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  “Fantastic.”

  “And,” Febbs said, “the chances are good that pellets might land and immediately cam in the vicinity of the villa of a SeRKeb member. And that could mean the collapse of the government.”

  “But,” the portly man said, with a trace of worry, “don’t they have hardware equally sinister? I mean—”

  “Peep-East,” Febbs said, “would retaliate. Naturally. Probably they’d try out their Sheep Dip Isolator.”

  “Oh yeah,” the portly businessman said, nodding. “I’ve read about that. They used it when their colony on Io revolted last year.”

  “We in the West,” Febbs said, “have never smelled the Sheep Dip Isolator’s implementing irritant. It’s said to defy description.”

  “I read somewhere that a rat that’s died in the wall—”

  “Far worse. I admit they have something there. It descends in the form of condensation from a Type VI Julian the Apostate satellite. The drops spatter in an area of say ten square miles. And wherever they land they penetrate inter-mol-wise—intermolecularly —and can’t be eradicated, even by Supsolv-x, that new detergent we have. Nothing works.”

  He spoke calmly, showing that he faced this tearwep without blenching. It was a fact of life, like going regularly to the dentist; Peep-East possessed it, might use it, but even this Sheep Dip Isolator could be matched by something of Wes-bloc’s that was more effective.

  But he could imagine the Sheep Dip Isolator in Boise, Idaho. The effect on the million citizens of the city. They would awaken to the stench, and it would be inter-mol everywhere, on and in buildings, in sub-supra- and surface-vehicles, autofacs—and the stench would drive one million people out of the city. Boise, Idaho, would become a ghost city, inhabited only by autonomic mechanisms still grinding away uncursed by the possession of noses—and by the smell.

  It made you stop and think.

  “But they won’t use it,” Febbs decided, aloud. “Because we could retaliate with, for instance—”

  He scanned the fantastically extensive data-collection imbedded in his mind. He could envision a host of retalweps which would make the Sheep Dip Isolator small spuds indeed. “We’d try,” he pronounced decisively, as if it were up to him, “the Civic Notification Distorter.”

  “Chrissake, what’s that?”

  “The final solution,” Febbs said, “in my opinion, in n-e weapons.” N-e: that signified the esoteric term, used in Wes-bloc’s weapons-circles such as the Board which he now (God in his wisdom be praised!) belonged to, needle-eye. And needle-eyeification was the fundamental direction which weapons had been taking for a near-half-century. It meant, simply, weapons with the most precise effect conceivable. In theory it was possible to imagine a weapon—as yet unbuilt, probably untranced of by Mr. Lars himself, still—that would slay one given individual at a given instant at a given intersection in one particular given city in Peep-East. Or in Wes-bloc, for that matter. Peep-East, Wes-bloc: what difference did it make? The important thing would be the existence of the weapon itself. The perfect weapon.

  God, how clearly he could conceive it in his own mind. One would sit down—he would—in a room. Before him, a control panel with dials … and one single button. He would read the dials, note the settings. Time, space, the synchronicity of the dimensional factors would move toward fusion. And Gafne Rostow (that was the everyman name for the average enemy citizen) would walk briskly toward that spot, to arrive at that time. He, Febbs, would press the button and Gafne Rostow would—

  Hmm. Would disappear? No, that was too maj. Too magical. Not in accord with the reality-situation. Gafne Rostow, a minor bureaucrat in some temporary, small-budget ministry, of the Soviet Government, someone with a rubber stamp, desk, cramped office— he wouldn’t just disappear: he would be converted.

  This was the part which made Febbs shiver with relish. He did so now, causing the portly gentleman beside him to withdraw slightly and raise an eyebrow.

  “Converted,” Febbs said, “into a rug.”

  The portly businessman stared.

  “A rug,” Febbs repeated, irritably. “Don’t you understand? Or has the Judaeo-Christian tradition impaired your judgment? What kind of patriot are you?”

  “I’m a patriot,” the portly businessman said defensively.

  “With glass eyes,” Febbs said. “Natural-simulated. Of course if it didn’t have good teeth, regular and white, if there were unsightly fillings or you couldn’t get the yellow stain removed, it could be a wall-hanging. Flat.” The head could be discarded.

  The portly businessman began, uneasily, to read his ’pape.

  “I’ll give you the poop,” Febbs said, “on the Civic Notification Distorter. It’s n-e but not terror. Not terminal. I mean it doesn’t kill. It’s in the conf class.”

  “I know what that means,” the portly gentleman said hurriedly, keeping his eyes on the homeopape. Obviously he did not care to continue the discussion —for reasons which eluded Febbs. Perhaps, Febbs decided, the man felt guilty at his ignorance on this vital topic. “That means confusions. Disorienting.”

  “The Civic Notification Distorter,” Febbs said, “bases its operation on the requirement that in present-day society every filled-out official form has to be recorded, microwise, in trio or quad or quin. Three, four or five copies in every instance have to be made. The weapon functions in a relatively uncomplicated manner. All micro-copies, after being Xeroxed, are carried over coaxial lines to file-repositories, generally subsurface and away from population centers, in case of a major war. You know, so they’ll survive I mean, records have got to survive. So the Civic Notification Distorter is launched ground-to-ground say from Newfoundland to Peking. I’ve selected Peking because that’s the Sino-South-Asia civic-institution concentration for that half of Peep-East; that’s where their half of their total records originate. It strikes, screwing itself within a matter of microseconds out of sight in the ground; no visible trace survives. And at once it extends pseudo-podia which search out, subsurface, until it contacts a co-ax carrying data to an archive. You see?”

  “Um,” the portly businessmen said, half-heartedly, trying to read. “Say, this new satellite’s design suggests possibly it even—”

  “And the distorter,” Febbs said, “operates from that instant on in a way for which the word ‘inspired’ is not excessive. It diverts integers of the data, the fundamental message-units, so that they no longer agree. In other words, copy two of the original document no longer can be superimposed on copy one. Copy three disagrees with copy two at one higher order of distortion. If a fourth copy exists it is reconstituted so that—”

  “If you know so much about weapons,” the portly businessman broke in disagreeably, “why aren’t you in Festung Washington, D.C.?”

  Surley G. Febbs, with the mere trace of a smile, said, “I am, fella. Wait and see. You’re going to hear about me. Remember the name Surley G. Febbs. Got it? Surley Febbs. F as in fungus.”

  The portly businessman said, “Just tell me one thing. Then frankly, Mr. Febbs, F as in fungus, I don’t want to hear any more; I can’t take any more in. You said ‘rug.’ What was that? Why a rug? ‘Glass eyes,’ you said. And something about ‘natural simulated.’” Uneasily, with tangible aversion, he said, “You mean?”

  “I mean,” Febbs said quietly, “that something should remain as a reminder. So you know you achieved it.” He searched for, found the proper term to express his emotions, his intent. “A trophy.”

  The loudspeaker blurted, “We are now landing at Abraham Lincoln Field. Surface travel to Festung Washington, D.C. thirty-five miles to the east is available at slight additional cost; retain your ticket-receipt in order to qualify for low, low fares.”

  Febbs glanced out the window for the first time during the trip and saw below him, gratifyingly, his new abode, the enormous, sprawling population center which was the capital of Wes-bloc. The source from which all authority emanated. Authority which he now shared.

  And
with the fund of his knowledge the world situation would rapidly pick up. He could, on the basis of this conversation, foresee that.

  Wait until I sit in on the top-security closed-session Board meetings down in the subsurface kremlin with General Nitz and Mr. Lars and the rest of those fellas, he said to himself. The balance of power between East and West is going to radically alter. And boy, are they going to know about it in New Moscow and Peking and Havana.

  The ship, retrojets whistling, began to descend.

  But how best, Febbs inquired of himself, can I really serve my power-bloc? I’m not going to receive that one-sixth slice, that one component, which a concomody is asked to plowshare. That’s not enough for me. Not after this conversation. It’s made me see things straight. I’m a top weapons expert—although, admittedly, I don’t have one of those formal degrees from some university or the Air Arm Military Academy at Cheyenne. Plowsharing? Is that all I can offer in the way of unique knowledge and talent so exceptional that you’d have to go back to the Roman Empire and even before to find its equal?

  Hell no, he realized. Plowsharing is for the average man. I’m that, computerwise, statistically-speaking, but underneath that I’m Surley Grant Febbs, as I just now said to this man beside me. There are a lot of average men. Six always sit on the Board. But there’s only Surley Febbs.

  I want the complete weapon.

  And when I get there and sit with them officially I’m going to get my hands on it. Whether they like it or not.

  TEN

  As Lars Powderdry and the others emerged from the theater in which the video tape of item 278 had been run, a loitering figure approached them.

  “Mr. Lanferman?” Gasping for breath, eyes like sewn-on buttons, the football-shaped, ill-dressed, broken reed sort of individual was lugging an enormous sample-case. He wedged himself in their path, blocking all escape. “I just want a minute. Just let me say a couple of things—okay?”

  It was one of Jack Lanferman’s headaches, an encounter with marginal operators such as this man, Vincent Klug. Under the circumstances it was hard to know whom to feel more sorry for, Jack Lanferman who was big, powerful and expensive, as well as busy, with no idle time to spare, in that as a hedonist his time was convertible into physical pleasure and that was that. Or for Klug.

  For years Vincent Klug had hung around. God knew how he gained access to the subsurface portion of Lanferman Associates. Probably someone at a minor post had been moved to pity and opened the floodgate a bare inch, recognizing that if not let in, Klug would remain a careless pest, would never give up. But this act of rather self-serving compassion by one of Lanferman’s tiny above-surface employees merely transferred the pest-problem one level down—literally. Or up, if you viewed it figuratively. Because now Klug was so positioned as to bother the boss.

  It was Klug’s contention that the world needs toys.

  This was his answer to whatever riddle the serious members of society confronted themselves with: poverty, deranged sex-crimes, senility, altered genes from over-exposure to radiation … you name the problem and Klug opened his enormous sample-case and hauled out the solution. Lars had heard the toymaker expound this on several occasions: life itself was unendurable and hence had to be ameliorated. As a thing-in-itself it could not actually be lived. There had to be some way out. Mental, moral and physical hygiene demanded it.

  “Look at this,” Klug said wheezingly to Jack Lanferman, who had halted indulgently, for the moment at least. Klug knelt down, deposited a miniature figure on the corridor floor. With blurred speed he added one after another more until a dozen figures stood ganged together, and then Klug presented the small assembly with a citadel.

  There was no doubt; the citadel was an armed fortress. Not archaic—not, for instance, a medieval castle—and yet not contemporary either. It was fanciful, and Lars was intrigued.

  “This particular game,” Klug explained, “is called Capture. These here—” he indicated the dozen figures, which Lars now discovered were oddly uniformed soldiers—“they want to get in. And it—” Klug indicated the citadel—“it wants to keep them out. If any one of them, just one, manages to get inside, the game’s over. The attackers have won. But if the Monitor—”

  “The what?” Jack Lanferman said.

  “This.” Klug patted the citadel affectionately. “I spent six months wiring it. If this destroys all twelve attacking troops, then the defenders have won. Now.”

  From his sample-case he produced another item. “This is the nexus through which the player operates either the attackers, if that’s the side he’s chosen, or the Monitor, if he’s going to be the defenders.”

  He held the objects toward Jack, who, however, declined. “Well,” Klug said philosophically, “anyhow this is a sample computer that even a seven-year-old can program. Any number up to six can play. The players take turns—”

  “All right,” Jack Lanferman said patiently. “You’ve built a prototype. Now what do you want me to do?”

  Rapidly Klug said, “I want it analyzed to see how much it would cost to autofac. In lots of five hundred. As a starter. And I’d like to see it run on your ’facs, because yours are the best in the world.”

  “I know that,” Lanferman said.

  “Will you do it?”

  Lanferman said, “You couldn’t afford to pay me to cost-analyze this item. And if you could, you couldn’t even begin to put up the retainer necessary if I were to have my ’facs run off even fifty, let alone five hundred. You know that, Klug.”

  Swallowing, perspiring, Klug hesitated and then said, “My credit’s no good, Jack?”

  “Your credit’s good. Any credit is good. But you don’t have any. You don’t even know what the word means. Credit means—”

  “I know,” Klug broke in. “It means the ability to pay later for what’s bought now. But if I had five hundred of this number ready for the Fall market—”

  “Let me ask you something,” Lanferman said.

  “Sure, Jack. Mr. Lanferman.”

  “How, in that strange brain of yours, do you conceive a method by which you can advertise? This would be a high-cost item at every level, especially at retail. You couldn’t merchandise it through one buyer for a chain of autodepts. It would have to go to cog-class families and be exposed in cog mags. And that’s expensive.”

  “Hmm,” Klug said.

  Lars spoke up. “Klug, let me ask you something.”

  “Mr. Lars.” Klug extended his hand eagerly.

  “Do you honestly believe that a war-game constitutes a morally adequate product to deliver over to children? Can you fit this into that theory of yours about ‘ameliorating’ the iniquities of modern—”

  “Oh wait,” Klug said, raising his hand. “Wait, Mr. Lars.”

  “I’m waiting.” He waited.

  “Through capture the child learns the futility of war.”

  Lars eyed him skeptically. Like hell he does, he thought.

  “I mean it.” Vigorously, Klug’s head bobbed up and down in a convinced determined nod of self-assent. “Listen, Mr. Lars; I know the story. Temporarily, I admit it, my firm is in bankruptcy, but I still have cog inside knowledge. I understand, and I’m sympathetic. Believe me. I’m really very, totally sympathetic; I couldn’t agree more with what you’re doing. Honestly.”

  “What am I doing?”

  “I don’t merely mean you, Mr. Lars, although you’re one of the foremost—” Klug groped urgently for the means to express his fervid ideas, now that he had ensnared an audience. To Klug, Lars observed, an audience consisted of anyone above the number of zero, and above the age of two. Cog and pursap alike; Klug would have pleaded with them all. Because what he was doing, what he wanted, was so important.

  Pete Freid said, “Make a model for some simple toy, Klug.” His tone was gentle. “Something the autodept networks can market for a couple of beans. With maybe one moving part. You’d run off a few thousand for him, wouldn’t you, Jack? If he brought in a really
simple piece?”

  To Vincent Klug he said, “Give me specs and I’ll build the prototype for you and maybe get a cost analysis.” To Jack he quickly explained, “I mean on my own time, of course.”

  Sighing, Lanferman said, “You can use our shops. But please for God’s sake don’t kill yourself trying to bail out this guy. Klug was in the toy business, and a goddam failure, before you were out of college. He’s had a hatful of chances and muffed every one.”

  Klug stared at the floor drearily.

  “I’m one of the foremost what?” Lars asked him.

  Without raising his head Klug said, “The foremost healing and constructive forces in our sick society. And you, who are so few, must never be harmed.”

  After a suitable interval Lars, Pete Freid and Jack Lanferman howled with laughter.

  “Okay,” Klug said. With a sort of miserable, beaten-dog, philosophic slumped shrug he began gathering up his twelve tiny soldiers and his Monitor-citadel. He looked ever increasingly glum and deflated, and clearly he was going to leave—which, for him, was unusual. In fact unheard of.

  Lars said, “Don’t interpret our reaction as—”

  “It’s not misunderstood,” Klug said in a faraway voice. “The last thing any of you wants to hear is that you’re not pandering to the sick inclinations of a depraved society. It’s easier for you to pretend you’ve been bought by a bad system.”

  “I never heard such strange logic in my life,” Jack Lanferman said, genuinely puzzled. “Have you, Lars?”

  Lars said, “I think I know what he means, only he’s not able to say it. Klug means that we’re in weapons design and manufacture and so we feel we’ve got to be tough. It’s our great and bounden duty, as the Common Prayer Book says. People who invent and implement devices that blow up other people should be cynical. Only the fact is we’re loveable.”

  “Yes,” Klug said, nodding. “That’s the word. Love is the basis of your lives, all three of you. You all share it, but especially you, Lars. Compare yourselves to the dreadful police and military agencies who are the real and awful personages in power. Compare your motivation to KACH in particular, and the FBI and KVB. SeRKeb and Natsec. Their basis—”