Collected Short Fiction, page 18
“It’s simple,” said Nelson. “We’ve got a psychotic machine; the doggone thing has hallucinations.”
“Or a good imagination,” Stein said.
“Let me follow around with this altitude control a bit,” the priest said. He moved the lever again and again; but the scene didn’t change—only the people in it. Then he tried the directional controls. Nothing happened; they had no effect whatsoever. “That’s funny,” he said softly.
“Screwy as hell,” agreed Quinlan. “I mean—”
“That’s all right, Quinlan,” the priest said. He stood up and walked over to the meter panels, pulled out a notebook, and jotted down the readings.
“Jerry,” he said, “would you mind turning the altitude control down, just as if the a-g shell were away up in the air? Bring it down to the origin.”
AS STEIN moved the control, Father Riley watched the meters; only one of them moved. One potentiometer moved steadily toward zero, then it stopped.
“Hey, Father,” Quinlan called. “Come look at the screen now!”
Riley walked back to the screen.
There were no ghosts on the screen now. The camera was pointed directly at the screen, where the four men were grouped. And that was exactly what the screen showed: four men grouped around a screen, doing exactly what they were doing.
They looked at the screen for a long moment. Then, almost as one, they swivelled their heads to look at the center of the sub-electronic field, where the camera presumably was.
There was nothing there.
“Man, I don’t get it,” Nelson said.
None of them had heard the door slide open, and they were unaware of another presence in the room until they heard Dr. Treadwell’s rasping tenor voice say, “Well, well, well! All as busy as little beavers, I see.”
Father Riley whirled immediately; but before he could say anything, Lee Nelson interposed. “We were waiting for you to come down, sir; we’ve got something here you ought to see.”
“Hmm.” Treadwell’s tight lips were curved into what he presumed was a pleasant smile. He rubbed his big nose with a forefinger and looked inquiringly at Father Riley.
“What seems to be the trouble, Padre?”
It took the better part of half an hour for them to bring Treadwell up to date on the weird operation of the interspace projector. At first, Treadwell just asked questions, which the three technicians answered while Father Riley maintained a discreet silence. As Treadwell began to see more and more of what was going on, his voice began to become more and more, authoritative.
Finally, he said: “It appears to me that there is something wrong with the scanning circuits and the controls in the antigravity shell. We’ll cut the field and take a look at them. Then we’ll go over the receiver carefully. We’ll have to try this again when the machine is properly in working order.”
Stein glanced in appeal at Father Riley, who shook his head. “I don’t think that’s proper procedure, Dr. Treadwell,” the priest said carefully; “it seems to me we’ve stumbled on something important.”
Treadwell raised his eyebrows. “And just what would that be, Padre?” Riley lifted his shoulders a little. “I’m not sure, but I don’t think the answer is in faulty circuits.”
“Really, Padre,” said Treadwell, smiling patronizingly, “what else could it be that gives such peculiar ghosts? We’ve all seen multiple ghosts on orthodox TV screens, haven’t we?”
FATHER RILEY said nothing. He had never liked Treadwell’s use of the “padre” form of address. One of these fine days, he thought, I’m going to call him Herr Professor Doktor Oberst-Leutnant and see what his reaction is.
“Look at it this way, Padre,” said Treadwell, in what he must have thought was a mild, explanatory voice. “You are a mathematician, and a brilliant one—no one doubts that.” He paused, and Riley studied the other’s face, waiting for him to get to the point.
Seeing no response forthcoming, Treadwell continued. “But I am a physicist; I know sub-electronics, and sub-nucleonics as well or better than any man in the field. After all, I did my doctorate work in calibrating sub-etheric field potentials.”
The priest nodded silently, heroically refraining from pointing out that Treadwell had done his work under the supervision of the late, great Dr. John Purvis, and hadn’t done a thing since.
“We’ll be glad to let you look at our results,” Treadwell continued importantly, “but please leave the experimentation to us.”
Quinlan and Stein, obviously embarrassed by their superior officer’s conduct, pretended to be busily checking the machine; but Lee Nelson walked up to the priest and patted him amicably on the arm.
“Just leave it to us, Father Riley,” he said. “We’ll get you the dope to work with—you don’t have to worry.” The Jesuit smiled. “Excellent, gentlemen. May I say, then, that the figures I require will be the degree of circuit error and the changes in capacitance and reluctance caused by them. I would also like wiring diagrams showing where the circuit errors lie.”
“We’ll have them for you tomorrow,” Treadwell said, smiling. “We’ll do everything we can to co-operate.”
“Excellent. Thank you, doctor,” said the priest stiffly. Then he turned and strode out of the room.
He was boiling mad.
2
THE NEXT afternoon, Jerry Stein rang at the door of Father Riley’s study and stepped inside when the door slid open.
The priest put down the copy of the Racing Form he had been reading and smiled at Stein. “Hello, Jerry; am I to presume you have the figures I asked for yesterday?”
Stein grinned sheepishly. “Naturally not. Treadwell doesn’t even know I’m up here. You and I both know there was nothing wrong with those circuits. I’m surprised you didn’t punch him soundly on the end of that bloated beak of his.”
“I must admit,” said Father Riley, slowly, “to a certain feeling of antagonism. However, that’s no reason to allow a venial sin to lead to a mortal one.”
“I didn’t know a punch in the nose was a mortal sin,” Jerry said with a broad smile.
“It isn’t,” Father Riley said darkly, “but murder is.”
“I see what you mean.” Stein paused a moment, letting his eyes rove around the chaplain’s office, and then said: “I just thought I’d come up and tell you what we’ve found out so far, and see if you have any ideas.”
The priest grinned and leaned forward in his chair. His blue eyes seemed to gleam mischievously. “Don’t tell me; let me guess. You didn’t find anything. There’s nothing wrong with either component of the setup—at least when they’re tested separately. As long as the a-g shell isn’t in the field, it responds perfectly to the controls; as soon as it’s shoved into interspace, it responds only to the altitude control by shifting the scenery around.”
“Yup,” Stein agreed, nodding. “That’s what you found out yesterday, and that’s what Treadwell has taken twenty-four hours to confirm. So you tell me: what’s wrong?”
FATHER RILEY’S smile faded a little. “There’s nothing at all wrong. The setup is working just exactly as it ought to be working.”
“Now just a minute,” Stein protested. “What do you mean by—”
“I’ll explain,” the priest said. “The setup’s all right; we’re the ones who are fouled up. You have to be relativistic in these scientific matters,” he said, rubbing a finger back and forth over the worn binding of the breviary on the desk.
“Our error,” the priest continued, “lay in our thinking—our interpretation of what Bleeckman meant by ‘interspace.’ He probably didn’t know, himself, what his own equations meant—in terms of the physical universe. We have to go back to Einstein’s General Relativity Equations for the first, glimmerings of an answer. I’ve been doing some work on it; the calculations aren’t difficult, but I haven’t finished them yet.”
“What is it? Do you know what it is?” Jerry Stein’s voice indicated excitement, and his eyes brightened.
“I think so,” Riley said slowly. “But,” he added, forestalling the question on the tip of Stein’s tongue, “I’m not going to say anything until I’m sure.”
Stein looked disappointed, but he kept it to himself. He stared around the room once again, assimilating everything the priest had said. During the moments of silence, Father Riley busied himself with tidying his desk and straightening the dogeared, tattered books perched in one corner. He waited patiently.
Finally Jerry emerged from thought. Glancing curiously at the Racing Form, he said, boyishly, “Got any tips on the races, Father?”
The twinkle came back into Riley’s eyes. “I don’t think you came up here to talk about sub-etheric physics at all,” he said accusingly. “You were just looking for a good tip. Shame on you—asking a priest to be a track tout!” Stein chuckled. “You don’t kid me, Father,” he said. “I know you can talk to horses; come on, what’s the sure thing for tomorrow?”
Father Riley looked judiciously at the Form. He closed his eyes for a moment. “Personally, I would play the daily double; try Star Beast in the first, and Meadowgrass in the second.”
“Dogs, both of ’em,” retorted Stein. “Some tip. Say, how come you never bet on your own tips? Don’t you believe in gambling?”
“It’s not that,” the priest said thoughtfully. “I just don’t care to break the Seventh Commandment.” Stein thought for a moment. Father Riley could see his lips silently framing “first . . . second . . .”
At length Jerry said, “Is it stealing to win at the races?”
“It can be,” Riley said. “Now, about this interspace phenomenon,” he went on, abruptly changing the subject. “I’ve got a little experiment I’d like you to try, if you would.”
“Yeah? What is it?”
“I want you to promise you’ll do just as I ask, without asking questions. Promise?”
Stein nodded solemnly. “I guess so,” he said; “I can trust you, Father.”
“Thanks. Listen carefully, then: you’ll need two synchronized chronometers, and an extension on the gravitational potentiometer so that you can see it from the TV screen. Now, I’ll show you how to set them up.”
He took a piece of paper from his desk and began sketching with a pencil.
JERRY STEIN had been gone for three hours by the time Father Riley finished computing the equations he had started working with. He leaned back and looked at them, cocking his feet up on his desk. They looked as though they were ready to program through the Space Service’s new DEMONIAC computor.
He reached out and dialed the Computor Building. A terribly efficientlooking young man responded, but when the priest finished outlining his request all he got was the curt, “I’ll have to refer you to the officer in charge.”
Riley waited patiently until another face, fleshier and older, came into view.
“I’d like to use the DEMONIAC,” Father Riley said without preamble.
The officer in charge nodded and said, “I’ll switch you to the programming officer.”
“What kind of runaround is this?” the priest demanded, without avail. The programming officer, a red-faced man named McGloin—whose confessional, could Father Riley have revealed it, would have made quite a novel—turned even redder when he saw he was talking to the priest, stammered an apology, and explained that he could do nothing without the okay of the programming director.
“He’s the highest jackass you’ve got, eh? All right, put him on.”
They put the programming director on, finally; and he gave the priest an answer he didn’t like.
Riley broke the connection and dialed again; this time, he got the office of the adjutant.
The adjutant of Sahara Base was a small, wiry colonel who wore a perpetual look of astonishment.
“I want to talk to the General,” Riley demanded. His tone was carefully chosen to indicate he’d brook no nonsense.
The colonel glanced at the golden crosses on the priest’s collar and at the major’s stripes on his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Chaplain; the General’s given orders not to be disturbed.”
“I know,” said Riley; “he’s taking his afternoon nap. Wake him up.”
The colonel’s expression of astonishment became more genuine. “Now, see here, Major,” he said, emphasizing Father Riley’s rank, “when the general says he is not to be disturbed, he is not to be disturbed.”
The priest’s blue eyes lost their warmth and became icy. “Colonel, please tell General Borwin that Father Sean Riley wants to talk to him on a matter of utmost importance. I’ll take the responsibility. If you don’t get him up, I’ll come stomping into his office and do it myself.”
The colonel’s hesitation was shortlived. “Very well, Major,” he said finally. “If it’s that important—”
A FEW MOMENTS later, General Borwin’s face came on the screen. His brows were frowning over his corvine nose. “What’s the trouble, Father?”
“I’m mad, Charlie,” said Father Riley levelly; “God help me, I’m mad clear through. Just because you felt you needed me, I left a perfectly good teaching position at Sacred Heart; I accepted a commission in the Service so that I could work with the Research Corps. I go to all the trouble of getting special permission from my Order just to work on this thing for you. And what do I get? I get a birdheaded moron like Lieutenant-Colonel William Treadwell, that’s what I get! Bilious Bill Treadwell! The original splinter in the bannister of progress!”
“Calm down, Father,” the general said, patting the air with a hand.
“I am perfectly calm, Charlie; I’m just mad. That loathsome—”
“What’s Pappy Treadwell done now?”
“He’s put one over on both of us,” Riley said.
“How do you mean?”
“I refer to Special Order Number 33672, dated yesterday, which prohibits the use of the DEMONIAC to any personnel except officers of the Research Corps, without explicit permission of the Commanding General. The request was signed by Treadwell, and you okayed it.”
Borwin frowned. “Yes, I remember—By Heaven! I never thought about it! It seemed harmless enough! But the thing was directed toward you, of course; who else would want to use the computor?”
“Exactly,” said the priest. “I’m not a member of the Research Corps; I’m only a chaplain. I’m bound by the Space Service rule forbidding properly ordained ministers from entering any other branch of the service.”
“Well, that’s easily fixed, Father,” Borwin said; “Ell phone over the okay right away.”
“That’s fine, Charlie,” Riley said, “but it’s not enough. I want Treadwell kept out of my hair. If I can’t do what I came here to do, I’ll resign my commission and go back to teaching.” Borwin nodded. “I’ll see what I can do about Treadwell, Father. It’s not always easy to put personnel in the place where they’re most capable, you know; and it’s not easy to get them out of that place sometimes if they don’t work out; you know what I mean. But keep in touch with me, eh?”
“I will, Charlie.” Father Riley cut the connection. He sat back, allowing the tension he had accumulated over the past half hour to seep out of his nervous system. Coping with pass-the-buck-ism was something he had never learned to do very well, and wilful, blithe ignorance of the kind exemplified by Treadwell required all of Riley’s self-control to tolerate.
His moment of relaxation over, he muttered a brief prayer and left. Twenty minutes later, he was in the Computor Building, feeding data into the DEMONIAC and allowing himself to be caught up in the magical rhythm of the sounds coming from the vast mechanical brain.
An hour after that, he was frowning at his results, twice as puzzled as before.
3
ALL HELL broke loose the next morning. It was heralded by the appearance of Dr. Treadwell at Father Riley’s study door. After a night of uneasy dreams—which Riley had concluded at 0500, unable to sleep longer, with four hours of deep brooding and a reading of St. Bonaventura to calm his nerves—the Jesuit was not at all anxious to see Treadwell. It was an unpleasant way to begin a day, certainly.
But it was plain that Treadwell was in a state of mind which could only be referred to as a high dudgeon, and, after dreamily considering and rejecting the possibility of shutting off the screen and leaving Treadwell in the corridor, Riley pressed the button and let him in.
As soon as he was admitted, Treadwell said, without preamble: “What is the idea of assigning experimental work to my men without my permission. Major?”
Father Riley looked at him with a one-eyed squint. “Oh? Did I?” he asked innocently. “I don’t recall making any such assignment.”
“Lieutenant Jerome Stein was in the laboratory yesterday afternoon, doing absurd things with a chronometer. It was your idea,” Treadwell snapped.
Father Riley folded his hands across the front of his cassock. “That it may have been,” he said mildly; “but it wasn’t an order.”
“Am I to understand, Padre,” Treadwell asked in a suddenly treacly voice, “that you refuse to accept the responsibility for Lieutenant Stein’s actions? Am I to assume that he did it on his own?”
“Am I to assume, Lieutenant-Colonel Treadwell,” Father Riley said coldly, “that you discourage independent research on the part of your personnel?”
“I—” Treadwell began, but the chiming of the phone cut him off.
Father Riley pushed the answer button, General Borwin’s sharp-nosed face formed on the screen. “Father, what’s this thing about a time machine?” He sounded utterly bewildered.
“You have my report, General,” said Riley; “I got the data from Lieutenant Stein this morning.”
“I want a complete run-down on this, Father,” Borwin said, visibly shaken. “I’ll be down in the lab in ten minutes. I’ll get hold of Treadwell, too.”
Riley glanced at Treadwell and then back at General Borwin. “Dr. Treadwell is here now, General. We’ve been discussing the results.”
