H L Gold (ed), page 15
“That’s right, sir. Perhaps you didn’t notice Paragraph
Eight of my orders. General Follansbee’s instructions were to—
He interrupted me with a disrespectful comment on General Follansbee, but I pretended not to hear. Besides, he might have been right.
I said: “As a starter, sir, perhaps you’ll be good enough to show us around the laboratories. I think you’ll find that Corporal McCabe will be able to take your words down at normal speed.”
“Take what words down?”
“Your progress report, sir. What you’ve accomplished in the past twenty-four hours. Only this time, of course, we’d better have a fill-in on everything to date.”
He roared: “No! I wont! I absolutely will not!”
I was prepared for that. I let him roar. When he was through roaring, I put it to him very simply. I said: “That’s the way it’s going to be.”
He stuttered and gagged. “Why, you stinking little two-bit Army—Listen, what’s the idea—”
He stopped and looked at me, frowning. I was glad that he stopped, since in the confidential section of my orders— the paragraphs I didn’t show Dr. Horn, as he was not cleared for access to such material—there had been a paragraph which was relevant here.
Van Pelt had told the general that Horn’s health was not good. Apoplexy, I believe—I am not very familiar with medical terms. At any rate, Van Pelt, while being de-briefed by the general’s Intelligence section, had reported that the old man might drop dead at any minute. Well, he looked it, at least when he was mad. I certainly didn’t want him to drop dead before I had made a proper Situation Analysis, for which I needed his report.
Horn sat down. He said, with rusty craft: “You’re going to stick to what you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then,” he said, with a pathetic, senile cunning, “I suppose I must reconcile myself to the situation. Exactly what is it you want, Lieutenant?”
“The report, sir.”
He nodded briefly. “Just so.”
Ah-ha, I thought—to myself, of course—this will prove interesting. Do you suppose he will try to win my confidence so he can phone his Congressman? Or merely get me to turn my back so he can clobber me over the head?
"Yes, yes, the report. Just so,” he said, staring thoughtfully at a machine of some kind. It rather resembled an SCR-784, the Mark XII model, the one that has something to do with radar, or radio, something electronic. I leave that sort of thing to the Signal Corpsmen, naturally. I have my job and they have theirs. “Just so,” he repeated. “Well, I shall have to do as you wish. Observe,” he said, rising, “my polycloid quasi-tron. As you see—”
There was a strangling noise from Corporal McCabe. I looked at him; he was in difficulties.
“Sir,” I interrupted the doctor, “will you spell that, please?” He chuckled rather grimly. “Just so. P-o-l-y-c-l-o-i-d q-u-a-s-i-t-r-o-n. Well, Lieutenant, you’re familiar with the various potentiometric studies of the brain which—Perhaps I should begin further back. The brain, you must realize, is essentially an electrical device. Potentiometer studies have shown—”
Every thirty to fifty seconds he glanced at me, and turned his head half to one side, and waited. And I said, “I see," and he said, “Just so,” and he went on. Corporal McCabe was in acute distress, of course, but I rather enjoyed the exposition; it was restful. One learns to make these things restful, you see. One doesn’t spend as much time as I have in staff meetings without learning a few lessons in survival tactics.
When he had entirely finished (McCabe was groaning softly to himself), I summed it all up for him.
“In other words, sir, you’ve perfected a method of electronically killing a man without touching him.”
For some reason, that rocked Dr. Horn.
He stared at me. “Electronically,” he said after a moment. “Killing. A man. Without. Touching. Him.”
“That’s what I said, sir,” I agreed.
“Just so, just so.” He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “Lieutenant, will you tell me one thing? What in the sweet name of heaven did I say that gave you that particular stupid notion?”
I could hardly believe my ears. “Why—why, that’s what the general said, Dr. Horn! And he talked to Van Pelt, you realize.”
I wondered: Was that his little trick? Was he trying to pretend the weapon wouldn’t work?
He raved for twenty-five seconds about Van Pelt. Then he checked himself and looked thoughtful again.
“No,” he said. “No, it can’t be Van Pelt. That idiot general of yours must be off his rocker.”
I said formally: “Dr. Horn, do you state that your, ah—” I glanced at McCabe; he whispered the name—“your poly-cloid quasitron does not, through electronic means, deprive a person of life at a distance?” ‘
He scowled like a maniac. It was almost as if something were physically hurting him. With an effort, he conceded: “Oh—yes. Yes, perhaps. Would you say a locomotive oxidizes coal into impure silicaceous aggregates? It does, you know— they call them ashes. Well, then, you could say that’s what the quasitron does.”
“Well, then!”
He said, still painfully: “All right. Just so. Yes, I see what you mean. No doubt that explains why you’re here. I had wondered, I confess. You feel this is a weapon.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Ah.”
He sat down and took out a fat, stickily black pipe and began to fill it. He said cheerfully: “We understand each other then. My machine renders humans into corpses. A chipped flint will also do that—Pithecanthropus erectus discovered that quite independently some time ago—but no matter, that is the aspect which interests you. Very good.”
He lit the pipe. “I mention,” he added, puffing, “that my quasitron does something no chipped flint can do. It removes that thing which possesses only a negative definition from the human body, the quantity that we will term x, which, added to the body, produces a man, subtracted from it, leaves a corpse. You don’t care about this.”
He had me going for a moment, I admit. I said briskly: “Sir, I’m afraid I don’t understand you.”
“You’re bloody well told you don’t understand me!” he howled. “We’re all corpses, don’t you understand? Corpses inhabited by ghosts! And there’s only one man in the world who can separate the two without destroying them and that’s me. And there’s only one way in the world to do it and that’s with my quasitron! Lieutenant, you’re a stupid, pigheaded man! I—”
Well, enough was enough.
“Good afternoon, sir,” I said politely, though I knew he couldn’t hear what I said with his own voice drowning me out. I nodded to Corporal McCabe. He closed his notebook with a snap, jumped to open the door for me, and the two of us left.
There was no reason to stay, do you see? I already had all the material for my Situation Analysis.
Just the same, I got Van Pelt into my private quarters that evening. I wanted to see if I could make an assessment of the old man’s sanity.
“He’s perfectly sane, Colonel Windermere. Perfectly!” Van Pelt’s jowls were shaking. “He’s dangerous—very dangerous. Particularly dangerous to me. I mean, of course, if I hadn’t had your promise of complete protection. Of course. But dangerous. I—”
He paused, glancing at the sideboard where the bowl of fruit (I always take fruit after the evening meal) still reposed. He coughed. “Colonel, I wonder if—”
"Help yourself,” I told him.
“Thank you, thank you! My, but that looks good! Honestly, Colonel Windermere, I feel that an apple is almost Nature’s rarest treat. Well, pears, yes. I must say that pears—”
I said: “Dr. Van Pelt, excuse me. I want the straight dope on Horn. What’s this ghost business?”
He looked at me blankly, crunching. “Ghost business?” He took another bite. Crunch, crunch, “My goodness, Colonel—” crunch, crunch—“Colonel Windermere, I don’t know—Oh, the ghost businessl” Crunch. “Oh, that. Why, that’s just Dr. Horn’s way of putting it. You know his manner. You see, there is a difference between a living man and a dead man, and that difference is what Dr. Horn whimsically terms a ‘ghost.’ ” He chuckled, tossed the core into my wastebasket, and took another apple. “Call it life, plus intelligence, plus soul, if there is such a word in your lexicon, Colonel. Dr. Horn merely sums them up and terms the total ‘ghost.’ ”
I pressed him closely. “This machine is a—a ghost conjurer?” “No, no!” he cried, nearly losing 'his temper. “Colonel, don’t permit yourself to be fooled. Dr. Horn is an arrogant, unprincipled man, but he is not an ass or a faker. Forget the term ‘ghost,’ since it distresses you. Think of—think of—”
He searched for words, shrugged. “Think merely of the difference between being alive and being dead. It is that difference that Dr. Horn’s machine works on. Life, intelligence —electrical phenomena, you understand? And Dr. Horn drains them from the body, stores them—can, if he wishes, replace them, or even put them in another body.” He nodded, beamed at me, bit into the second apple. Crunch, crunch, crunch.
Well, sir!
When I had got rid of him, I sat, trying to control my temper, for some time.
This strange old man had a machine that could take a mind right out of a body—yes, and put it in another body!
Confound them, why hadn’t they said so instead of beating around the bush?
Naturally, I didn’t believe it until I saw it—and then I saw it. The next morning, at my request, Dr. Horn put a hen and a cocker spaniel into what he called his polycloid quasitron and exchanged them.
Then I believed. I saw the hen trying to wag its tail and the spaniel, whimpering, its snout bruised, endeavoring to peck corn.
Corporal McCabe’s eyes were popping out of his head. He started to write something, glanced at me, shook his head slowly and sat staring into space.
Well, time for him later. I said: “You can do it, Dr. Horn. You can take a hen and put it into a cocker spaniel and vice versa.”
He nodded, too stiff-necked to show his gratification. “Just so, Lieutenant.”
“And—and you can do it with people, too?”
“Oh, indeed I can! Indeed I can!” He scowled. “These ridiculous laws governing the conduct of institutions! I’ve tried, I swear I’ve tried, to be permitted to conduct a simple exchange. A man dying of terminal cancer, you see, and a feeble-minded youth. Why not? Put the sound mind in the sound body and let the decayed parts rot togetherl But will they let me?”
“I see. Then you’ve never done it.”
“Never.” He looked at me, his old eyes gleaming. “But now you’re here, Lieutenant. A military man. Very brave, eh? All I’ve needed is a volunteer. That coward Van Pelt refused, my gardener refused, everyone has refused! But you—”
“Negative, sir!” Confound the man’s arrogance! “I am not a lieutenant. I am a field-grade officerl I don’t imagine you appreciate the investment our service has in me!”
“But, Lieutenant, the importance—"
“Negative, sir!”
The man’s stupidity amazed me. Me, a lieutenant colonel! What would it do to my 201 file? What about my time in grade? The Pentagon would rock, literally rock!
I said, trying to be calm: “You don’t understand military matters, Dr. Horn. I assure you, if there is a need for volunteers, we will find them for you. Believe me, sir, we are here to help! Why, one of our enlisted men will be pleased—proud, sir!—to offer his services in this—Corporal McCabe! Come back here!”
But it was too late. Moaning, he had fled the room.
I turned to Dr. Horn, a little embarrassed. “Well, sir, we understand these things—a shock to the boy, of course. But I’ll find you a volunteer. Trust me.”
The man was as pleased as a fourth-year cadet in June Week, but he still wouldn’t show it. Stiffly, he said: “Just so, Lieutenant—Major, I mean. Or Captain. Tomorrow will do splendidly.”
Tomorrow! That wonderful day! For I saw Dr. Horn do just as he had promised and I—I alone among them all—I saw what it meant. A weapon? Nonsense, it was much, much more than that!
There was the matter of finding volunteers. Trust me for that, as I had told Dr. Horn.
There was the latrine orderly in Able Company—AWOL, and when I explained to him what a court-martial would do, he volunteered with blinding speed. Didn’t even ask what he was volunteering for.
We needed two. My executive officer, I am proud to say, volunteered to be the second. A courageous man, typical of the very best leadership type.
We arrived in Dr. Horn’s laboratory. The men were strapped in place and anesthetized—at my request; I wanted to maintain security, so naturally I couldn’t let them know what was happening. Just before he went under, the exec whispered, “Sir—no Korea?”
“I promise, Captain,” I said solemnly, and before his eyes I ripped up the transfer recommendation I had written the night before. He went to sleep happy.
Biz, buzz, crackle. I don’t understand these scientific things, but when the electric sparks had stopped flashing and the whiny, drony sounds had died away, Dr. Horn gave them each a shot of something, one at a time.
The latrine orderly opened his eyes. I stepped before him. “Name, rank, and serial number!”
“Sir,” he said crisply, “Lefferts, Robert T., Captain, A.U.S., Serial Number 0-33396151”
Good heavens! But I made sure with a test question: “Where is it you don’t want to be transferred?”
“Why—why, Korea, sir. Please, sir, not there! I’ll volunteer for your test. I’ll—”
I nodded to Dr. Horn and another needle put him back to sleep.
Then the body that was my exec. The body opened its eyes. “Cunnel, suhl I changin’ my mind. I’ll take the guardhouse, suh, only—”
“At ease!” I commanded, and nodded to Dr. Horn.
There was no doubt about it. “You really did it.”
He nodded. “Just so, Lieutenant. I really did.”
As he switched them back again, I began to realize what it all meant.
In my office, I got on the phone.
“Crash priority!” I ordered. “The Pentagon! General Fol-lansbee, priority and classified. Ask him to stand by for scrambler!”
I slapped the field phone into its case. A weapon? A weapon was nothing by comparison. We had the world by the tail. I confess I was floating on a cloud of pure joy. I saw my eagles within my grasp, perhaps, in a year or less, my first star—there was nothing the Army would deny the officer who could give them what I could offer.
A rattle and a crash, and Van Pelt thumped into my room, his face smeared, one hand clutching a melting chocolate bar. “Colonel Windermere!” he gasped. "You let Horn make his test! But that’s all he’s been waiting for! He—”
It was unbearable. "O’Hare!” I roared. Sergeant O’Hare appeared, looking uncomfortable. “How dare you let this man in here without my permission? Don’t you realize I’m making a classified scrambler call to the Pentagon O’Hare said weakly: “Sir, he—”
“Get him out of here!”
“Yessirl” The fat little man kicked up a fuss, but O’Hare was much bigger than he. Just the same, Van Pelt gave him a tussle. He was yelling something, all upset, but my call to the Pentagon came through and I frankly didn’t listen.
“General Follansbee? Windermere here, sir. Please scramble!” I slapped the button that scrambled the call from my end. In a moment I heard the general’s voice come through in clear, but anyone tapping in on the scrambled circuit would hear nothing but electronic garbage.
I gave him a quick, concise account of what I had seen. He was irritated at first—disappointed. I had thought he would be.
“Change them around, Windermere?” he complained in a high-pitched voice. “Why, what’s the use of changing them around? Do you see any strategic value in that? Might confuse them a little, I suppose—if we could get a couple of the enemy commanders. But is that all there is to it? I was looking for something bigger, Windermere, something of more immediate military advantage. That Van Pelt must learn not to waste the time of high Army officers!”
“General Follansbee, may I point out something? Suppose —suppose, sir, that someone way up top should visit the States. Suppose, for instance, that we surrounded him, him and his whole entourage. Switched them all. Put our own men in their bodies. You see?”
He was thinking I was insane; you could tell it. “Colonel Windermere, what in the world are you talking about?”
“It would work, sir,” I said persuasively. “Believe me, I’ve seen it. But suppose we couldn’t do that. What about a hostile U.N. envoy, eh? Get him, put one of G-2’s operatives inside his body. Do you follow me, sir? No question about whose Intelligence would get the facts in a case like that, is there, sir? Or—maybe we wouldn’t want to do anything like that in peacetime, but what about in war? Take a couple of their prisoners, sir, put our own men in their bodies. Exchange the prisoners!”
Well, I went on and I won’t say I convinced him of anything. But by the time he hung up, he was thinking pretty hard.
And I had an appointment to see him in the Pentagon the following day. Once I was on the spot, I knew I was in, for he wouldn’t take the responsibility of passing up a thing like this alone. He’d call a staff meeting, and somewhere on the staff, somebody would understand.
I could feel the stars on my shoulders already. . . .
“What is it, O’Hare?” I demanded.
I was becoming very irritated with the man. He was sticking his head in the door, looking very worried. Well, that was reasonable; I was quite close to giving him something to worry about.
“Sir, it’s that Van Pelt.” He swallowed and looked a little foolish. “I—I don’t know if he’s nuts or what, sir, but he says —he says that Dr. Horn wants to live forever! He says all Horn was waiting for was to make a test on a human being. I don’t know what he’s talking about, but he says that now that you’ve given Horn his test, sir, Horn’s going to grab the first man he sees and, uh, steal his body. Does that make sense, sir?”
Did it make seme?
