Vulcan's Hammer Read online

  “In handwriting, sir?” the secretary said, blinking in surprise. “You mean the way children do in school?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “May I ask why, sir?”

  Barris did not know; he had no rational reason. Sentimentality, he thought to himself as he dismissed the secretary. Throw-back to the old days, to infantile patterns.

  Your husband is dead in the line of duty, he said to himself as he sat at his desk meditating. Unity is deeply sorry. As Director, I wish to extend my personal sympathy to you in this tragic hour.

  Damn it, he thought. I can’t do it; I never can. I’ll have to go and see her; I can’t write a thing like this. There have been too many, lately. Too many deaths for me to stand. I’m not like Vulcan 3. I can’t ignore it. I can’t be silent.

  And it didn’t even occur in my region. The man wasn’t even my employee.

  Clicking open the line to his sub-Director, Barris said, “I want you to take over for the rest of today. I’m knocking off. I don’t feel too well.”

  “Too bad, sir,” Peter Allison said. But the pleasure was obvious, the satisfaction of being able to step from the wings and assume a more important spot, if only for a moment.

  You’ll have my job, Barris thought as he closed and locked his desk. You’re gunning for it, just as I’m gunning for Dill’s job. On and on, up the ladder to the top.

  He wrote Mrs. Pitt’s address down, put it in his shirt pocket, and left the office as quickly as he could, glad to get away. Glad to have an excuse to escape from the oppressive atmosphere.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Standing before the blackboard, Agnes Parker asked, “What does the year 1992 bring to mind?” She looked brightly around the class.

  “The year 1992 brings to mind the conclusion of Atomic War I and the beginning of the decade of international regulation,” said Peter Thomas, one of the best of her students.

  “Unity came into being,” Patricia Edwards added. “Rational world order.”

  Mrs. Parker made a note on her chart. “Correct.” She felt pride at the children’s alert response. “And now perhaps someone can tell me about the Lisbon Laws of 1993.”

  The classroom was silent. A few pupils shuffled in their seats. Outside, warm June air beat against the windows. A fat robin hopped down from a branch and stood listening for worms. The trees rustled lazily.

  “That’s when Vulcan 3 was made,” Hans Stein said.

  Mrs. Parker smiled. “Vulcan 3 was made long before that; Vulcan 3 was made during the war. Vulcan 1 in 1970. Vulcan 2 in 1975. They had computers even before the war, in the middle of the century. The Vulcan series was developed by Otto Jordan, who worked with Nathaniel Greenstreet for Westinghouse, during the early days of the war . . .”

  Mrs. Parker’s voice trailed off into a yawn. She pulled herself together with an effort; this was no time to be dozing. Managing Director Jason Dill and his staff were supposed to be in the school somewhere, reviewing educational ideology. Vulcan 3 was rumored to have made inquiries concerning the school systems; it seemed to be interested in knowing the various value biases that were currently being formulated in the pupils’ basic orientation programs. After all, it was the task of the schools, and especially the grammar schools, to infuse the youth of the world with the proper attitudes. What else were schools for?

  “What,” Mrs. Parker repeated, “were the Lisbon Laws of 1993? Doesn’t anybody know? I really feel ashamed of you all, if you can’t exert yourselves to memorize what may well be the most important facts you’ll learn in your entire time of school. I suppose if you had your way you’d be reading those commercial comic books that teach adding and subtracting and other business crafts.” Fiercely, she tapped on the floor with her toe. “Well? Do I hear an answer?”

  For a moment there was no response. The rows of faces were blank. Then, abruptly, incredibly: “The Lisbon Laws dethroned God,” a piping child’s voice came from the back of the classroom. A girl’s voice, severe and penetrating.

  Mrs. Parker awoke from her torpor; she blinked in amazement. “Who said that?” she demanded. The class buzzed. Heads turned questioningly toward the back. “Who was that?”

  “It was Jeannie Baker!” a boy hollered.

  “It was not! It was Dorothy!”

  Mrs. Parker paced rapidly down the aisle, past the children’s desks. “The Lisbon Laws of 1993,” she said sharply, “were the most important legislation of the past five hundred years.” She spoke nervously, in a high-pitched shrill voice; gradually the glass turned toward her. Habit made them pay attention to her— the training of years. “All seventy nations of the world sent representatives to Lisbon. The world-wide Unity organization formally agreed that the great computer machines developed by Britain and the Soviet Union and the United States, and hitherto used in a purely advisory capacity, would now be given absolute power over the national governments in the determination of top-level policy—”

  But at that moment Managing Director Jason Dill entered the classroom, and Mrs. Parker lapsed into respectful silence.

  This was not the first time she had seen the man, the actual physical entity, in contrast to the synthetic images projected over the media to the public at large. And as before, she was taken by surprise; there was such a difference between the real man and his official image. In the back of her mind she wondered how the children were taking it. She glanced toward them and saw that all of them were gazing in awe, everything else forgotten.

  She thought, He’s actually not so different from the rest of us. The highest ranking human being . . . and he’s just a plain man. An energetic middle-aged man with a shrewd face, twinkling eyes, and a genial smile of confidence. He’s short, she thought. Shorter than some of the men around him.

  His staff had entered with him, three men and two women, all in the businesslike T-class gray. No special badges. No royal gear. If I didn’t know, she thought, I wouldn’t guess. He’s so unassuming.

  “This is Managing Director Dill,” she said. “The Coordinating Director of the Unity system.” Her voice broke with tension. “Managing Director Dill is responsible only to Vulcan 3. No human being except Director Dill is permitted to approach the computer banks.”

  Director Dill nodded pleasantly to Mrs. Parker and to the class. “What are you children studying?” he asked in a friendly voice, the rich voice of a competent leader of the T-class.

  The children shuffled shyly. “We’re learning about the Lisbon Laws,” a boy said.

  “That’s nice,” Director Dill affirmed heartily, his alert eyes twinkling. He nodded to his staff and they moved back toward the door. “You children be good students and do what your teacher tells you.”

  “It was so nice of you,” Mrs. Parker managed to say. “To drop by, so they could see you for a moment. Such an honor.” She followed the group to the door, her heart fluttering. “They’ll always remember this moment; they’ll treasure it.”

  “Mr. Dill,” a girl’s voice came. “Can I ask you something?”

  The room became abruptly silent. Mrs. Parker was chilled. The voice. The girl again. Who was it? Which one? She strained to see, her heart thumping in terror. Good lord, was that little devil going to say something in front of Director Dill?

  “Certainly,” Dill said, halting briefly at the door. “What do you want to ask?” He glanced at his wrist watch, smiling rather fixedly.

  “Director Dill is in a hurry,” Mrs. Parker managed to say. “He has so much to do, so many tasks. I think we had better let him go, don’t you?”

  But the firm little child’s voice continued, as inflexible as steel. “Director Dill, don’t you feel ashamed of yourself when you let a machine tell you what to do?”

  Director Dill’s fixed smile remained. Slowly, he turned away from the door, back toward the class. His bright, mature eyes roved about the room, seeking to pinpoint the questioner. “Who asked that?” he inquired pleasantly.

  Silence.

  Director Dill
moved about the room, walking slowly, his hands in his pockets. He rubbed his chin, plucking at it absently. No one moved or spoke; Mrs. Parker and the Unity staff stood frozen in horror.

  It’s the end of my job, Mrs. Parker thought. Maybe they’ll make me sign a request for therapy—maybe I’ll have to undergo voluntary rehabilitation. No, she thought frantically. Please.

  However, Director Dill was unshaken. He stopped in front of the blackboard. Experimentally, he raised his hand and moved it in a figure. White lines traced themselves on the dark surface. He made a few thoughtful motions and the date 1992 traced itself.

  “The end of the war,” he said.

  He traced 1993 for the hushed class.

  “The Lisbon Laws, which you’re learning about. The year the combined nations of the world decided to throw in their lot together. To subordinate themselves in a realistic manner—not in the idealistic fashion of the UN days—to a common supranational authority, for the good of all mankind.”

  Director Dill moved away from the blackboard, gazing thoughtfully down at the floor. “The war had just ended; most of the planet was in ruins. Something drastic had to be done, because another war would destroy mankind. Something, some ultimate principle of organization, was needed. International control. Law, which no men or nations could break. Guardians were needed.

  “But who would watch the Guardians? How could we be sure this supranational body would be free of the hate and bias, the animal passions that had set man against man throughout the centuries? Wouldn’t this body, like all other man-made bodies, fall heir to the same vices, the same failings of interest over reason, emotion over logic?

  “There was one answer. For years we had been using computers, giant constructs put together by the labor and talent of hundreds of trained experts, built to exact standards. Machines were free of the poisoning bias of self-interest and feeling that gnawed at man; they were capable of performing the objective calculations that for man would remain only an ideal, never a reality. If nations would be willing to give up their sovereignty, to subordinate their power to the objective, impartial directives of the—”

  Again the thin child’s voice cut through Dill’s confident tone. The speech ceased, tumbled into ruin by the flat, direct interruption from the back of the classroom. “Mr. Dill, do you really believe that a machine is better than a man? That man can’t manage his own world?”

  For the first time, Director Dill’s cheeks glowed red. He hesitated, half-smiling, gesturing with his right hand as he sought for words. “Well—” he murmured.

  “I just don’t know what to say,” Mrs. Parker gasped, finding her voice. “I’m so sorry. Please believe me, I had no idea—”

  Director Dill nodded understandingly to her. “Of course,” he said in a low voice. “It’s not your fault. These are not tabulae rasae which you can mold like plastic.”

  “Pardon?” she said, not understanding the foreign words. She had a dim idea that it was—what was it? Latin?

  Dill said, “You will always have a certain number who will not respond.” Now he had raised his voice for the class to hear. “I’m going to play a game with you,” he said, and at once the small faces showed anticipation. “Now, I don’t want you to say a word; I want you to clap your hands over your mouths and be the way our police crews are when they’re waiting to catch one of the enemy.” The small hands flew up to cover mouths; eyes shone with excitement. “Our police are so quiet,” Dill continued. “And they look around; they search and search to see where the enemy is. Of course, they don’t let the enemy know they’re about to pounce.”

  The class giggled with joy.

  “Now,” Dill said, folding his arms. “We look around.” The children dutifully peered around. “Where’s the enemy? We count—one, two, three.” Suddenly Dill threw up his arms and in a loud voice said, “And we point to the enemy. We point her out!”

  Twenty hands pointed. In her chair in the back the small red-haired girl sat quietly, giving no reaction.

  “What’s your name?” Dill said, walking leisurely down the aisle until he stood near her desk.

  The girl gazed silently up at Director Dill.

  “Aren’t you going to answer my question?” Dill said, smiling.

  Calmly, the girl folded her small hands together on her desk. “Marion Fields,” she said clearly. “And you haven’t answered my questions.”

  Together, Director Dill and Mrs. Parker walked the corridor of the school building.

  “I’ve had trouble with her from the start,” Mrs. Parker said. “In fact, I protested their placing her in my class.” Quickly, she said, “You’ll find my written protest on file; I followed the regular method. I knew that something like this was going to happen, I just knew it!”

  “I guarantee you,” Director Dill said, “that you have nothing to fear. Your job is safe. You have my word.” Glancing at the teacher he added reflectively, “Unless, of course, there’s more to this than meets the eye.” He paused at the door to the principal’s office. “You have never met or seen her father, have you?”

  “No,” Mrs. Parker answered. “She’s a ward of the government; her father was arrested and committed to the Atlanta—”

  “I know,” Dill interrupted. “She’s nine, is she? Does she try to discuss current events with the other children? I presume that you have some manner of monitoring equipment going at all times—in the cafeteria and on the playground especially.”

  “We have complete tapes of all conversations among the pupils,” Mrs. Parker said proudly. “There’s never a moment when they’re not overheard. Of course, we’re so rushed and overworked, and our budget is so low . . . frankly, we’ve had trouble finding time to replay the tapes. There’s a backlog, and all of us teachers try to spend at least an hour a day in careful replaying—”

  “I understand,” Dill murmured. “I know how overworked you all are, with all your responsibilities. It would be normal for any child her age to talk about her father. I was just curious. Obviously—” He broke off. “I believe,” he said somberly, “that I’ll have you sign a release permitting me to assume custody of her. Effective at once. Do you have someone you can send to her dorm to pick up her things? Her clothes and personal articles?” He glanced at his watch. “I don’t have too much time.”

  “She has just the standard kit,” Mrs. Parker said. “Class B, which is provided for nine-year-olds. That could be picked up anywhere. You can take her right—I’ll have the form made out at once.” She opened the door to the principal’s office and waved to a clerk.

  “You have no objection to my taking her?” Dill said.

  “Certainly not,” Mrs. Parker answered. “Why do you ask?”

  In a dark, introspective voice, Dill said, “It would put an end to her schooling, for one thing.”

  “I don’t see that that matters.”

  Dill eyed her, and she became flustered; his steady gaze made her shrink away. “I suppose,” he said, “that schooling for her has been a failure anyhow. So it doesn’t matter.”

  “That’s right,” she said quickly. “We can’t help malcontents like her. As you pointed out in your statement to the class.”

  “Have her taken down to my car,” Dill said. “She’s been detained by someone capable of restraining her, I presume. It would be a shame if she selected this moment to sneak off.”

  “We have her locked in one of the washrooms,” Mrs. Parker said.

  Again he eyed her, but this time he said nothing. While she shakily made out the proper form he took a moment to gaze out the window at the playground below. Now it was recess; the faint, muffled voices of the children drifted up to the office.

  “What game is that?” Dill said finally. “Where they mark with the chalk.” He pointed.

  “I don’t know,” she said, looking over his shoulder.

  At that, Dill was dumbfounded. “You mean you let them play unorganized games? Games of their own devising?”

  “No,” sh
e said. “I mean I’m not in charge of playground teaching; it’s Miss Smollet who handles that. See her down there?”

  When the custody transfer had been made out, Dill took it from her and departed. Presently she saw, through the window, the man and his staff crossing the playground. She watched as he waved genially to the children, and she saw him stop several times to bend down to speak to some individual child.

  How incredible, she thought. That he could take the time for ordinary persons like us.

  At Dill’s car she saw the Fields girl. The small shape, wearing a coat, the bright red hair shimmering in the sun . . . and then an official of Dill’s staff had boosted the child into the back of the car. Dill got in too, and the doors slammed. The car drove off. On the playground, a group of children had gathered by the high wire fence to wave.

  Still trembling, Mrs. Parker made her way back up the corridor to her classroom. Is my job safe? she asked herself. Will I be investigated, or can I believe him? After all, he did give me his absolute assurance, and no one can contradict him. I know my record is clear, she thought desperately. I’ve never done anything subversive; I asked not to have that child in my class, and I never discuss current events in the classroom; I’ve never slipped once. But suppose—

  Suddenly, at the corner of her eye, something moved.

  She halted rigid where she was. A flicker of motion. Now gone. What was it? A deep, intuitive dread filled her; something had been there, near her, unobserved. Now swiftly vanished— she had caught only the most indistinct glimpse.

  Spying on her! Some mechanism overhearing her. She was being watched. Not just the children, she thought in terror. But us, too. They have us watched, and I never knew for sure; I only guessed.

  Could it read my thoughts? she asked herself. No, nothing can read thoughts. And I wasn’t saying anything aloud. She looked up and down the corridor, striving to make out what it had been.

  Who does it report to? she wondered. The police? Will they come and get me, take me to Atlanta or some place like that?

  Gasping with fear, she managed to open the door of her classroom and enter.