The Short Happy Life of the Brown Oxford and Other Classic Stories (39 page)

Thomas Cole was sitting up in bed when Sherikov came to the door. Most of his awkward, hunched-over body was sealed in a thin envelope of transparent air-proof plastic. Two robot attendants whirred ceaselessly at his side, their leads contacting his pulse, blood-pressure, respiration, and body temperature.

Cole turned a little as the huge Pole tossed down his briefcase and seated himself on the window ledge.

“How are you feeling?” Sherikov asked him.

“Better.”

“You see we’ve quite advanced therapy. Your burns should be healed in a few months.”

“How is the war coming?”

“The war is over.”

Cole’s lips moved. “Icarus—”

“Icarus went as expected. As
you
expected.” Sherikov leaned toward the bed. “Cole, I promised you something, I mean to keep my promise—as soon as you’re well enough.”

“To return me to my own time?”

“That’s right. It’s a relatively simple matter, now that Reinhart has been removed from power. You’ll be back home again, back in your own time, your own world. We can supply you with some discs of platinum or something of the kind to finance your business. You need a new Fixit truck. Tools. And clothes. A few thousand dollars ought to do it.”

Cole was silent.

“I’ve already contacted histo-research,” Sherikov continued. “The time bubble is ready as soon as you are. We’re somewhat beholden to you, as you probably realize. You’ve made it possible for us to actualize our greatest dream. The whole planet is seething with excitement. We’re changing our economy over from war to—”

“They don’t resent what happened? The dud must have made an awful lot of people feel downright bad.”

“At first. But they got over it—as soon as they understood what was ahead. Too bad you won’t be here to see it, Cole. A whole world breaking loose. Bursting out into the universe. They want me to have an ftl ship ready by the end of the week! Thousands of applications are already on file, men and women wanting to get in on the initial flight.”

Cole smiled a little. “There won’t be any band, there. No parade or welcoming committee waiting for them.”

“Maybe not. Maybe the first ship will wind up on some dead world, nothing but sand and dried salt. But everyone wants to go. It’s almost like a holiday. People running around and shouting and throwing things in the streets.

“Afraid I must get back to the labs. Lots of reconstruction work being started.” Sherikov dug into his bulging briefcase. “By the way… One little thing. While you’re recovering here, you might like to look at these.” He tossed a handful of schematics on the bed.

Cole picked them up slowly. “What’s this?”

“Just a little thing I designed.” Sherikov arose and lumbered toward the door. “We’re realigning our political structure to eliminate any recurrence of the Reinhart affair. This will block any more one-man power grabs.” He jabbed a thick finger at the schematics. “It’ll turn power over to all of us, not to just a limited number one person could dominate—the way Reinhart dominated the Council.

“This gimmick makes it possible for citizens to raise and decide issues directly. They won’t have to wait for the Council to verbalize a measure. Any citizen can transmit his will with one of these, make his needs register on a central control that automatically responds. When a large enough segment of the population wants a certain thing done, these little gadgets set up an active field that touches all the others. An issue won’t have to go through a formal Council. The citizens can express their will long before any bunch of gray-haired old men could get around to it.”

Sherikov broke off, frowning. “Of course,” he continued slowly, “there’s one little detail…”

“What’s that?”

“I haven’t been able to get a model to function. A few bugs… Such intricate work never was in my line.” He paused at the door. “Well, I hope I’ll see you again before you go. Maybe if you feel well enough later on we could get together for one last talk. Maybe have dinner sometime. Eh?”

But Thomas Cole wasn’t listening. He was bent over the schematics, an intense frown on his weathered face. His long fingers moved restlessly over the schematics, tracing wiring and terminals. His lips moved as he calculated.

Sherikov waited a moment. Then he stepped out into the hall and softly closed the door after him.

He whistled merrily as he strode off down the corridor.

“Zeno was the first great scientist,” Professor Hardy stated, looking sternly around his classroom. “For example, take his paradox of the frog and the well. As Zeno showed, the frog will never reach the top of the well. Each jump is half the previous jump; a small but very real margin always remains for him to travel.”

There was silence, as the afternoon Physics 3-A Class considered Hardy’s oracular utterance. Then, in the back of the room, a hand slowly went up.

Hardy stared at the hand in disbelief. “Well?” he said. “What is it, Pitner?”

“But in Logic we were told the frog
would
reach the top of the well. Professor Grote said—”

“The frog will not!”

“Professor Grote says he will.”

Hardy folded his arms. “In this class the frog will never reach the top of the well. I have examined the evidence myself. I am satisfied that he will always be a small distance away. For example, if he jumps—”

The bell rang.

All the students rose to their feet and began to move towards the door. Professor Hardy stared after them, his sentence half finished. He rubbed his jaw with displeasure, frowning at the horde of young men and women with their bright, vacant faces.

When the last of them had gone, Hardy picked up his pipe and went out of the room into the hall. He looked up and down. Sure enough, not far off was Grote, standing by the drinking fountain, wiping his chin.

“Grote!” Hardy said. “Come here!”

Professor Grote looked up, blinking, “What?”

“Come here,” Hardy strode up to him. “How dare you try to teach Zeno? He was a scientist, and as such he’s my property to teach, not yours. Leave Zeno to me!”

“Zeno was a philosopher.” Grote stared up indignantly at Hardy. “I know what’s on your mind. It’s that paradox about the frog and the well. For your information, Hardy, the frog will easily get out. You’ve been misleading your students. Logic is on my side.”

“Logic, bah!” Hardy snorted, his eyes blazing. “Old dusty maxims. It’s obvious that the frog is trapped forever, in an eternal prison and can never get away!”

“He will escape.”

“He will not.”

“Are you gentlemen quite through?” a calm voice said. They turned quickly around. The Dean was standing quietly behind them, smiling gently. “If you are through, I wonder if you’d mind coming into my office for a moment.” He nodded towards his door. “It won’t take too long.”

Grote and Hardy looked at each other. “See what you’ve done?” Hardy whispered, as they filed into the Dean’s office. “You’ve got us into trouble again.”

“You started it—you and your frog!”

“Sit down, gentlemen.” The Dean indicated two stiff-backed chairs. “Make yourselves comfortable. I’m sorry to trouble you when you’re so busy, but I do wish to speak to you for a moment.” He studied them moodily. “May I ask what is the nature of your discussion this time?”

“It’s about Zeno,” Grote murmured.

“Zeno?”

“The paradox about the frog and the well.”

“I see.” The Dean nodded. “I see. The frog and the well. A two thousand-year-old saw. An ancient puzzle. And you two grown men stand in the hall arguing like a—”

“The difficulty,” Hardy said, after a time, “is that no one has ever performed the experiment. The paradox is a pure abstraction.”

“Then you two are going to be the first to lower the frog into his well and actually see what happens.”

“But the frog won’t jump in conformity to the conditions of the paradox.”

“Then you’ll have to make him, that’s all. I’ll give you two weeks to set up control conditions and determine the truth of this miserable puzzle. I want no more wrangling, month after month. I want this settled, once and for all.”

Hardy and Grote were silent.

“Well, Grote,” Hardy said at last, “let’s get it started.”

“We’ll need a net,” Grote said.

“A net and a jar.” Hardy sighed. “We might as well be at it as soon as possible.”

The “Frog Chamber,” as it got to be called, was quite a project. The University donated most of the basement to them, and Grote and Hardy set to work at once, carrying parts and materials downstairs. There wasn’t a soul who didn’t know about it before long. Most of the science majors were on Hardy’s side; they formed a Failure Club and denounced the frog’s efforts. In the philosophy and art departments there was some agitation for a Success Club, but nothing ever came of it.

Grote and Hardy worked feverishly on the project. They were absent from their classes more and more of the time, as the two weeks wore on. The Chamber itself grew and developed, resembling more and more a long section of sewer pipe running the length of the basement. One end of it disappeared into a maze of wires and tubes: at the other there was a door.

One day when Grote went downstairs there was Hardy already, peering into the tube.

“See here,” Grote said, “we agreed to keep hands off unless both of us were present.”

“I’m just looking inside. It’s dark in there.” Hardy grinned. “I hope the frog will be able to see.”

“Well, there’s only one way to go.”

Hardy lit his pipe. “What do you think of trying out a sample frog? I’m itching to see what happens.”

“It’s too soon.” Grote watched nervously as Hardy searched about for his jar. “Shouldn’t we wait a bit?”

“Can’t face reality, eh? Here, give me a hand.”

There was a sudden sound, a scraping at the door. They looked up. Pitner was standing there, looking curiously into the room, at the elongated Frog Chamber.

“What do you want?” Hardy said. “We’re very busy.”

“Are you going to try it out?” Pitner came into the room. “What are all the coils and relays for?”

“It’s very simple,” Grote said, beaming. “Something I worked out myself. This end here—”

“I’ll show him,” Hardy said. “You’ll only confuse him. Yes, we were about to run the first trial frog. You can stay, boy, if you want.” He opened the jar and took a damp frog from it. “As you can see, the big tube has an entrance and an exit. The frog goes in the entrance. Look inside the tube, boy. Go on.”

Pitner peered into the open end of the tube. He saw a long black tunnel. “What are the lines?”

“Measuring lines. Grote, turn it on.”

The machinery came on, humming softly. Hardy took the frog and dropped him into the tube. He swung the metal door shut and snapped it tight. “That’s so the frog won’t get out again, at this end.”

“How big a frog were you expecting?” Pitner said. “A full-grown man could get into that.”

“Now watch.” Hardy turned the gas cock up. “This end of the tube is warmed. The heat drives the frog up the tube. We’ll watch through the window.”

They looked into the tube. The frog was sitting quietly in a little heap, staring sadly ahead.

“Jump, you stupid frog,” Hardy said. He turned the gas up.

“Not so high, you maniac!” Grote shouted. “Do you want to stew him?”

“Look!” Pitner cried. “There he goes.”

The frog jumped. “Conduction carries the heat along the tube bottom,” Hardy explained. “He has to keep on jumping to get away from it. Watch him go.”

Suddenly Pitner gave a frightened rattle. “My God, Hardy. The frog has shrunk. He’s only half as big as he was.”

Hardy beamed. “That is the miracle. You see, at the far end of the tube there is a force field. The frog is compelled to jump towards it by the heat. The effect of the field is to reduce animal tissue to its proximity. The frog is made smaller the farther he goes.”

“Why?”

“It’s the only way the jumping span of the frog can be reduced. As the frog leaps he diminishes in size, and hence each leap is proportionally reduced. We have arranged it so that the diminution is the same as in Zeno’s paradox.”

“But where does it all end?”

“That,” Hardy said, “is the question to which we are devoted. At the far end of the tube there is a photon beam which the frog would pass through, if he ever got that far. If he could reach it, he would cut off the field.”

“He’ll reach it,” Grote muttered.

“No. He’ll get smaller and smaller, and jump shorter and shorter. To him, the tube will lengthen more and more, endlessly. He will never get there.”

They glared at each other. “Don’t be so sure,” Grote said.

They peered through the window into the tube. The frog had gone quite a distance up. He was almost invisible, now, a tiny speck no larger than a fly, moving imperceptibly along the tube. He became smaller. He was a pin point. He disappeared.

“Gosh,” Pitner said.

“Pitner, go away,” Hardy said. He rubbed his hands together. “Grote and I have things to discuss.”

He locked the door after the boy.

“All right,” Grote said. “You designed this tube. What became of the frog?”

“Why, he’s still hopping, somewhere in a sub-atomic world.”

“You’re a swindler. Some place along that tube the frog met with misfortune.”

“Well,” Hardy said. “If you think that, perhaps you should inspect the tube personally.”

“I believe I will. I may find a trap door.”

“Suit yourself,” Hardy said, grinning. He turned off the gas and opened the big metal door.

“Give me the flashlight,” Grote said. Hardy handed him the flashlight and he crawled into the tube, grunting. His voice echoed hollowly. “No tricks, now.”

Hardy watched him disappear. He bent down and looked into the end of the tube. Grote was half-way down, wheezing and struggling. “What’s the matter?” Hardy said.