present
smile looked more and more like a laugh. He began to assume Agar’s
duties. Agar found that many of his executive directives were
superfluous; Kermit had already taken care of them. His orders were
countermanded by Kermit. Kermit’s signature appeared on papers before
he had a chance to look at them. Kermit began snooping around his
private records. “After all, old fellow,” Kermit would say, “you may as
well acquaint me with things. One never knows what might happen, does
one?”

The worst of it was that the Unit seemed to be accepting Kermit as the
new Director. Alph Agar felt that he was already dead.

The day before the exhibition, Kermit walked into Agar’s office with
an interior decorator. “We’ll move all this stuff out,” he explained
to the decorator. “Start from scratch. I’d like the walls a sort of
aquamarine. I think in that corner we might have a kidney shaped
lounge. As to the desks....”

Agar rose. About three steps, he thought. Three steps, and he could
reach Kermit and wreck that alert, mocking face. He looked down at
the white knuckles of his clenched fists. Why not? This man had
deliberately planned to ruin and destroy him, although he couldn’t
prove that. A blind, animal rage began rising within him and Kermit’s
face seemed to enlarge and waver.

Horrified, he let his arms relax. What had he been thinking? What
uncivilized passions were threatening to take charge? Where were the
dignity and mental discipline that a Director should have?

“If you gentlemen don’t mind,” Agar said, “I’m very busy....”

       *       *       *       *       *

Fifteen Fly-Wheels waited before the crowded stands, pilots at the
controls. In a special, roped off section sat the Betelgeusian
Delegation, Budd-Jarvis officials and Government representatives.
Elsewhere, the Board of Government Raters checked their instruments and
sounded the warning chimes. The beehive drone of the crowd hushed.

Alph Agar desperately studied the printed instruction sheet that had
been handed to each contestant.

The first instruction read: “At seven point nine miles per hour, roll
between the yellow ground markers. Upset the last two markers by
flipping the rear of your vehicle. Points will be deducted for failing
to do so, or for upsetting any other markers.”

The signal sounded. The competition was on.

Agar headed his Fly-Wheel between the markers. Nervously, he realized
that he had barely an inch of clearance on each side. He slowed almost
to a standstill as he entered the first two markers, noting that most
of the other Fly-Wheels were already gliding smoothly through the
course. Feeling that he was about to stall, he accelerated.

His Fly-Wheel shot ahead, knocked over all the markers except the
last two, weaved through the other Fly-Wheels, skimmed the stands
causing the crowds to duck and thudded to earth just in time to avoid
annihilating the Betelgeusian Delegation, leaving the eight-eyed
Betelgeusians blinking all their eyes and chirping hysterically.

“At six point eight feet altitude, traverse the field four times at 223
miles per hour, with Fly-Wheel vertical. Repeat, with Wheel horizontal.
Repeat at twenty-two degree six minute angle in quadrant one, and two
hundred degree angle in quadrant three.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Grimly, but hopelessly Agar essayed the next trial, and stared in
amazement at his altimeter as he achieved six point eight in one smooth
motion. He accelerated to exactly 223 miles per hour. Four times, he
traversed the field, noting that he finished first.

Well! Perhaps he was getting the hang of this.

With a flourish, he set the control for horizontal position, and the
Fly-Wheel went into a sickening spin, at such high velocity that it was
almost invisible to the spectators. Agar blacked out.

He came to, to find his Fly-Wheel balanced on the topmost beam of the
grand-stand, while thousands of faces stared up at him.

His attempt at the quadrant one test failed utterly.

His failure in quadrant three was spectacular.

Grimly and doggedly, he plowed through the next two hours, aware that
as the tests grew more difficult, his showing grew poorer; aware that
the spectators were acquiring the habit of ducking nervously as he went
into each test and that the eight-eyed Betelgeusians were focusing most
of their eyes upon him.

When he reached the last test, he knew that it was all up. No use
trying anymore. Indifferently, he manipulated the controls. The
Fly-Wheel shuddered and skidded, dropped to the ground, digging a large
crater, jumped into the stands, causing a hasty exodus, took off and
circled the stands at incredible speed with the sound of a titanic
buzz-saw, dove at the Betelgeusian Delegation, hovering just above the
flooring, forcing them to drop and crawl away, fled across the field in
blurry sweeps and finally dug another crater in which it laid itself
gently to rest.

Dismally, Agar plodded towards the benches and sat down to wait. Ker
Kermit joined him. “Too bad, old fellow,” he said, smiling. Agar
watched the Board of Raters checking their results. He waited through
the endless speeches. The pit of his stomach felt very empty.

       *       *       *       *       *

Knowing that hope was futile, he hoped anyway as Pawl Pastin finally
approached, but when he saw the look in Pastin’s eyes, he straightened.
“All right,” he said, his voice firm. Must maintain the dignity of a
Director to the last. “I’ll go. Just don’t touch me.”

The axe-man was waiting, nervously swinging the polished axe.
Incongruously, Agar felt sorry for him; the man had never done this
before, he knew. He knelt, feeling the wooden block hard against
his forehead. He closed his eyes, waiting in darkness for the blow,
thinking now only of Jean-Jean, regretting that she would never know
how much he cared.

There was a stir in the stands, and the blow did not come. Agar opened
his eyes and saw that the axe-man had lowered his axe, and officials
were rushing towards him. They led him before the roped off section of
the stands, where the Betelgeusians were chirping excitedly and waving
their ropy limbs.

Pawl Pastin appeared. “The Betelgeusians seem to disagree with the
Government Raters,” he informed Agar.

The Betelgeusians fell silent and the official interpreter began to
speak. “The Betelgeusians say,” he explained in the loud tones of an
announcer, “that they are shocked at our decision. They consider Alph
Agar’s performance the most remarkable and daring of the day. They
consider him the winner, not the loser. They say that they cannot
understand our method of rating and that it is their own custom to
value highly the type of courage, audacity and imagination that Alph
Agar has shown here to-day. They demand his release.”

       *       *       *       *       *

An annoyed look appeared on Pawl Pastin’s face. “Highly irregular,”
he said. “That would be against the rules. The rules have already
been laid down, and we must abide by them. We cannot make last minute
changes. Tell the Betelgeusians that Alph Agar must be executed.”

“Just a moment,” interrupted a Government representative. “That would
be defeating our purpose; both the Government and Budd-Jarvis want to
please the Betelgeusians. I recommend that we go along with them.”

“I fully understand that!” snapped Pawl Pastin. “And personally, I
would prefer to free Alph Agar. Rules, however, take precedence over
all other considerations. I have no authority to violate the rules.”

“All right,” said the Government man. “As Minister of Diplomacy, Sector
Thirty-Six, empowered to represent the Government, I proclaim that
Government sanction to this execution is withdrawn. You are directed to
free Alph Agar.”

“You are overlooking something. Your directive is in violation until
confirmed by the Minister of Interior Policy, Sector Thirty-Seven,
ratified by the Board of Industrial Relations, and recorded by the
Office of Diplomatic Records. The execution must proceed!”

A fierce rebellion took hold of Agar. He had been resigned before, but
now! ... to be so close to life again and cheated by red tape! He opened
his mouth.

A clear, feminine voice rang out from the edge of the knot of
officials. It was Jean-Jean’s. “As secretary and representative
of Director Alph Agar, I have something to say! This situation is
ridiculous. Since it is the Prime Executive Board that makes the rules,
and all the members are present at this exhibition, why don’t you
simply call a meeting now, and reconsider the rules?”

Pawl Pastin looked startled. “Why yes,” he said. “I hadn’t thought of
that. We can call an emergency meeting.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The vote was immediately taken. “Because of a unanimous desire to
satisfy the Betelgeusians,” Pawl Pastin announced when the results were
in, “the Board orders the release of Director Alph Agar.”

Alph Agar felt soft, yielding curves hit him with a sweet pressure.
Coppery hair was silky on his cheek and arms were around his neck. “Oh,
Alph, Alph,” Jean-Jean was whispering in his ear.

“Alph,” said Agar indistinctly. “You’re calling me Alph.” She drew back
and looked at him with moist eyes. “Because I love you, you jerk. Since
you won’t tell me, I’ll have to tell you. Do you love me?”

“Oh, Jean,” said Alph. “Jean.”

The interpreter’s loud voice rapped out, “The Betelgeusians say that
they are waiting to witness the execution!”

Heads jerked up. “What execution?” crackled Pastin.

“The execution of the loser. They say that now that Alph Agar has been
released, a loser must be chosen.”

Pastin frowned. It was clear that he was losing his patience. “Tell
them,” he said “that the Board of Government Raters has already turned
in their tally. Agar was considered the loser. No alternative was
provided. Ask them whom they believe to be the loser.”

A chorus of chirping broke out among the Betelgeusians.

“They regard Assistant Director Ker Kermit as the loser. They consider
his performance dull and routine. They found no imagination in it, only
precision.”

“Very well,” said Pastin grimly. “We’ll take a vote on it.”

The Board was in conference longer this time, but finally Pastin
announced: “Again we will yield to their wishes. Tell them that Ker
Kermit shall be executed at once. Guards, lead him away!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Kermit’s face had turned sick. His confidence and drive had been
shocked out of him. Spiritlessly, he allowed himself to be led toward
the axe-man.

Getting what he deserved, thought Agar, but he felt no elation. Neither
was he sorry for Kermit. There was something else.... Anger. Something
had been bothering him about this whole thing for a long time, and now
a terrible rage was beginning to gather within him. At what? He wasn’t
sure exactly, but something was rotten here.

He started forward. He knew.

Mental discipline. He checked himself. Discipline. Dignity. Restraint.
It was not fitting to give way to uncivilized emotion.

Hell! he thought with a final irritation. Oh, the hell with discipline
and the hell with dignity!

He planted himself squarely before the Betelgeusian Delegation, hands
on hips. “Tell them,” he roared at the interpreter in a voice that he
was unfamiliar with, “that we are a proud and peaceful people. Tell
them that now, because they have been bending us to their will, we are
about to deny our own hearts and do something shameful ... the taking
of human life for hope of gain. Tell them that up to now we have been
weak!” He raised his clenched fist and shook it at them. “And tell them
this!” he shouted. “There will be no execution, and if they insist upon
it, I will personally come up there and pound some respect into them,
one at a time, or all at once!”

Tumult. Mad chirping. Pawl Pastin’s white face stared at Agar. “What
have you done, man?”

The interpreter’s voice rose again: “The Betelgeusians say,” he
announced, “that once again they are impressed by the reckless audacity
of Alph Agar. They say that they cannot resist arguments presented with
such courage. They say that they admire a people that can produce a man
like Alph Agar, that they will not insist upon the execution, and that
they are ready to do business with both Budd-Jarvis and the Government.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Alph Agar sat in his office, holding Jean-Jean in his lap. He kissed
her again.

There was a discreet tap at the door. After Jean-Jean straightened
herself out, Agar called, “Come in.”

Ker Kermit entered. “Pawl Pastin to see you,” he announced respectfully.
“Will you see him now, boss?”

“Certainly.” Kermit left and Pastin entered and took a chair. His
voice and manner were as dry as ever. “First, allow me to convey the
gratitude of both Budd-Jarvis and the Government for your part in the
Betelgeusian affair. Without the necessity of an execution, we’ve
gained our ends, thanks to you. You will receive official recognition
of this, very soon.”

“Why,” said Agar, “that’s fine.”

“However,” continued Pastin, “the main purpose of this visit is to
discharge you from the Directorship.”

“What!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Pastin spread his hands. “But naturally. Rules are rules, you know. You
are still in violation of Article 1382. I informed you that you would
have to lose the Directorship after the exhibition.”

“We’ll see about that!” But it was without much hope that he put the
call through to Unit C4439 and gave the data.

“Point,” smiled Unit C4439. “Since you were allowed to compete in the
exhibition, it must be considered that Government sanction to operate a
Fly-Wheel existed. Point: Government sanction under such circumstances
is by License Division Article 14986.39 equivalent to a permanent
license of rating .90-L Wullen. End of points. Further data, please?”

“No further data.”

“Thank you,” smiled Unit C4439. “I am disconnecting. May you dwell in
happiness.”

“I was wrong,” admitted Pastin, rising to go. “By the rules, you retain
your Directorship.” At the door he turned and permitted himself a
microscopic smile. “However, I am not quite so obtuse as you may think
me. May you dwell in happiness.”




Transcriber’s Note:


  This etext was produced from Future Science Fiction, February 1958
  (#35). Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
  copyright on this publication was renewed.

  Obvious errors have been silently corrected in this version.

  The illustration has been moved to better fit the story.




*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79008 ***