Prescription for Chaos (58 page)

He shrugged.

A last shout carried back on the wind:

"I'll show you! It's bound to come out some day. Current
does
flow!"

That decided it. What could flow through a solid metal wire? There was no space for anything to flow on the inside, and on the outside anything would fall off—or else ooze through the spaces in the fibrous sheath and drip out. Solid matter was largely incompressible. Therefore nothing could flow through it, because to flow, there must be space. And you couldn't have a current without something that flowed. And nothing could flow where there was no space.

Kubic came back, shaking his head.

"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't realize. The fellow's a fanatic."

"Well, it was worth a try. I thought for a minute there he had something."

"He acted plausible enough. But he blew up on the way out. Talked all kinds of gibberish."

"Yes, he didn't make much—Wait a minute!"

"Sir?"

"Listen. Suppose we use a stiff wire, inside a conduit of close spiral spring, and rotate that inner wire very fast, with pressure, against a narrow abrasive head applied to the fuse case?"

"Hm-m-m, you mean the friction will generate heat?"

"Sure it will. Now, of course, it isn't a very chemical procedure. It's just a piece of mechanism. But that's how we've progressed in The Project over the past hundred years or so. One little brick on top of another. In time, we'll get there."

"Yes, sir. But I don't know. Good mechanicians are as rare as shock-proof lamp mantles. You remember, twenty years ago, when we were using spring triggers on the fuses. That seemed pretty good till they complexified it up to the point where we couldn't recognize it any more. Then they got that hydraulic idea, and—Well, I don't know. One thing just seems to lead to another. It seems as if this is all taking too long. We go around in circles. Somehow, it's like trying to pull nails with a wrench. Where the devil do you take a hold? There's a tool missing from the kit somewhere."

"It's been a bad day," said Alarik, scowling. "Of course, over the long view, there
is
progress. And, occasionally, there's a real breakthrough. That new fuel, for instance. And, best of all, the superrefractive coating. Then, it was no small improvement when we hit on dissipation-cooling, and all the refinements of that. But I know, somehow these big advances don't make the dent they ought to."

Kubic glanced around at various massive structures that stretched off to north and west as far as the eye could see. "Well," he said, "it keeps unemployment down, I'll say that for it. But something tells me a lot of our effort here is at a tangent to the problem."

Alarik nodded. "I'll tell you what," he said. "We'll press this rotary-fire principle, and see what comes of it. We can send a routine payment check to this fellow you brought in. After all, he suggested the idea, whether he meant to or not. He, at least,
claims
to develop some new method. He may be a fanatic, but then, you look at some of the early chemists—"

Kubic nodded approval. "Good idea, sir. To tell the truth,
I
don't see why there has to be contact to evolve those bubbles, either."

"Take care of it now," said Alarik. "You never know when something will happen and we'll forget all about it."

Kubic's eyes widened. "Sir, look there—"

Alarik looked up.

"The devil with it. Get going, I'll take care of this."

Sprinting across the field from the bulk of The Beast came what looked like the whole maintenance crew. Alarik gave Kubic a shove, to start him in the right direction, and Kubic ran off to disappear behind a protecting buttress that led back to the Administration Building.

Alarik studied The Beast. Was that a wisp of smoke he saw, puffing out from under the drive ring?

Mechanicians, builders, brace men, clockers, supervisors, chemical technicians—the whole crew pounded across the field as if their lives were at stake.

That
was
smoke under the drive ring.

As he watched, a white plume billowed out, traveled slowly around the circumference, and wreathed the daggerlike base in smoke. Another plume joined the first, then another and another. The curving near-cylindrical top rode above the billowing clouds with no visible support.

Alarik held his arm out, stabbed his forefinger at the earth, and shouted, "
Ground!
"

All the workmen but the crew chief disappeared in a series of flying dives.

The crew chief, breathing hard, tears streaming out the corners of his eyes, ran to Alarik and saluted.

"Sir, I'll stay up and take my medicine. It was my fault. I—"

Thunder traveled across the field.

Alarik knocked the crew chief down the nearest hole and dove after him.

Pink brilliance reflected dimly on the sides of the tunnel.

"What happened?"

"The inside clocker—He's new. I shouldn't have let him down alone. We can't use any kind of lamps in there. He had to work with just a glow plate."

"
What happened?
"

The earth began to shake.

"Go on," shouted Alarik, "
what happened?
"

"He bumped the master pull wire, where it comes in out of the sheath from Control. The safety was pushed down, and by mistake, the tip must have been over the wire; the pin popped up out of the hole, the safety let go, the arming spring knocked the lever around, the safety came down and hit the taut wire, and that sprang the lever. We could hear it—Wham! Wham! Wham! Then she started."

Alarik swore.

The crew chief shouted above the roar. "He's still in there.
He's in there now!
The weight-savers dropped the ladders and weather covers loose. He couldn't get out. We just got down ourselves before the tower got jerked away."

The tunnel lit up in a pink glow, and they eased back around a corner.

"It's too complicated," the crew chief shouted. Then it was too loud to hear, and the uproar was too much to talk in anyway.

Alarik lay in the hole, his body one living ache. Gradually, awareness returned.

Well, he thought dully, there she goes. The faulty clock is still in her. The gliders and the
Sunbird
may get some data, but it's meaningless with that nonstandard clock in there. At intervals, The Beast will shoot out luminous vapor clouds, and that may help in the tracking—maybe. But where would she come down?

There must be some better way than this, he thought. It can't be this complicated. This was like trying to tie up a handful of marbles with a ball of string. When it got this complicated, it meant you were trying to do the job with tools or materials that weren't fitted to the work.

The roar was just about all gone now.

There was a thud, and Kubic came around the corner of the tunnel in a crouch.

"Sir, are you all right?"

"In a sense," growled Alarik. "How was it?"

"Beautiful. It looked beautiful. Actually, it was terrible, but it looked fine."

"Well, that's something."

"I got that pay voucher made out."

Alarik froze. Suddenly, ignoring the staring crew chief, he jumped up and grabbed Kubic by the arm.

"The devil with all that," he said. "I'm sick of this stuff!"

"Sir? You want me to cancel it?"

"No, no! Go on out there! Go get him! Grab him! Bring him back!"

"Yes, sir," said Kubic with alacrity.

He went up out of the hole in a rush.

Alarik climbed up into the open air. Far overhead was a small bright dot, gradually growing fainter.

As it disappeared, he could hear a determined voice carrying across the field, speaking of "currents" as something real, actual, and usable.

Alarik looked around. For a moment, he felt guilty. What he had in mind was unchemical. Therefore it was chicanery, fraud, quackery, unprofessional—

"The devil with it," growled Alarik. Years of accumulated frustration weighed on him like lead.

His hands opened and shut like those of a man badly in need of a hammer and he eyed the sky in supplication.

"Just give me," he said earnestly, "a tool to fit the job."

Eric Flint, Baen's editor of these stories, has suggested that the writer (Anvil) might like to put something personal—an introduction, preface, afterword—something—in this latest book of the series, this being possibly the writer's last chance to say whatever he might like to the reader.

I appreciate the suggestion—but think there are reasons to hesitate about author's prefaces, introductions, and afterwords. For a fiction writer, these extra nonfiction passages can be surplus baggage—an unintended hurdle between the reader and the story, and a free chance to put one's foot in one's mouth. Better, perhaps, to just get on with the story.

There is, however, one type of nonfiction section, inserted by the writer, that may be well justified, if not on the ground of special interest to the reader, at least on the basis of justice—that there are those who deserve some recognition, some expression of appreciation or gratitude, from the writer. That is the Acknowledgements section, in which the writer thanks some of those who have helped. The reader may just glance this over, but it does give the writer a chance to show appreciation—and it may benefit those who are thanked, for a reason anyone can sympathize with—If we help someone, we like it to be appreciated.

As with most books, a lot of people deserve credit for this series. Some have already been thanked by Eric Flint, who mentioned, in his Afterword to
Interstellar Patrol II
: Henry Cate III, along with Henry Cate, Jr., and Jim Budler, Matthew Class, Dave Gerecke, Robert Klein, Dave Lampe, Mary Qualls, Mark Rubinstein, Peter Sims, Simon Slavin, Mark Stackpole, and Joe Webster. I'd like to add my thanks and appreciation to Eric's.

Also, as most of these stories were published in other books or magazines before being collected for Baen Books, I'd naturally like to thank all those who first selected and published them—although I am reasonably sure most of them would just smile and say, "Thanks, but it was our job." Still, those who do their job deserve appreciation.

There are, moreover, those who particularly deserve credit. Some may have passed on, but, as we are often told, the good that people do lives after them—and so, gratitude and appreciation also survive.

There is a book titled
The Rickover Effect
, which suggests the impact of Admiral Hyman Rickover on nuclear power and American industry—and so on the outcome of the Cold War. Admiral Rickover may no longer be with us, but the effects of his thought and actions are with us.

It is the same with anyone who lived through the Second World War, and saw how easily Nazi Germany absorbed the Rhineland, Austria, and Czechoslovakia, conquered Poland, seized Norway by surprise, then smashed the French and British armies, to conquer France and threaten the invasion of Britain. That was, to us now, long ago; but the effects of the resolve of Winston Churchill and Franklin Roosevelt, and of the millions who followed them, are with us still.

In science fiction, too, we have those who have a great and often not fully realized influence. John W. Campbell is often mentioned as a great editor, though this is only a part of the truth. An original and independent thinker, he was aware of and concerned with events outside of his personal responsibility, and he was unafraid to risk appearing to be wrong.

And while it may not be the job of writers to judge editors, still, we can be grateful to all those who know their job and do it. And, also often unsung, there are great agents.

At the time when I was sending out stories, and often having them sent directly back, I sometimes received in the mail, an invitation from one or another agent. Many came from an agent by the name of Scott Meredith, who seemed to have a very large agency. In time, I answered what I supposed was a form letter, and Scott Meredith replied—the beginning of what was, especially at the beginning, a slightly bumpy relationship, since I had one idea of what it should be, he had another, and I imagine the editors had theirs.

But the advantage of this soon became clear, as Scott introduced an element of order into what could be a chaos. He had an excellent foreign sales department, so that the same story that sold in the U.S. might resell in Britain, France, Italy, Germany—a marvelous arrangement for an American writer. If an editor was backward in his pay rate, or unconscionably slow to respond, Scott was not backward to point it out. He seemed a rare factor in the writing business—someone who, though seeing both sides, was often on the side of the writer.

When Eric Flint phoned to ask whether I would be interested in having these stories republished, I was surprised, but interested—which leads us to a nearly final statement of gratitude—not "final" in that I have run out of those to be grateful to, and hopefully not final in that there might be others in the future, but final in that, for these Acknowledgements, it is approaching the last recognition of gratitude when I thank Eric himself, an excellent writer and first-rate editor, who largely organized the books made from these stories.

I also want to thank David Weber, for his marvelous Introduction to
Interstellar Patrol
, and the late Jim Baen, the capable and inspiring publisher of Baen Books.

And there is still one more thank-you on this brief and incomplete list—to Joy Crosby, my wife, my first reader, whose mere look of boredom on reading a story guarantees it will be rewritten or forgotten, and who typed hosts of stories written (and often unintelligibly corrected) in longhand.

Each of these thank-yous deserves to be expanded to do justice to those thanked; and for each person thanked, there are many others who deserve to be thanked, including the first editor who explained his rejection of a story, and the writer of the most recent (well appreciated, though often not well answered) reader's letter.

Most deserving of thanks, of course, are the readers, the other half of a book or story, without whom there is no point writing. But how do you truly thank a reader? Perhaps only by writing another story.