Beyond This Horizon (8 page)

So it was that real live servants offered to take their wraps—they had none—and escorted them to the foot of the broad flight of stairs at the top of which the hostess was greeting her guests. She extended both arms as Clifford and Hazel approached. “My dear!” she bubbled to Hazel. “So gentle of you to come! And your brilliant husband.” She turned to her guest of honor, standing at her side. “Doctor Thorgsen, these are two of my
dearest
friends. Larsen Hazel—such a clever little person, really. And Master Monroe-Alpha Clifford. He does things about money at the Department of Finance. Dreadfully intricate. I’m sure you would understand it—I don’t.”

Thorgsen managed to frown and smile simultaneously. “
The
Larsen Hazel? But you are—I recognize you. Will you be dancing for us tonight?”

“I no longer dance.”

“What a pity! That is the first unfavorable change I’ve found on earth. I’ve been away ten years.”

“You’ve been on Pluto. How fares it there, Doctor?”

“Chilly.” He repeated his somewhat frightening mixed expression. Clifford caught his eye and bowed deeply. “I am honored, learned sir.”

“Don’t let it—I mean, not at all. Or something like that. Damn it sir, I’m not used to all this fancy politeness. Forgotten how to do it. We have a communal colony, you know. No weapons.”

Monroe-Alpha had noticed with surprise that Thorgsen was unarmed and brassarded, yet he carried himself with the easy arrogance of an armed citizen, sure of his position. “The life must be quite different,” he offered.

“It is. It is. Nothing like this. Work, a little gossip, bed, and back to work again. You’re in finance, eh? What sort of thing?”

“I compute the re-investment problem.”

“That? Now I know who you are. We heard of your refinement of the general solution—even out on Pluto. High computation, that. Makes our little stereo-parallax puzzles look fiddlin’.”

“I would hardly say so.”

“I would. Perhaps we can find a chance to talk later. You could give me some advice.”

“I would be honored.”

Several latecomers were waiting in line. Hazel could see that their hostess was becoming impatient. They moved on. “Enjoy yourselves, my dears,” she invited them. “There are, well, things—” She waved vaguely.

There were indeed “things.” Two theaters were available, one of which was giving a continuous performance of all the latest and smartest stereo-reels, the other provided the current spot news for anyone who could not relax without knowing what was going on out of his sight. There were gaming rooms, of course, and dozens of little snuggeries where small groups, or couples could enjoy each other’s company
tête-à-tête
. A currently popular deceiver circulated through the crowd, displaying his jests and deceptions and sophisticated legerdemain to any who cared to watch.

Food and drink in lavish variety, quality, and quantity were available everywhere.

The sweeping tesselated ballroom floor was lightly filled. Pattern dancing would come later. The huge room faced, with no wall intervening, into one of the covered gardens, unlighted save for lights below the surface of numerous rocky little pools. The other side of the ballroom was limited by the transparent wall of the swimming bath, the surface of which was on the floor above. In addition to ornate decoration and moving colored lights on the water side of the crystal wall, the swimmers themselves, by virtue of the inescapable gracefulness of underwater movement, gave life and harmony to that side of the room.

Clifford and Hazel seated themselves at that wall and leaned against the glass. “Shall we dance?” he asked.

“No, not just yet.” A girl, swimming on the other side of the wall, glided down toward them and blew bubbles against the glass. Hazel followed the girl’s nose with her forefinger, tracing against the glass. The swimmer grinned, she smiled back. “I think I’d like a dip, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

“Join me?”

“No, thanks.”

After she had gone he wandered around aimlessly for a few minutes. The recreations at hand left him cold; he was searching half-heartedly for a niche in which he could be alone to nurse his own melancholy and, perhaps, a drink as well. But couples—not melancholy!—had had the same idea; the smaller hide-aways were populated. He gave up and entered a medium-sized lounge, already occupied by a stag group of half a dozen or so. They were engaged in the ancient sport of liquidating world problems in liquid.

He hesitated at the door, elevated his brows in query, received casual gracious consent from one who caught his eye, came on in and found a seat. The hot-air session went on.

“Suppose they do release the field?” one of the men present was saying. “What will it amount to? What will it contain? Some artifacts possibly, perhaps some records of the period in which it was set up. But nothing more than that. The notion that life could be preserved in it, unchanged, in absolute stasis, for several centuries is preposterous.”

“How do you know? It’s certain that they thought they had found a way of suspending, uh, shall we say
freezing
entropy. The instructions with the field are perfectly plain.”

Monroe-Alpha began to understand what they were talking about. It was the so-called Adirondack stasis field. It had been a three-day wonder when it was discovered, a generation earlier, in a remote part of the mountain from which it got its name. Not that the field itself was spectacular—it was simply an impenetrable area of total reflection, a cubical mirror. Perhaps not impenetrable, for no real effort had been made to penetrate it—because of the plaque of instructions found with it.

The plaque stated quite simply that the field contained living specimens of the year 1926 (old style, of course) which could be released by the means given below—but there was nothing below.

Since the field had not been passed down in the custody of recognized institutions there was a strong tendency to regard the whole matter as a hoax. Nevertheless, attempts had been made to guess the secret of that blank plaque.

Monroe-Alpha had heard that it had at last been read, but he had not paid much attention. The newscasts were always full of wonders which amounted to little in the long run. He did not even recall how the inscription had been read—a reflected image, using polarized light, or something equally trivial.

“That isn’t the matter of real interest,” spoke up a third man. “Let us consider the purely intellectual problem of the hypothetical man who might thus be passed down to us, out of the Dark Ages.” He was a slender, youngish man—in his late twenties, Clifford judged—and was dressed in a turquoise blue satin which brought out the pallor of his face. He spoke with slow intensity. “What would he think of this world in which he suddenly finds himself? What have we to offer him in exchange for that which he has left behind?”

“What have we to offer him! Everything! Look around you.”

The young man answered with a superior smile. “Yes—look around you. Gadgets—but what need has he for gadgets? He comes from an earlier, braver world. A world of independence and dignity. Each man tilled his own plot of ground with his woman by his side. He raised his own children, straight and strong, and taught them to wrest their food from Mother Earth. He had no artificial lights, but he had no need for them. He was up with the dawn and busy with his serious, fundamental affairs. At sundown he was tired and welcomed the rest of night. If his body was sweaty and dusty with honest labor, he took a dip in his own brook. He needed no fancy swimming baths. He was based, rock solid, on primitive essentials.”

“And you think he actually
liked
that better than modern comforts?”

“I certainly do. Those men were happy. They lived naturally, as the Great Egg intended they should.”

Monroe-Alpha turned the idea over in his mind. There was something devilishly appealing about it. He felt, quite sincerely, that he cared nothing for gadgets. Not even for his master accumulator. It was not the machine he cared about but the mathematical principles involved. And since when did a mathematician need any tools but his own head? Pythagoras had done well enough with a stick and a stretch of sand. As for other matters, if he and Hazel were partners in the old, old, fight to win a living from the eternal soil, would they have drifted apart?

He closed his eyes and visualized himself back in the simple, golden days of 1926. He was dressed in homespun, woven by his wife’s capable hands—or even in the skins of animals, cured on their cabin door. There would be children somewhere about—three, he thought. When the day’s work was over, he would walk to the top of the hill with his oldest son, and show him the beauty of the sunset. When the stars came out he would explain to him the intricate wonders of astronomy. Wisdom would be passed down from father to son, as it had been.

There would be neighbors—strong, silent men, whose curt nod and hard handclasp meant more than the casual associations of modern “civilization.”

There were others present who did not accept the thesis as readily as Monroe-Alpha. The argument was batted back and forth until it grew somewhat acrimonious. The young man who had started it—Gerald seemed to be his name—got up and asked the company to excuse him. He seemed slightly miffed at the reception his ideas had gotten.

Monroe-Alpha arose quickly and followed him out of the room. “Excuse me, gentle sir.”

Gerald paused. “Yes?”

“Your ideas interest me. Will you grant me the boon of further conversation?”

“Gladly. You do me honor, sir.”

“The benefit is mine. Shall we find a spot and sit?”

“With pleasure.”

Hamilton Felix showed up at the party somewhat late. His credit account was such that he rated an invitation to any of Johnson-Smith Estaire’s grand levees, although she did not like him—his remarks confused her; she half suspected the amused contempt he had for her.

Hamilton was troubled by no gentlemanly scruples which might have kept him from accepting hospitality under the circumstances. Estaire’s parties swarmed with people in amusing combinations. Possessing no special talents of her own, she nevertheless had the knack of inducing brilliant and interesting persons to come to her functions. Hamilton liked that.

In any case there were always swarms of people present. People were always funny—the more, the merrier!

He ran across his friend Monroe-Alpha almost at once, walking in company with a young fellow dressed in a blue which did not suit his skin. He touched his shoulder. “Hi, Cliff.”

“Oh—hello, Felix.”

“Busy?”

“At the moment, yes. A little later?”

“Spare me a second. Do you see that bucko leaning against a pillar over there. Now—he’s looking this way.”

“What about him?”

“I think I should recognize him, but I don’t.”

“I do. Unless I am misled by a close resemblance, he was in the party of the man you burned, night before last.”

“Sooo! Now that’s interesting.”

“Try to stay out of trouble, Felix.”

“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t stain my hostess’ pretty floors. Thanks, Cliff.”

“Not at all.”

They moved on, left Hamilton watching the chap he had inquired about. The man evidently became aware that he was being watched, for he left his place and came directly to Hamilton. He paused a ceremonious three paces away and said, “I come in friendship, gentle sir.”

“‘The House of Hospitality encloses none but friends,’” Hamilton quoted formally.

“You are kind, sir. My name is McFee Norbert.”

“Thank you. I hight Hamilton Felix.”

“Yes, I know.”

Hamilton suddenly changed his manner. “Ah! Did your friend know that when he chopped at me?”

McFee glanced quickly to the right and left, as if to see whether or not the remark had been overheard. It was obvious that he did not like the tack. “Softly, sir. Softly,” he protested. “I tell you I come in friendship. That was a mistake, a regrettable mistake. His quarrel was with another.”

“So? Then why did he challenge
me?
”

“It was a mistake, I tell you. I am deeply sorry.”

“See here,” said Hamilton. “Is this procedure? If he made an honest error, why does he not come to me like a man? I’ll receive him in peace.”

“He is not able to.”

“Why? I did no more than wing him.”

“Nevertheless, he is not able to. I assure you he has been—disciplined.”

Hamilton looked at him sharply. “You say ‘disciplined’—and he is not able to meet with me. Is he—perhaps—so ‘disciplined’ that he must tryst with a mortician instead?”

The other hesitated a moment. “May we speak privately—under the rose?”

“There is more here than shows above water. I don’t like the rose, my friend Norbert.”

McFee shrugged. “I am sorry.”

Hamilton considered the matter. After all, why not? The set-up looked amusing. He hooked an arm in McFee’s. “Let it be under the rose, then. Where shall we talk?”

McFee filled the glass again. “You have admitted, Friend Felix, that you are not wholly in sympathy with the ridiculous genetic policy of our so-called culture. We knew that.”

“How?”

“Does it matter? We have our—ways. I know you to be a man of courage and ability, ready for anything. Would you like to put your resources to work on a really worthwhile project, worthy of a man?”

“I would need to know what the project is.”

“Naturally. Let me say—no, perhaps it is just as well not to say anything. Why should I burden you with secrets?”

Hamilton refused the gambit. He just sat. McFee waited, then added, “Can I trust you, my friend?”

“If you can’t, then what is my assurance worth?”

The intensity of McFee’s deep-set eyes relaxed a little for the first time. He almost smiled. “You have me. Well… I fancy myself a good judge of men. I choose to trust you. Remember, this is still under the rose. Can you conceive of a program, scientifically planned to give us the utmost from the knowledge we have, which would not be inhibited by the silly rules under which our official geneticists work?”

“I can conceive of such a program, yes.”

“Backed by tough-minded men, men capable of thinking for themselves?”