Eye in the Sky (1957) (11 page)

“Get a dime out,” Laws
instructed. Skillfully, he unbolted the inner mechanism until the display bars
were visible from behind. To the right was the output chute;
at its beginning was an elaborate series of
stages, levers
and wheels. Laws began tracing the physical circuit
back to its point of origin.

“Looks
like the candy bar starts here,” Hamilton sug
gested. Leaning over
Laws’ shoulder, he touched a flat
shelf. The
coin trips a switch and tilts that plunger over.
It gives the candy bar
a shove and starts it moving to
ward the
slot. Gravity does the rest.”

“Put the coin in,” Laws
said urgently. “I want to see
where
the damn candy bar
comes
from.”

Hamilton inserted the dime and
pulled a plunger at
random. The wheels and
levers spun. From the center of
the grinding works emerged a U-no
bar. The U-no bar slithered down the chute and came to rest in the slot
outside the machine.

“It just grew out of
nothing,” Laws said, awed.

“But in a specific area. It
appeared tangent to the model bar. That suggests it’s a kind of binary fission
process. The model bar splits into two whole bars.”

“Drop another dime in. I tell
you, Jack, this is it.”

Again, a candy bar materialized and
was expelled by the efficient machinery. Both men watched with admira
tion.

“A
neat piece of equipment,” Laws admitted. “A love
ly job of
designing and construction. Fine utilization of the miracle principle.”

“But
utilization on a small scale,” Hamilton pointed
out. “For
candy, soft drinks and cigarettes. Nothing
important”

“That’s
where we come in.” Gingerly, Laws pushed a
bit of tin foil into the empty stage beside a model Her
shey bar.
The tin foil met no resistance. “Nothing there,
all right. If I take out the model bar and put something
else in
its place …”

Hamilton
removed the model Hershey bar and placed
a bottle cap in the display
rack. When the lever was pulled, a duplicate bottle cap rustled down the chute
and out the exit slot.

That
proves it” Laws agreed. “It duplicates anything tangent to it. We
could duplicate anything.” He got out
some silver coins. “Let’s get down to business.”

“How
does this sound?” Hamilton said. “An old elec
tronic principle:
regeneration.
We feed part of the out
put
back to the original model stage. So the supply con
tinues to build—the
more it turns out the more is fed
back and
duplicated.”

“A
liquid would be best,” Laws reflected. “Where can we get some glass
tubing to pipe it back?”

Hamilton tore down a neon display
from the wall, while Laws trotted to the bar to order a drink. As Hamilton was
installing the tubing, Laws reappeared, carrying a tiny glass of amber liquid.

“Brandy,”
Laws explained. “Genuine French cognac
—the best they have.”

Hamilton pushed the glass onto the
model stage where the Hershey bar had been. The tubing, emptied of its neon
gas, led from the tangent duplication area and divided. One nozzle led back to
the original glass; the other led to the output slot.

“The ratio is four to
one,” Hamilton commented. “Four parts go out the slot as product. One
part is fed
back to the original source.
Theoretically, we should get
an
ever-accelerating output. With infinite volume as a
limit.”

With
a deft motion, Laws wedged open the lever that
tripped the mechanism into action. After a pause, cognac
began dripping from the slot, onto the floor in
front of
the machine. Getting to his feet Laws grabbed up the
detached back of the machine; the two men fitted
it into
place and turned the lock. Quietly, continuously, the
candy dispenser drizzled a growing torrent of
top-quality
brandy.

“That’s
it,” Hamilton said, pleased. “Free drinks—every
body line up.”

A few bar patrons shambled over,
interested. Very
shortly there was a crowd.

“We’ve
utilized the machinery,” Laws said slowly, as
the two of them stood watching the growing line
that
had formed in front of the
ex-candy dispenser. “But we
haven’t
worked out the basic principle. We know what it
does and mechanistically how. But not
why.”

“Maybe,”
Hamilton conjectured, “there isn’t any prin
ciple. Isn’t that what ‘miracle’ means? No operating law
—just a
capricious event without regularity or cause. It simply happens; you can’t
predict or trace back a
source.”

“But
there’s regularity here,” Laws insisted, indicating
the candy machine. “When the dime is put in
a candy
bar comes out, not a baseball or a toad. And that’s all natural
law is, simply a description of what happens.
An
account of regularity. There’s no causality involved—
we merely say that if A and B are added we get C,
and
not D.”

“Will
we always get C?” Hamilton asked.
“Maybe
and maybe not So far we’ve got C; we’ve got candy bars. And now it’s turning
out brandy, not insect
spray. We have our regularity, our pattern. All
we have
to do is find out what elements are
necessary to make up
the
pattern.”

Excitedly,
Hamilton said, “If we can find out what has
to be present to cause duplication of the model object—”

“Right.
Something
sets
the process into motion. We
don’t care how
it does it—all we have to do is know
what
does it. We don’t need to know how sulphur, potassium
nitrate and charcoal produce gunpowder, or even
why.
All we have to know is that when
mixed together in a cer
tain
proportion,
they do
.”

The two of them moved back toward
the bar, past the throng of patrons collecting the free brandy. “Then this
world does have laws,” Hamilton said. “Like our own. I
mean, not like our own. But laws, anyhow.”

A dark shadow passed over Bill Laws’
face. That’s
so.” Suddenly his
enthusiasm was gone. I forgot.”

“What’s
wrong?”

“It
won’t work back in our world. It’ll only work here.”

“Oh,”
Hamilton said, mollified. “True.”

“We’re
wasting our time.”

“Unless
we don’t want to go back.”

At
the bar, Laws seated himself on a stool and gath
ered up his shot glass. Hunched over, brooding, he mur
mured, “Maybe that’s what we ought to do.
Stay here.”

“Sure,”
McFeyffe said genially, overhearing him. “Stay
here. Be smart …
quit while you’re ahead.”

Laws
glanced briefly at Hamilton. “You want to stay
here? You like it here?”

“No,”
Hamilton said.

“Neither
do I. But maybe we don’t have a choice. As
yet, we don’t even know
where
we are. And as far as
getting out—”

“This is a nice place,”
the little blond barfly said in
dignantly.
“I’m here all the time and I think it’s fine.”

“We’re
not talking about the bar,” Hamilton said.

His
hands gripped harshly around his shot glass, Laws
said, “We’re going to have to get back.
Somehow, we’re going to have to find our way out of here.”

“I
realize that,” Hamilton said.

“You
know what you can buy at the supermarket?”
Laws inquired acidly. “Ill tell you. Canned burnt offer
ings.”

“You
know what you can buy at the hardware store?”
Hamilton answered. “Scales to weigh your
soul on.”

“That’s
silly,” the blond said petulantly. “A soul doesn’t have any
weight.”

Then,”
Hamilton reflected, “you could put one
through the U. S. mail for nothing.”

“How
many souls,” Laws conjectured ironically, “can
be fitted into one stamped envelope? New
religious ques
tion. Split mankind
in half. Warring factions. Blood run
ning in the gutters.”

“Ten,”
Hamilton guessed.

“Fourteen,”
Laws contradicted.

“Heretic.
Baby-murdering monster.”

“Bestial
drinker of unpurified blood.”

“Accursed
spawn of filth-devouring evil.”

Laws considered. “You know what
you can get on your TV set Sunday morning? I won’t tell you; you can find out
for yourself.” Carefully holding his empty shot glass, he slid abruptly
from his stool and disappeared into the crowd.

“Hey,” Hamilton said, astonished.
“Where’d he go?”

“He’s crazy,” the blond
said, matter-of-factly.

For a moment the figure of Bill Laws
reappeared. His dark face was gray with anguish. Addressing Hamilton across the
murmuring, laughing crowd of patrons, he shouted, “Jack, you know
what?”

“What?” Hamilton answered,
perturbed.

The Negro’s face twitched in a spasm
of acute, helpless misery. “In this world—” Sorrow blurred his eyes.
“In this damn place, I’ve started to shuffle.”

He was gone, leaving Hamilton to
ponder.

“What’d he mean?” the
blond asked curiously. “Shuf
fle
cards?”

“Shuffle
him
.”
Hamilton
murmured moodily.

“They
all do,” McFeyffe commented.

Taking Bill Laws’ vacated stool, the
blond began systematically oozing up to Hamilton. “Buy me a drink,
baby,” she asked hopefully.

“I can’t.”

“Why not? Under age?”

Hamilton searched his empty pockets.
“I haven’t got any money. I spent it on that candy machine.”

“Pray,” McFeyffe told him.
“Pray like hell.”

“Dear Lord,” Hamilton said
bitterly. “Send Your un
worthy
electronics expert a glass of colored water for this tarnished young
baggage.” Dutifully, he concluded,
“Amen.”

The glass of colored water appeared
on the surface of the bar beside his elbow. Smiling, the girl accepted it.

“You’re sweet. What’s your
name?”

“Jack.”

“What’s your
full
name?”

He sighed. “Jack
Hamilton.”

“My name’s Silky.”
Playfully, she toyed with his collar. Is that your Ford coupe out there?”

“Sure,” he answered dully.

“Let’s
go someplace. I hate this place, here. I—”

“Why?” Hamilton lashed out
suddenly and loudly. “Why the hell did God answer that prayer? Why not
some of the others? Why not Bill Laws’?”

“God approved of your prayer,”
Silky said. “After all, it’s up to Him; He has to decide how He feels
about it”

“That’s
terrible.”

Silky shrugged. “Maybe
so.”

“How can you live with that?
You never know what’s going to happen—there’s no order, no logic.” It
infuriated him that she did not object, that it seemed natural to her.
“We’re helpless; we have to depend on whim. It keeps us from being people—were
like animals waiting
to be fed. Rewarded or
punished.”

Silky studied him. “You’re a
funny boy.”

“I’m thirty-two years old; I’m
not a boy. And I’m
married.”

Fondly, the girl tugged at his arm,
half-pulling him
from his precarious stool.
“Come on, baby. Let’s go where
we
can worship in private. I have a few rituals you might
like to try.”

“Will I go to Hell for
it?”

“Not if you know the right
people.”

“My new boss has an intercom to
Heaven. Will that
do?”

Silky
continued to urge him from his stool. “Well talk
about it later.
Let’s go, before that ape of an Irishman
notices.”

Raising his head, McFeyffe eyed
Hamilton. In a
strained, hesitant voice he
said, “Are—are you leaving?”

“Sure,” Hamilton said,
getting unsteadily from his
stool.

“Wait” McFeyffe followed
after him. “Don’t leave.”

“Take care of your own
soul,” Hamilton said. But he caught in McFeyffe’s face the element of
basic uncertainty. “What’s the matter?” he asked, sobered.

McFeyffe said, “I want to show
you something.”

“Show me what?”

Striding past Hamilton and Silky,
McFeyffe picked up an immense black umbrella; he turned back to them, waiting.
Hamilton followed, and Silky tagged along. Pushing the doors open, McFeyffe
carefully raised the vast, tent-like umbrella over their heads. The light sprinkle
had become a shower; cold autumn rain beat down on the shiny sidewalks, on the
silent stores and streets.

Silky shivered. “It’s dismal.
Where’re we going?”

Locating Hamilton’s coupe in the
gloom, McFeyffe was saying to himself, in a monotone. “It must still
exist.”

“Why do you suppose he
shuffles?” Hamilton asked morbidly, as the car raced along the endless wet
highway. “He never shuffled before.”