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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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Wonder Stories, March 1933, with "The Robot Technocrat"
The Technocracy movement has proved one thing, and all factions in our country are admitting it—that we need the application of the same science to our government and economics that we use in building machines.
Certainly now, as never, we need guidance, we need to know what the results of our actions will be in every sphere of life.
The Technocrats propose for this a series of charts showing the changes in various phases of our life. Then, they believe, they can predict what will happen in the future.
This thrilling story built around the Technocracy idea, carries it further with some astonishing results. And yet is it too far-fetched to say that the exciting events pictured by Mr. Schachner will never come to pass? Stranger things have already happened.
THE great car roared over the battered concrete of the Pennsylvania highway, its long sleek nose bobbing as it hurtled over particularly vicious ruts, its armored tonneau groaning at the speed of its flight.
The four men within were in a hurry, that was obvious. The chauffeur, khaki-clad, held on to the wheel in grim silence. The jagged road, rising and sinking over the long slopes of the Poconos, had once been a national highway. But then, so had thousands of other arteries of travel through the nation, now similarly in utter disrepair.
The youngest man of the three in the rear twisted around to stare through the bullet-proofed glass at the tiny village they had just quitted. It was in flames, a dull, smoky glare against a darkening sky.
"They almost had us down there, sir," he said, a faint dancing light in his reminiscent blue eyes. He was young, painfully young, was Peter Rashdell, seeing only joyous adventure in the threatened debacle of civilization in that year of grace, 1954.
Hugh Corbin, his chief, and leader of the Reconstruction Party, nodded absently, his pale, deep-shadowed eyes staring fixedly on the plunging road ahead. It was impossible to talk just then. But when a comparatively smooth stretch intervened, the third man, a silver star showing on the epaulettes of his soldier's khaki, burst out irritably.
"Damn it, Corbin, why didn't you let me give the beggars a dose of steel? Soldiers, hell! Damned bandits, that's all they are."
"You forget, General," Corbin said placatingly, "they wore the uniform of the National Party, and Hiller's nibbling at our proposals. If we'd shot them up, and been recognized, it would have meant the end of months of delicate negotiations."
General Wingdale removed his képi, mopped a bald pinkish pate.
"T'hell with your negotiations!" he retorted profanely. "Don't you see you're being used as a catspaw for every ambitious two-by-four party in the country? Let one get smashed in a fight, and right away its leader thinks of Corbin and the Reconstructionists. He has seen the light, he announces, sweet reasonableness is the thing; no more roughneck fighting and looting in the name of politics, and good old Corbin pulls the chestnuts out of the fire. You have quite a following, you know, though for the life of me I don't see why. And I'm silly ass enough to stick with you."
Corbin's thin delicate features wreathed into a weary smile.
"That's because you know our plan for pulling the world out of its present savagery and semi-ruin is the best. Reason and education are what are required, not the use of brute force. We've had enough of that."
"Tommyrot!" Wingdale exploded. "It's over twenty years since the world started on the skids. And it's sliding faster than ever. Look at Europe; dictatorship after dictatorship! France, Germany and Italy, Fascist; Russia, England and Jugoslavia, Communist. Six of one and half a dozen of the other. All fighting each other, mixed up in a general dog-fight. Look at our own country! A dozen different parties, each claiming to be God's anointed, each with its hordes of uniformed bandits, so-called soldiers. There's no war here, at least, not officially. But every month or so there's a pitched battle, thousands are killed, and the defeated crowd call on you to intervene, to restore the peace you love so much.
"And in between irregulars roam the country, burning, killing. America has become a smoking ruin. Give it five years more, and there won't be any people left to instil with sweet reasonableness and the economic verities of your plan. I tell you, Hugh, we need a strong hand. Give me the word; my troops are soldiers, not rabble; and I'll clean this scum off the earth. Then you can try your fine plan."
Young Rashdell was moved. The General's passionate words fired his youth and enthusiasm. He had never seen the old soldier so wrought up before. The bald head glowed faintly in the bobbing gloom. Outside, the darkening countryside slipped by, deserted; pricked here and there by the smoldering red of a burnt-out farm house.
Corbin grimaced painfully. "Force! force! The panacea for all ills! Yet you have answered yourself. The dictatorships in Europe and Asia, are they not the glorified resultants of force? And what are they doing? Annihilating each other, making waste places for jackals and hyenas to laugh in at human stupidity. Hasn't there been continual fighting here for over ten years?"
He threw his arms up in a sudden gesture as the car roared unevenly onward.
"If only the factions could see things clearly. We must rebuild the machines that the masses destroyed in their blind rage against overproduction. We must repair the wreckage of twenty years, and then cooperate! See to it that every man, woman and child in the country gets a fair share of the machine's products. The machine was not to blame, only we who handled it. But that presupposes statesmen, and the party leaders are just ambitious self-seekers, ready to sacrifice the people to their lust for power. We need a new deal; a new vision; possibly a new plan. That's why we're on this road now."
"And damned silly of us too," Wingdale grumbled.
"This Kalem—"
"Kalmikoff; Anton Kalmikoff."
"A Russian!" The old soldier's voice held forthright scorn. "Discovered a way to save the world! More crazy panaceas of crack-brained enthusiasts. More likely he's in the pay of Michael Gelb, the Communist."
Corbin shook his head. "Kalmikoff is a great man; a genius. I knew him twenty odd years ago as a comparatively young man. I was a student then and he an instructor in mathematics. He would go far, it was predicted.
"He did. When he disappeared in '35, he was already the world's greatest mathematician. The new Schrodinger wave-mechanics differentials were elementary to him. He had advanced far beyond where no other mathematician has been able to follow. And he was working at the social sciences too, strangely enough. Then he disappeared and was never found. Everyone thought him dead; so did I, until he sent me that note."
"And that note started us on this wild-goose chase," said the general. He quoted sarcastically. " 'I remember you as a keen student of mine; I've heard of you since. Your ideas are not bad, but I have an infallible method for saving civilization. Remember Technocracy. Come at once.' And that's all; just his signature and directions. An addled fanatic! Reverting again to that Technocracy bugaboo."
"No," Corbin responded seriously. "I knew the man. It was some great research that made him leave fame, fortune, everything behind. But we're almost there."
They were breasting a hill, wooded, wild, infinitely deserted. A ruinous stone windmill thrust gaunt fingers against a slate-gray sky. The white radiance of the headlamps made it a bleached skeleton. It was quite dark now.
"That's the landmark," said Corbin. He leaned forward to the silent chauffeur. "There should be a dirt road leading to the left on the other side of the windmill. Take it, Withers."
The chauffeur barely nodded, kept his eyes glued ahead. The great car had slowed down. A faint winding streak lost itself in the depths of black trees. Withers slewed the car around, proceeded cautiously down the rutty narrow path. The forest hemmed them in, murmurous, black, forbidding. The fresh night wind fanned their cheeks. Rashdell had lowered a window. There was a slight prickling up and down his spine.
"What's that?" he cried suddenly, sharply. Sounds bore down upon them, confused struggling sounds. Then, unmistakably, the quick staccato bark of a dynol pistol. Loud shouting, and the crash of guns.
The general looked grimly at Corbin, pressed a button.
The interior of the car glowed with "cold light." He bent down and twisted a handle. A section of the floor board slid smoothly aside, disclosing banks of gleaming buttons.
"A trap; we're ambushed!" he said briefly. "Withers," he went on sharply, "back up as fast as you can. Rashdell, close that window."
Peter Rashdell had his gun in hand, peering with choking heart ahead. Flashes blinded in the distance; the deadly ping-ping of spray guns punctuated the intermittent deeper roar of the dynols.
"Not really," he almost sobbed his disappointment. His first fight, and the general was retreating.
"Of course," the old campaigner spoke brusquely. "That letter was a plant; I expected as much. No use getting killed."
Already Withers with skilled touch was maneuvering the car back over the twisting road. Corbin seemed to awaken from the paralysis that had struck him at the first outburst.
"Stop!" Corbin almost shouted. "Go ahead, as fast as you can. Kalmikoff's no traitor. He's being attacked, killed, I tell you."
Wingdale chuckled. "The pacifist turns warlike. All right, trap or no trap; well soon see."
He snapped off the light. "Let her go, Withers. Duck, everybody."
The armored car roared into life. Its twin headlamps bored dazzling cones into massed trees. Withers crouched over the wheel, and drove her at nightmarish speed over the bumpy trail. The three men in the back held heads low bumping and careening as the car crashed and banged its way along. A dim glow illumined the banked buttons under the floorboard. Corbin was breathing heavily; Peter's heart did queer things in the neighborhood of his throat.
The old general sensed his excitement.
"Scared, son?"
"Yes," was the frank answer. "But I wouldn't miss it for anything."
"I know," he nodded understandingly. "I felt like that in my first battle—and many more after it too."
But Corbin only breathed: "Faster, faster."
Withers added to the already insane speed. He scraped trees with miraculous twists of his wrist, hurtled boulders with airplane-like leaps. The noise of battle was plainer now; the flashes more brilliant.
"Faster, faster!"
There was an opening ahead; a building flamed redly.
Spurts of fire darted from another of the clustered buildings. Pitifully few! Silhouetted against the leaping flames were massed figures. A tremendous explosion of sound, followed by shoutings. The horde swarmed forward for the final triumphant attack.
Then the armored car catapulted into the clearing, a roaring, rocking Juggernaut of destruction. Twin beams caught the scene, etched it dazzlingly against a background of flame and black jagged hills. The attackers wheeled to meet the new menace; guns thrust up to uniformed shoulders. There were hundreds of them.
Withers ground the accelerator to the floorboard. Shots slammed into the armored sides; a dynol shell smashed a window into starred splinters.
The heavy car staggered under the impacts, and shot forward. Screams of pain as men were plowed into the ground.
Wingdale crouched, humming coolly to himself. He stabbed downward with quick fingers, pressed button after button. The car suddenly wreathed itself in flame and smoke like a fire-snorting dragon. Tremendous concussions followed. Those buttons touched off batteries of dynol and spray guns whose snouts were hidden by the overhang of the chassis.
The thick spew of missiles cut through the massed men like a reaper through standing grain. The survivors wavered and broke for shelter. Some few only ran toward an innocent-looking funnel-shaped affair, squat on the ground near the edge of the clearing.
Wingdale stood up as the car came to a grinding halt and saw them.
"Swing around fast, Withers," he cried urgently. "If they get that flame-thrower on us, it'll go through us like melted butter."
The car ripped through its gears, slithered and slid on the bloody, uneven ground without traction. Already the men were slewing the flame-thrower around, pointing its ugly snout toward the defenseless car. Peter rose from his crouch, thrust open a window. The dynol pistol was in his hand.
"Down, you fool," Wingdale plucked at him. "They'll riddle you."
But the pistol was roaring its stream of explosive bullets. Two of the men around the flame-thrower went down, the others broke and ran. There was an answering hail of bullets. Peter jerked violently, slid downward.
"They got you, Peter!" Corbin's voice was anguished.
"N-no, sir. Just a crease. It stunned me for a moment," Rashdell laughed shakily.
Already more men were dashing for the flame-thrower, but Withers had completed his maneuver. The car faced around. The general chuckled grimly, pressed buttons. A whistling stream ripped through the running men, caught the funnel thing, smashed it into twisted steel; then with a great roar it exploded into a geyser of fuming flame. That was the end. The remnants of the marauding force fled in wild disorder.
Corbin had already flung the door wide open, and was running toward the large four-square log building from which the shots had come.
"Damn fool," Wingdale grumbled, but he did not hesitate a moment in jumping actively to the ground, pistol in hand. Peter raced silently by his side.
"Kalmikoff," Corbin was calling. "Are you alive?"
A heavy-beamed door swung cautiously open, a muffled invisible voice queried: "Who are you?"
"Hugh Corbin."
"A-ah!"
The door thrust wider, and a huge figure stood silhouetted a moment against the interior glow, then moved quickly into the outer darkness to grasp Corbin's hand in a bear-like grip.
"Welcome, my friend; you come most opportunely. Those devils almost had us."
The red flames of the burning structure disclosed a straight-backed giant unbowed by his years, tawny of hair and beard. He cast a quick glance of inquiry at Corbin's companions.
"My Chief of Staff, General Wingdale, and Peter Rashdell, my secretary."
Kalmikoff boomed greetings. Somehow his faintest whisper seemed like the rushing of a torrent.
"You will excuse me," he said, "but the fire; it must be put out. I have valuable apparatus in there." He raised his voice. "Brusson, Hawkes, Marinelli; bring extinguishers."
Three men came out into the darkness, carrying tiny tubes. The building was a mass of flames now, but the first thin spurts of the carboxydol fluid smothered the fire under a wide-spreading blanket of incombustible fumes. In half a minute it was out.
Kalmikoff made a queer gesture. "Those three, all I have left of my assistants. Half a dozen more, dead, killed in the first attack."
He surveyed the shambles somberly, yet without vindictiveness.
"Who are these men? Why did they wish to kill me?"
Wingdale was already flashing his torch over the sprawled bodies. He straightened up and answered quietly. "They're Hiller's men. Green uniforms and all."
Kalmikoff looked bewildered. "Hiller, leader of the Nationalists? But how does he know of me, what benefits—?"
Young Rashdell interrupted eagerly. "It's what I've been telling you, Mr. Corbin. There's a spy in our headquarters. Someone who saw Mr. Kalmikoff's note, and reported it to Hiller."
Hugh Corbin's face was suddenly haggard.
"He has been playing with me then," he said. "He evidently thought Kalmikoff had invented new and more powerful instruments of destruction."
"And haven't you?" Wingdale and Rashdell turned simultaneously on the Russian.
He looked startled for a moment, then smiled slowly. "No, my friends, I am not a man of war; my inventions are peaceful. But come inside; I have much to say. Marinelli, clean up this bloody mess. The stench will kill us."
THE dark-visaged Italian saluted silently. As Rashdell followed the others, he noted the three assistants swinging nozzles from which intensely white flames spurted in long thin streams. Each body touched was consumed to impalpable ash almost instantly.
Then he was inside, in a great log-walled room. A huge fireplace roared cheerfully at one end, bunks of Spartan simplicity were built into recessed alcoves; a long refectory table with continuous benches running completely around it occupied the center of the room. A few plain hewn chairs completed the furnishings.
"Our sleeping, eating and living quarters," Kalmikoff indicated with a smile. "We did not pamper ourselves these last nineteen years."
"But why did you disappear and immure yourself in this hiding place like any hermit of old?" Corbin asked curiously. "You were wealthy, famous, the world's greatest mathematician."
Kalmikoff smiled again, his great tawny beard waggling with the thunder of his voice. "Wealth, fortune, greatness, what are they? Poof! Ticklings for the groundlings. The important thing is science. I was too busy; teaching, writing, speaking at learned societies to ninnies who couldn't follow me. I discovered some things, yes. But the big thing I set my heart on, always eluded my grasp. I had no time for clear thinking. And the world was beginning to slip. I saw chaos ahead. I had no illusions. The world needed what I had in mind; needed it quickly.
"So I went off into the woods, took with me carefully picked men. No one ever bothered us here; it is wild, untouched country. For nineteen years we labored, day and night. Nineteen years, and we have just finished. If any one can bring the world forward to real civilization, I can."
It was Corbin who voiced all their thoughts. "But Kalmikoff, what is the great thing you have discovered? Tell us quickly."
The big man quivered with silent laughter.
"Nineteen years I work, and you—you are impatient, hein! But I shall explain. We shall go into our workshop; I shall show you."
His three assistants filed silently into the room.
The dark Italian reported: "We have finished, Master."
"Good. Friend Corbin, this is Marinelli, my right hand. A mathematician almost as good as myself. I developed him. Hawkes," he was a tall, drawling down-east Yankee, "is my mechanician; a magician with tools. Brusson, my Gallic friend, a statistician. He collects figures with the passion that most of his countrymen collect mistresses." The trim little Frenchman bowed as though overwhelmed with the compliment.
Kalmikoff looked them over affectionately. "The others, they are dead. Let us go."
Out into the starlit night they trouped, carefully avoiding the little mounds of ash. There was no sign of the enemy; only the rustling trees hemmed them in. Rashdell wondered. What was it all about? The man was evidently not a mountebank.
Past the burnt odor of the gutted building, up to the wall of a greater log house set into a recess of the hillside. Kalmikoff carefully unlocked huge bolt after bolt, opened the massive door gently. He reached in and pressed a button. The interior flooded with light.
He moved to one side and bade them enter.
"My masterpiece!" he said.
They went in quickly, eagerly, not knowing what to expect, Rashdell modestly in the rear, but by far the most excited.
They paused abruptly near the threshold, and stared blankly. Supported on massive steel stanchions was a huge intricate mass of machinery. It filled half the immense chamber. Gears meshed on gears interminably, pinion racks held long series of rollers over flat steel surfaces; long steel styluses with inked points were held suspended by flexible arms over steel drawing boards on which lay virgin white sheets of composition paper.
Innumerable levers connected with great turning wheels underneath the stanchions, and thick cables ran to an auxiliary motor. Attached to one end of the machine was a banked keyboard, for all the world like a gigantic typewriter except for its multitudinous keys; at the other end a funnel opening like a loudspeaker. And most mysterious of all, a huge oblong box from which hundreds of fine wires ran into the depths of the machine. It looked comfortably able to house a man, reminding Peter of a televisor booth.
Corbin was the first to catch his breath. "But wh-what is it? What is it for?"
Kalmikoff grinned proudly.
"I shall commence from the beginning. Yes, that is the best way. I was a mathematician, a good one, hein?"
"The very best," Corbin assented gravely.
"When back in 1932 I witnessed the beginning of the failure of industrial civilization," the Russian continued, "I said to myself: 'Anton, you are a fool. What good is your mathematics if the world goes to pot?' So I started studying economics, psychology, ethics, sociology, everything that could make me understand what was happening to civilization, why the system was sagging. The more I studied, the more I saw what was missing. Everything was vague, nebulous; no economist, no sociologist, for instance, had clear cut ideas. And why, may I ask?"
Young Peter shrugged slightly. "Go on and ask, old boy," he thought, "I can't help you out."
But the question was purely rhetorical. Kalmikoff answered himself with growing excitement.
"Because the idiots had no scientific basis for these theories, for their maunderings. Then came the announcement of the theories of Technocracy. And behold I saw the light. It was necessary, as Howard Scott said in those days, to apply science, rigid science to our social and economic life.
"But how did the Technocrats propose to do this? By charts, the stupids, just charts. I saw that that was insufficient. Charts were not exact enough; they were manmade things full of errors, and were interpreted stupidly. So I went to work, and behold, I found the answer. Human affairs, morals even, could be reduced to mathematical formulae. I made exact sciences where no science existed before."
General Wingdale ostentatiously mopped his bald head. He was bored with these irrelevancies. Why had they come out here?
But Kalmikoff was beyond heeding. And Corbin listened with strained attention.
"There was a formula that involved entirely new mathematics. Hamiltonian functions, relativity equations, were mere child's play. I reduced the course of human civilization to twenty variables; tendencies, lines of force that I expressed in new dynamic vectors. The equation is a masterpiece of analysis. Substitute for these variables, symbols that I invented for race, food supply, natural resources, climate, governmental form, and so on—and when the equation is solved, I can tell you exactly what the future course of a group of men, of a nation, of the world itself, will be, depending upon the universality of my variables. I reduced Technocracy to a real mathematical science. Change one or more of the variables; in other words, alter a certain set of conditions, and an entirely new picture of future events inevitably follows."
Sensation from his hearers. Even old Wingdale blinked rapidly at this.
"You mean, sir," Peter gasped, "that your equation can predict the future?"
Kalmikoff chuckled. "In a sense, yes. Human affairs are subject to the same inexorable laws that planets, for instance, are amenable to. Only because of the number of factors involved, these laws are infinitely more complex. I can not only predict the future from the present condition of the world, but I can show you, by changing certain present factors, how to bring about, inexorably, mind you, a world nearer to your heart's desire."[1]
[1] Lest the sceptical reader think that this conception is but another pseudo-science dream of an irresponsible author, let him refer to a very serious little volume issued in 1929 by the Johns Hopkins University Press and backed with the august approval of the Research Department of that famous university. Its name is "From the Physical to the Social Sciences" and its author a distinguished mathematician and student of the social sciences, Jacques Rueff. Let me quote: "Moral or economic laws are immutable... Thus in present state of life, such and such circumstances are present, and such and such laws permit us to foretell phenomena resulting therefrom. It is the knowledge of the initial conditions that makes us choose in the arsenal of empirical laws those which it is fitting to apply. And if, in the course of the evolution of our world, certain circumstances should cease to be present, the laws permitting us to deduce therefrom the resulting phenomena would evidently cease to apply. They would no longer have any current reality but they would be none the less true."
M. Rueff argues strongly for the validity of a mathematical treatment of the social sciences, and actually proceeds to deduce and solve some elementary economic laws by means of the calculus. I have taken the liberty to carry his ideas to a logical conclusion.
"Poppycock," the general burst out violently, his bald pate shining angrily.
But Corbin leaned forward with strangling eagerness. "The equation," he choked, "you have solved it?"
The big Russian clucked to himself.
"There was the rub, my friend. Twenty variables! Gott! When you consider that Einstein's famous World Equation had only ten, and that was unsolvable without most of the variables being first reduced to zero, you see the trouble. I had the equation, but no way to solve it. It was impossible."
"Then what—" Corbin commenced despairingly.
"I heard then of the mathematical 'Brain' machine evolved at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology for solving difficult differential equations.[2] That gave me my idea. I would make a greater machine to solve my equation. So I gathered together a band of assistants, each a specialist in his way, retired to this place for uninterrupted work, and started.
[2] See Science Nexus Letter, November 19, 1932.
"I knew it would be a difficult task; it was more than that, it was staggering. First I built a replica of the Institute's machine from their plans. I studied it carefully. It was good in its simple way. But it meant days of constant manual labor, constant shifting of levers, manual tracing of the more complicated higher plane curves. I calculated that my equation, even if the machine could work it out, would take over ten thousand hours of solid working time for its solution!"
Wingdale snorted derisively.
"Manifestly that was unthinkable," Kalmikoff continued. "And in any event, it couldn't handle my variables. For two years we worked steadily, building, experimenting, machining tons of metal into intricate working parts. At the end of that time, I had something that could solve five variables! And I had twenty!
"My men were discouraged, but I kept them at it, year in and year out. I was in touch with the outside world; news of the desperate revolts all over the world came to my ears, the idiotic smashing of factories; the chaos, the starvation, the plagues that infested the race, all that Technocracy had predicted. I saw parties spring up and submerge as quickly, internecine fighting, the maddened people tearing at each other's throats in frenzies of hate, every one accusing his neighbor of responsibility for the general ruin.
"At the end of ten years I had a huger, more complicated machine. I rubbed my hands. Maybe this one would work. We couldn't sleep all that night, excited about the test the next day. At dawn some one shouted. We sprang to our feet, rushed out naked as we were, into the cold winter night. The laboratory housing the machine was a mass of flames. By the time we put it out, all that was left was a mass of twisted metal."
The scientist shuddered at his own recollections. Rashdell felt a sudden wave of sympathy for the man.
"What did you then?" he asked eagerly.
The Russian looked surprised. "Do?" he echoed. "Why, we set to work the next day to rebuild. Our plans had been destroyed; we had to make our calculations all over again. In four more years it was finished." He paused a moment.
"And—" Corbin queried in his impatience.
"It didn't solve our equation," Kalmikoff answered simply. "So we started again. Two and a half years more. Then Hawkes invented a minute cog that set the styluses tracing the incredible curves required by our equation. Two weeks ago it was installed. We tested it, hearts hammering. It worked! The 'Brain' machine was an accomplished fact—the equation was capable of solution!"
The big Russian looked around the room and enunciated slowly, as though he were weighing each word, "I have every variable calculated for the future development of forces in the United States except one. Give me that factor in proper form, and the 'Brain' machine will operate before your eyes."
Tenseness descended on the little group. Even Wingdale seemed impressed.
"And that factor is—?" Corbin broke the pregnant silence.
"A composite of the physical and mental reactions of all of the eleven leaders of the party factions now fighting for control of the country."
Wingdale chuckled hoarsely.
"And how, Sir Inventor," he demanded sarcastically, "are you going to determine the state of these gentry's emotions?"
"Very simply," Kalmikoff answered calmly. "I place each individual in the physio-psych-graph you see attached to the machine," he pointed to the oblong booth, "and every reaction will be automatically recorded. The composite of their reactions will supply the missing factor."
Now he had his sensation. Even Corbin, anxious to believe, was taken aback. As for old Wingdale, dignified and portly, he doubled up in a choking fit of laughter that left him red and gasping.
"I knew it," he stuttered as soon as he could catch his breath. "I knew it! Every inventor is crack-brained. Why don't you ask for the moon?"
The big Russian did not seem at all perturbed.
"It was because of this factor that I called upon Mr. Corbin; otherwise there would have been no necessity. I could have solved the equation and announced the results to the world."
"Which of course would have believed you," the general commented sarcastically.
Corbin glanced at him helplessly. "But what can I do?"
Then it was that young Peter Rashdell, who had gaped openmouthed a while before, made his startling suggestion.
"I have it," he cried. "Let us kidnap the leaders and bring them here."
Wingdale glared at the boy. "Why, you infernal young puppy, you—"
"Exactly," Kalmikoff's voice boomed in. "That is the solution."
"Don't you see, sir," Peter turned an eager face to his puzzled Chief. "It isn't as hard as it sounds. This is a particularly propitious moment. The Left Wing parties are holding a conference in Pittsburgh to discuss possibilities of combining their forces; the Right-Wingers are doing the same in New York. It should be rather easy to make simultaneous swoops and scoop up all the leaders at once. A dozen determined men to each hotel where one of the leaders is en suite; fast armored cars waiting outside, and the deed is done."
Corbin shook his head slowly. He abhorred violence in any form; the very idea of kidnaping struck at the foundation of his beliefs.
But Wingdale suddenly snorted. "Damned if the young hound hasn't hit upon an idea! Not that I hold any truck with this fantastic machine of Kalmikoff's, but get the leaders in our grip, and we'll be in a position to dictate terms." His face lit up; he thumped the palm of one hand with balled fist. "By George, I'll do it. Let's see now; ten party leaders outside of Corbin here; that means ten detachments. Jones, Rumford, Jordan," he ran over his lieutenant's names hastily. "Eight only; I can take care of one—"
"Count me in for a Right Winger, general," Peter interposed hastily.
Old Wingdale eyed him keenly. "Done!" he said suddenly. "Come on, Rashdell, we're driving for Headquarters at once."
Hugh Corbin's face was a study in emotions. "But I say, Wingdale," he protested, "I'm giving no such orders. I won't—"
The general clapped him on the shoulder with hearty force. "You've given the order already, Hugh," he chuckled. "Your dammed pacifism hasn't got you anywhere; and I'm running this part of the show. You stay here, keep your friend company, and prepare to receive visitors. We'll have plenty for you by midnight tomorrow, or I miss my guess." He opened the door and yelled into the darkness. "Withers! Start the motor; we're going places. Come on, Rashdell." And grabbing the boy by the arm, he was out of the building like an avalanche. A moment later, they heard the car roaring into motion.
Corbin shifted his gaze from Kalmikoff's silent assistants to Kalmikoff himself.
"You are responsible for this mess," he accused.
"Of course. You shall see how important, how necessary it is." His blond beard waggled. "The general is all right, except that he underrates science."
THE next evening, war-torn, starving America was shocked out of its apathetic despair by a series of outrages that made all former sensations mild and tame in comparison. Promptly at midnight, and manifestly animated from a common source, the hotel suites in New York and Pittsburgh of the leaders of the great competing parties were simultaneously invaded by bands of armed, masked ruffians. They overawed or killed the various bodyguards, and spirited their frightened, pajama-clad victims away in swift, armored cars.
By the time pursuits were organized, the kidnaping cars had sped into oblivion. Automobiles, tanks, airplanes, were pressed by maddened partisans into service, but they proved of no avail. The earth seemed to have opened and swallowed the quarry.
Ten out of eleven heads of great parties had been kidnaped. Horrible, unbelievable! The radios, those still intact and functioning after years of confusion and industrial letdown, sputtered madly all through the night. The few remaining telegraph wires hummed with the news of the disaster. Swift auto and airplane couriers departed hastily to the four corners of the United States. By morning the whole world knew. The people, tired, anemic, apathetic even to looting and rioting, discussed the outrage with reawakened fervor. A wave of indignation swept over the country; every cross-corners seethed with excitement. The nation was leaderless, except for one lone leader!
Party Headquarters issued hourly bulletins, lashing their followers to foaming frenzy. The Reconstruction Party announced with much detail the outrageous abduction of that peerless leader, that notable statesman, that sole hope of an expectant world—Hugh Corbin! Done to death, no doubt, by bloodthirsty hirelings of an envious rival.
By noon the common fury of heretofore mutually inimical parties had merged into a clamorous baying for the blood of the author of this gigantic crime.
"Adolph Hiller! Adolph Hiller!" The name swelled on the nation's tongue to truly epic proportions of hate and bloodlust.
For the leader of the Nationalist Party had escaped the general disaster. He alone had not been kidnaped. Therefore, logically, he alone had engineered the affair. Thus the logic of the other parties, and it was as impeccable as many another "logical" condemnation on circumstantial evidence.
This dénouement had originally been unforeseen by either General Wingdale or the Assistant Chief of the Reconstruction Party to whom he had confided hurried details. But the Assistant was keen enough to see the possibilities after the event, and it was his skilful fishing in troubled waters that brought about the tremendous outcry against Hiller.
Ironically enough, it was young Rashdell's colossal blunder that was responsible for it all. He had taken upon himself the command of the detachment that was to take care of Hiller. They parked the car in the dark shadows of Forty-Fourth Street, some fifty paces from the tarnished entrance to the Hotel Massasoit. Hiller had established his headquarters there. Midtown New York in the long years of depression and industrial decay had become a somber affair; the famous white lights no longer twinkled.
With beating heart and overeager nervousness he stationed his band to either side of the dim lit lobby. He himself with four others were to seize Hiller, hustle him out.
All arrangements were made when a man, muffled against the keen autumn wind, walked suddenly out of the lobby. A Reconstruction Trooper, flattened against the shadowed wall, murmured jestingly to a comrade: "Funny if that bird was Hiller."
Peter, keyed abnormally by his first command, heard only the last part of the whisper. He jumped to conclusions. The soldier had recognized the man as Hiller.
He acted impulsively. He jumped forward, swung downward with the butt of his gun. The man collapsed without an outcry. The limp form was hustled into the waiting car, and they were miles out on the Jersey roads before the innocent victim came to and the error was discovered. It was too late then to do anything about it.
Nine sullen prisoners were borne by swift-rushing cars over mountains and plains, keeping ever to little-used back roads. The stars paled and the dawn wind blew cold by the time Wingdale himself, his captive, the gagged Extreme Communist leader, Michael Gelb, bumped into the clearing before Kalmikoff's log houses.
"Everyone here?" he demanded sharply of an openly perturbed Corbin and a jubilant Kalmikoff.
"One missing," said Corbin. Then he burst out: "You have done a damnable thing, General. You have ruined my plans for peaceful reconstruction completely."
"Nonsense," Wingdale retorted rudely. "We have the country in the hollow of our hands now. I'll make these so-called leaders listen to reason. Line them up and let me take a look at them."
Nine glowering, dishevelled men, hands still bound, were ungently thrust against the wall. Their kidnappers had not bothered to handle them with kid gloves; bandaged heads, cut faces, dried clots of blood told their story of resistance overcome.
Wingdale surveyed them grimly. The brains of the nation! Bah! Leaders whose blind followings ran into the millions. Men who couldn't see beyond their own private ambitions, who had plunged the country into interminable strife to further them.
Michael Gelb, the Extreme Communist, red-haired and sullen; Joe Wozzek, Communist, darkly fiery; Bob Heywood, burly and one-eyed, the Socialist; Olaf Swanson, the Social-Laborite; Martin Henderson, pompous and paunchy, leader of the Middle Class party, Wellman of the Patriots, Wilfred Beck the Fascist, Stimson who favored Monarchy, and Devoe the Aristocrat. A hodgepodge of parties that well represented the confused thinking of the time.
"Where's Hiller?" Wingdale demanded suddenly. "And young Rashdell?"
"They haven't shown up yet?" Corbin looked worried.
"You'll be sorry for this outrage, damn you," Beck the Fascist shouted loudly. "My men will hang you."
A chorus of jumbled threats and blistering oaths rose from the others, as pent-up emotions were explosively released.
—"Silence," the old general roared. "I hold the whip-hand, gentlemen, and you'll dance to my tune."
"But I say," Corbin protested weakly.
"Don't interfere," Wingdale wheeled and snapped at him. "You're a good chap, Hugh, and some of your ideas are not bad. But this thing has gotten over your head. I'm in command now."
Corbin flushed darkly, opened his mouth and closed it without saying anything.
Kalmikoff had watched the proceedings with an amused smile.
"You forget, General Wingdale, that we have a definite purpose in bringing these men here."
The fiery old warrior looked at him contemptuously.
"Your fantastic machine, you mean? We've gotten beyond your half-baked invention. Science is all right in its place, but these gentry will understand my language better."
There was almost softness in the booming voice. "Nevertheless, my general, the test shall be made. And no harm is to come to these men either. You understand?"
"Eh, what's that?" Wingdale was genuinely startled. Then he thrust back his head and roared. "Threatening me?"
"Call it that."
The general laughed until he choked. "You realize this place is in the hands of my men?"
"Nevertheless, I am in control."
Wingdale stared at the blond Russian as though seeing him for the first time. Then his hand went to the holster beneath his tunic.
"Drop it." Sharp, unmistakable, commanding.
His hand went slowly back to his side as he stared at a tiny tube that had suddenly appeared in Kalmikoff's hand. Shifting his gaze he saw similar weapons in the hands of the three ever-silent assistants, trained on his lieutenants. Corbin made weak, ineffectual gestures.
"I am sorry," Kalmikoff said pleasantly, "but my plans are too important to the world to be interfered with by a fire-eating warrior. Hawkes, I told you, was something of a mechanical genius. He contrived these weapons. They kill at any range. And since yesterday's attack we have not been idle. Guns are mounted to command the clearing. Any new assault would receive short shrift."
Something of admiration glinted in Wingdale's eyes.
"I underrated you," he said simply. "What do you intend doing with us?"
"Nothing," was the prompt answer. "All that I wish is your word of honor that you will not interfere in my experiments, and you are free, as before."
The general swallowed audibly, and took a step forward. He seized the Russian's free hand, pumped it vigorously. "By George, you are a man, and I thought you only a scientist. I'm beginning to believe your fool machine will actually work. You have my word."
Kalmikoff grinned. "I know it will. But where is Hiller? He's most important to the success of the experiment."
Wingdale frowned. "It's my fault. I shouldn't have sent young Rashdell. If anything happened to the boy—"
There was the sound of a car slithering to a stop outside. The next moment Peter, flushed and shamefaced, was telling his story of blunder and woe.
"Never mind," the old warrior said gently, "we'll get him yet."
"But the experiment!" cried Kalmikoff, his usual calm deserting him.
"Can't you substitute what we know of his ideas and character for his part in the equation?" Corbin queried. He had seemingly reconciled himself to these violent proceedings, was once more intellectually alert. "Remember, I have had sufficient contacts with the man to examine him closely. We've been negotiating personally for over three months."
Kalmikoff shook his head doubtfully. "It may prove feasible," he admitted. "In any event we can't help ourselves. Bring the prisoners into the laboratory."
Stark fear flickered in the captives' eyes. All this incomprehensible talk of experiments in which they evidently were to be unwilling subjects roused understandable terror. Were they to be sacrificed on the altar of inhuman scientific curiosity? What hideous tortures were they to undergo?
When they filed into the laboratory and saw the great machine with its innumerable rollers and plucking steel parts, and the mysterious looking steel chamber, their worst fears were realized. Torture box with infernal instruments, styluses that looked like jabbing needles, levers like pincers to tear the flesh... Beck, the Fascist, slid gently to the floor in a dead faint. Deathly pallor went in waves over the faces of the others; only Bob Heywood, the Socialist, looked defiant as he shouted: "You damned beasts. Kill us and be done with it. I won't submit to the experiments."
Kalmikoff stood in front of the mathematical "Brain," resting one hand lovingly on its unfeeling steel.
"The experiment will go on whether you like it or not. But you need have no fear. There will be no physical violence done you. On the contrary, we who are gathered here are working in the interests of the country at large. All you gentlemen, at least in your public utterances, have maintained that the welfare of the country is paramount in your hearts. I am giving you an opportunity to prove it. This strange-looking machine will show you just what lies ahead, what must be expected from existing conditions, plus your leadership. I can also show you, by varying certain factors, how it would change the future. If the demonstration is convincing, I shall rely upon your whole-hearted cooperation in effecting the necessary changes in present-day factors."
Blank looks greeted him. Was the man mad or meditating a deep-laid plan under these lunacies?
But Kalmikoff had already plunged into a detailed explanation of his theories of the social sciences as amenable to definite laws and mathematical treatment, of the building of the "Brain" for solving the final equation of twenty variables. Uneasy fears, utter disbelief, gave way to at least respectful attention as Kalmikoff rose to heights of eloquence.
Most of the captive leaders had heard of the great Russian scientist before, knew of his international fame, of his mysterious disappearance. His discourse was logical, exact, too; there was nothing of madness in his close-knit reasoning.
When he had finished, they looked at each other doubtfully, these party leaders, each with his own private panacea for the world. There was silence; definite hesitation.
It was the Socialist, Bob Heywood, who broke the ice. Something in the burly Russian's discourse had fired his imagination. He stepped forward.
"I am with you," he stated, "in spite of your highhanded method of ensuring my presence. I am willing to submit to your experiment. Convince me by the result, of the truth of your calculations, and you may rely upon me, and upon my organization, for unqualified support."
Surprisingly Devoe, elegantly fastidious representative of the Aristocrats, was the next to step forward. "Unusual, but interesting," he murmured, "you may count on me."
And Communist, Social Laborite, even Monarchist, pledged cooperation. That made a majority, with Corbin, of all the parties.
Gelb, the Extreme Communist, sneered openly: "Another capitalistic trick."
Beck, the Fascist, who had recovered from his fainting spell, muttered: "We cooperate with no one."
The Middle Class Party of course never pretended to intellectual curiosity or any change in the status quo. As for the Patriot, he disliked all foreigners, and especially Russians.
But Kalmikoff smiled and rubbed his hands. So far so good.
"Now, gentlemen," he said, "you shall see." He led them over to the banked buttons. They crowded around it eagerly, even the recalcitrants.
"Here are nineteen of my variables," he explained, pointing to the first row. "Underneath are fifteen similar rows, each button of which represents a definite variation of the first row button under which it is placed. For example, take the first column. It represents the variable form of government. This would be monarchy, this oligarchy, this republic, this democracy, and so on. Now tell me, Corbin, under what heading would you place the United States?"
"A republic, of course."
"But a republic presupposes a duly elected set of representatives, a Chief Magistrate, an orderly process of law. Have we that now?"
"N-no."
"As a matter of fact we have no definite form. This country is really in a state of anarchical civil war, isn't it?"
There were nods to that. Whereupon Kalmikoff pressed the ninth button in the first column. Then he went through the others; racial origins, total food crops of the preceding year, as laboriously compiled by Brusson; total manufactures, transportation facilities, birth and death rates, levels of education, and so on down the line until nineteen of the twenty variables were accounted for, just as the Technocrats had plotted their charts twenty years before.
On some there was general agreement, on others violent disputes. But the Russian produced such overwhelming statistics that most of his captives were convinced that his analysis of the variable was the correct one. By now the attention of everyone was captured; even the pompous Middle Class leader betrayed evidences of dim notions penetrating his self-satisfaction.
"And now," said Kalmikoff finally, "we come to the last variable, the composite of our nation's leadership; meaning yourselves. You are to enter that cabinet, one by one, and all your reactions will be automatically analyzed. When all of you have passed through, the machine will integrate the result and enter it as a single composite factor. Who will be the first?"
That threw a damper on the proceedings. Old fears of a catch somewhere were betrayed on every face.
"I shall," said Corbin, stepping forward without hesitation.
He entered the cabinet and Kalmikoff threw a switch. There was a muffled humming sound, certain wheels revolved, a single stylus moved in smooth motion. Then something clicked, and the machinery idled to a stop.
Corbin stepped out, puzzled.
"Are you sure it worked?" he inquired. "All I felt was a tingling sensation, and heard a humming sound. Then it was over."
"Every one of your characteristics has been recorded," Kalmikoff assured him with a slight smile. "Even your subconscious is there for all to see."
Beck, now entirely confident again, sneered derisively. "It's a gigantic hoax. The man's a charlatan."
The Russian fixed him coldly.
"Shall I prove to you that my machine will reveal your innermost emotions, your hidden memories, even?"
"Yes," he answered defiantly.
"Very well. I shall make it possible for you, as well as the rest of us, to listen in on the record. You will be more than satisfied, I am afraid. Do you still wish to make the test?"
The Fascist hesitated, but his pride forbade him to draw back. "I have no secrets from the world," he boasted, "and furthermore, your machine will fail miserably." Kalmikoff escorted him to the cabinet without comment. When Beck was inside, he pressed a button. Immediately the booth hazed into transparency, revealing the startled Fascist within.
"We can see and hear everything now," said the scientist, and threw the switch. A pale light enveloped Beck, the humming rose to a whine. The Fascist's face was strained.
Then suddenly there was a click, and a queer mechanical voice filled the room. It had no human quality, no warmth of timbre, it spoke in disconnected words and phrases, between which there were perceptible pauses, and a new click to inaugurate the next word or phrase. For all the world like a set of old phonograph records, automatically played one after the other, Corbin thought.
"Leader..." the voice intoned. "Party follows... power... alone... rule... terror and destruction... coward... afraid of assassins... break promises... regret nothing... except... girl... twenty years ago... she... died..."
Everyone was straining forward to take in the unsavory disclosures. Beck had grown deathly pale, they could see the beads of perspiration dot a clammy brow. At the mention of the girl, however, he literally threw himself against the transparent wall with beating fists.
"Stop it, stop it," he shouted, eyes staring like a madman's. "For the love of God, stop! I believe; I'll do anything..." His voice rose to a scream.
Kalmikoff moved swiftly to the side of the cabinet, pressed the button. The walls clouded to opacity; the unhuman voice ceased abruptly, but the humming continued, the stylus moved and moved.
The Russian faced a deathly quiet assemblage. "We shall not penetrate further into his secrets, gentlemen," he said in a somewhat shaken voice, "but the record for the variable factor will continue."
STRAINED seconds of frozen attention, and the humming ceased. The door opened, and the Fascist staggered out, haggard and drawn, his body trembling so he could hardly stand. He sank into a chair, and buried his face in his hands.
There was a profound silence. Then Corbin stated very quietly, matter-of-factly.
"They were phonograph records."
"Exactly," the scientist agreed, and went on to explain. "I made up a series of several thousand of them; each containing a word, a phrase, a sentence, which I thought most fitting for descriptions of people, of events, past, present or future. The solution of the equation causes certain levers to lift, these in turn set the records in motion. They are underneath the base of the 'Brain' machine; you see the loud speaker over there. Mr. Devoe is next."
Stricken with awe, each entered in turn the marvelous booth, hastily refusing the proffer of open publicity.
"How about Hiller?" said Kalmikoff finally. "The record will be incomplete without his reactions."
"How about Hiller?" echoed a voice.
Everyone whirled. Wingdale uttered an oath, went for his pistol. The Russian's assistants made movements toward their tunics.
"The first one to move dies!" There was no mistaking the menace of those tones.
An undersized man stood in the framed doorway, dressed in elaborate green uniform. The most amazing thing about him was his huge fleshly nose, which was surmounted by a grotesque wart that drew it out to even more amazing proportions. Behind that protuberance the rest of the face seemed curiously insignificant, with its sallow cheeks, toothbrush mustache and weak chin covered by a scraggly beard. Behind and around him swarmed soldiers in green, with very efficient hand spray-guns levelled at the startled assemblage.
"Hiller!" The name jerked from some one in the room.
"Yes, Hiller." The little man was beside himself with rage. He came forward, sputtering. "Who was responsible for that devil's trick? Pretending to kidnap every leader, and making it look as if I were responsible. The whole country's on my trail." There was a trace of accent to him, something guttural that went oddly with his leadership of the Nationalist Party.
"But we were kidnaped, Adolph," Beck protested. They had worked hand in hand when the occasion suited.
Hiller turned on him snarling. "Yah! So I notice. Kidnaped, you dirty double-crosser. You all got together to eliminate me! It was a plant, that's what it was. Getting afraid of me, weren't you? But I'll fix you all. The tables are turned now; you'll dance to my bidding."
"But, Adolph, I tell you it's the truth, God's truth!" Beck was almost in tears. He pointed a quivering finger at Corbin, who stood proudly apart. "It's Corbin's doing. He's the kidnapper. We're all here against our wills."
The little man swerved on the leader of the Reconstructionists. His mustache bristled.
"Corbin," he repeated the name meditatively. "That does make sense. You got a note from Kalmikoff—you're Kalmikoff, ain't you," he stabbed a thin finger at the Russian, who nodded calmly. He continued. "I sent my men to get here ahead of you; I figured that something important was up. The stupid ass of a lieutenant let himself be beaten. When this thing broke, I had to run for my life. Every party combined against me. I figured this place as somehow in the picture; I was angry anyway for the licking my men got. Corbin, you—you're responsible, aren't you?"
"Yes, I am," Hugh said very distinctly. He scorned to avail himself of technical excuses.
"There, you see," Beck cried. "Now will you free me, Adolph?"
"And me, too," spoke up Wellman and Henderson simultaneously.
Hiller looked them all over and smiled a twisted smile. "No, I don't think so. I'd be a fool not to take advantage of what's thrown at me, so to speak. We'll talk business later. Morris!"
A smartly clad lieutenant stepped forward, saluted.
"Tie up these men so they can't get away. Search them first."
The officer snapped commands. A squad of soldiers moved into the room.
Peter Rashdell had imperceptibly edged himself to the farther end of the "Brain" machine. Something had snapped within him at the appearance of Hiller. That was his fault, he reproached himself over and over. If he had not been a young, hotheaded fool, Hiller would have been a captive too, and the great experiment would have continued.
He moved his head cautiously. Half hidden by the bulk of the machine was a door. Where it led to, he did not know, but he was utterly reckless now. He had been responsible, and it was up to him to do something.
As the soldiers advanced, he swung sharply around, and dived headlong for the door.
"What's that? Stop him; shoot him!" Hiller was shouting.
Guns crashed, but Rashdell had disappeared. The sound of a banging door, racing of pounding feet, a final crash, and it was over. Soldiers swarmed after him, ran around the building. There was no trace of the fugitive. That door had led through a storage compartment out into the close-crowding trees of the hillside.
Hiller fumed as failure was reported to him.
"You damned idiots," he stormed, "letting him get away like that. He'll have the country roused in no time." Wingdale smiled thinly. Hiller turned on him furiously. "You smile? It won't help you. I'll move you all to another place where they can search for months and never find you. Morris, prepare marching orders."
"Very well, sir." The soldier looked curiously at the great machine. "What shall we do with this, sir?"
"Destroy it. Burn the buildings. No wait! You, Kalmikoff, what is this infernal affair? The truth now, if you value your life."
The Russian explained as he had explained to the others. There was no trace of fear in his bold blue eyes.
"Hmmm!" Hiller muttered when he was through. "What craziness!" He eyed the machine again. "You say it's all set to foretell the future of the United States except for me?"
"Yes, under present existing conditions."
"But I've changed them already."
"Then the future will change as far as the factor of leadership can change it."
"That means everything," said the little man pompously. "Leadership, that's what counts—my leadership."
The lieutenant appeared in the doorway.
"Everything is in readiness, sir."
But Hiller paid no attention to him. He kept on staring at the "Brain" machine in fascination. "Listen, you—" he said suddenly to Kalmikoff, "I, Hiller, am going to give you your last factor. I want to see what would have happened. Untie him, Morris."
The Russian stretched his cramped limbs.
"I'm going into your thingumajig," the Nationalist leader continued, "and you work the machine. But if you try any tricks, you'll be shot. Hear that?"
"I am a scientist, not a trickster," Kalmikoff said with dignity.
"Watch him anyway, Morris," Hiller retorted and walked into the booth. When he came out, he looked disappointed. "Pure hocus pocus. Now what?"
Kalmikoff reached over and knifed down a huge switch. The entire machine sprang to life. Gears meshed smoothly on gears, the rollers moved back and forth in bewildering routine, every stylus raced over its sheet of paper, wheels turned at dizzying speeds.
Everyone was watching now. The bound captives forgot their bonds, the soldiers their watchful guard. Time stood still as thousands of parts moved in complicated dance. Then suddenly, the great machine clicked off, and all was quiet in the room again.
Hiller relaxed his strained attention, looked questioningly at the inventor.
"There are two courses open now," the scientist explained. "The symbols of the completed equation are printed on a strip of paper underneath the last stylus. I can substitute the proper expressions and read you the answer, or if you prefer, my automatic reproducer will transform them into speech for all to hear."
"That would be better."
Kalmikoff went to the farther side of the machine and pressed two concealed buttons. There was a whirring of parts for a while, then the strange, unhuman voice came to them. It was issuing from the loudspeaker.
"Eleven parties... click... merge... three years... two parties... Communist... Fascist... civil war... five years... million die... fighting... click... more... starvation, plagues... no industry... farming... civilization perish... America perish... invasions... new colonies... foreign... click... whrr...."
The unhuman Cassandra ceased. The bound party leaders stared at each other with bloodshot, fear-haunted eyes. A shudder ran through the room. Was this to be the future of their country?
Only Hiller chuckled, as if pleased.
"There, you see," he cried to his rivals. "That's what would have happened if I hadn't been smart enough to outwit you. Now tell me, Kalmikoff, what will actually happen?"
"You have just heard it," the Russian boomed at him. "Numbskull!" shrilled Hiller in his irritation. "It's been changed. I am the only leader left."
"If you wish to know what would take place if you become the sole leader of America," the scientist said carefully, "I shall reset the machine."
"If! If!" the little man was dancing with rage. "Of course it is so. You shall suffer for your insolence."
But Kalmikoff's face was a blank as he reset all the factors as before, leaving the factor of leadership open. "Now, Mr. Hiller, if you will enter the booth again..." The Nationalist forgot his anger in his pompousness. He swelled like a pouter pigeon, and went in. The same routine ensued; the great machine moved like a live thing through its rhythms.
When it finally came to rest, the big Russian stroked his beard, and looked out of half closed eyes at the man who aspired to omnipotent leadership.
"Do you still wish to hear what is in store, or shall I destroy the record without reading it?"
Almost the same words he had employed to Beck, not so long before. Ominous words!
"Yah!" Hiller fairly spat at him. "You wish to cheat me of my victory. You are afraid the world will hear of the glory that awaits it under my leadership. Put it on, I say."
"I obey your command." Strange how inscrutable his face was!
The mechanical voice scratched a moment. It seemed to the breathless listeners as if it hesitated to begin. Then words came, distinct, icy, eerie in tone.
Hiller settled himself in a chair to hear the better, teetering on two legs, arms crossed over paunchy belly in Napoleonic attitude, a fatuous smile behind his enormous nose.
"Hiller..." said the mechanical voice jerkily, "delusions of grandeur... not sure... kill all rivals... in his power..." Beck moaned and toppled over like a trussed pigeon. He had fainted, but no one heeded him in the intensity of the ensuing drama.
"Great indignation ...." the voice ground on, "no leaders... click... Hiller... dictator... six months... reign of terror... revolts... click... Hiller... killed... 3 years... bloodshed... extreme Communists... seize power..."
"Shut that damn thing off!"
Hiller had awakened from the paralysis that had gripped him as the machine intoned its remorseless forecast, was on his feet screaming his mingled rage and panic. Even the wart on his nose had drained white.
Kalmikoff moved with utmost deliberation in turning off the machine.
"I warned you that the future might not prove pleasant. It is best sometimes not to know."
"It's a fake, a sham! You have a man hidden somewhere putting on the records; you're trying to scare me."
The scientist surveyed the trembling little man who aspired to dictatorship with calm disdain.
"You are at liberty to search. The machine tells the truth."
"I'll smash it; kill you for a croaking liar."
"The 'Brain' has foretold that you will kill us all."
That staggered the Nationalist. In spite of his bluster he believed at least enough to make him terribly afraid. If he proceeded to carry out his threat, the rest would inevitably follow, and the machine had prophesied his death.
Henderson came out of his torpor. Beck was still unconscious.
"It is to your advantage to free us," the Middle Class leader said shakily.
Michael Gelb's glittering eyes blazed with the fires of martyrdom. He strained at his bonds and shouted: "Kill us, kill us all, Adolph Hiller! It is destiny; you cannot halt the march of truth. Did you hear, all of you? Extreme Communism will be triumphant. It will smash your capitalistic system and you with it. I shall not die in vain. Kill me—now!"
Beck came out of his coma to moan: "Spare me; I'll do anything, only don't make me die!" and relapsed into unconsciousness again.
The place was a bedlam by now. Dignity, calm, pride, all the trappings that had once enveloped the inner natures of these powerful men, went by the board. Some shrieked for mercy; others, notably Heywood, the Socialist, shouted defiance, and above all others came the insane iteration of Gelb: "Kill everyone of us! Kill!"
Hiller seemed about to have a seizure; his face was clammy, he shook his fist at the lifeless machine and its inventor indiscriminately. His soldiers were as confused as he; their guns were leveled, fingers trembled on the triggers. It took but a word, a spark, to precipitate a massacre.
There were some notable isles of calm. The Russian leaned against his beloved "Brain" machine, staring disdainfully. Corbin lay silent, his face a proud mask. The three assistants seemed to have no life in them; only their eyes moved. And old Wingdale, veteran of many wars, lay relaxed to all outward seeming, but he was working steadily at the ropes that bound his hands. One knot had already been loosened.
Passion finally overcame discretion. Hiller yelled in a strangled voice: "Line them up and shoot them."
His lieutenant, Morris, barked orders in the madhouse. Discipline reasserted itself. The soldiers jerked the captives roughly to their feet; strapped the Russian's hands again, thrust him into line. Beck moaned, opened his eyes, swayed, and fell in a heap.
A deathly silence descended suddenly, even Gelb ceased his chanting, a bitter smile playing around his pinched lips.
The little man had recovered his poise. He walked rapidly up and down the line of his victims, sneering.
"I don't get frightened so easily, do I? You rigged up a plant, but it didn't work. Hiller is too brave and smart a man to be fooled. And you, say your prayers; you're going to die."
Michael Gelb filled his mouth and deliberately spat full into the little man's face. An almost animal scream tore out of the Nationalist's throat. He sprang back, great nose working ludicrously.
"Shoot the dogs! Fire!"
Rifles leaped to shoulders, steadied. Wingdale, at the end of the line, made a last desperate effort to loosen the remaining knot.
"Fire!" Morris's command resounded like the crack of doom.
Fingers pressed heavily against triggers.
Thank God, the knot had slipped! Wingdale sprang sideways toward the door through which Rashdell had catapulted earlier in the day.
A single shot, a shout of warning, then the crash of many guns. The sudden interruption unnerved the firing squad, caused certain unexpected muscular reactions. The volley rang out, but raggedly, guns jerked from steady aim. The room was filled with smoke and shouting. Some one screamed horribly.
Outside, the noise of a battle grew. Great guns rocked the building with their concussion; dynol bullets exploded with peculiar whistling noise, and spray-pellets added their deadly ping-ping.
Morris, professional soldier, gave calm, rapid orders. The soldiers reformed ranks, poured after him out of the building to aid their beleaguered brethren outside. Hiller gave a last furious glance around, raised his pistol to shoot someone he saw moving in the smoky dimness, lowered it again, and dashed out after his troops. Very ecstasy of fear made him brave.
Corbin crawled against Brusson. "Untie me," he said urgently.
Back to back the two men lay, while the Frenchman worked at his bonds. Finally Corbin staggered to his feet, and unloosed the rest of those still alive as fast as numbed fingers could work.
Hasty glances to see the casualties. Michael Gelb lay sprawled. He had achieved the martyrdom he coveted. Wellman, the Patriot, was dead, his brains oozing slowly. And Beck too, ironically enough. Unconsciousness had slipped into the deeper sleep. A few of the others were wounded. Wingdale was nowhere to be seen.
Corbin took instant command. "Can you get your guns working, Kalmikoff?" His eyes glowed with a strange new light; the pacifist had become a warrior.
"I think so."
Down through a trapdoor the survivors plunged. It led into a concrete-faced cellar. The butt ends of guns imbedded in the cement loomed wickedly. The men worked furiously, breaking out ammunition, loading the guns. Gone were party lines, antagonisms, only a common burning thirst for revenge.
General Wingdale landed sprawling in a thicket on the hillside. He picked himself up and burrowed deeper. Then he looked around. There was no pursuit.
The hills gave tongue to the roar of a full-sized battle. Shells furrowed into the loam unpleasantly close to him, exploded in great geysers of earth. Trees leaned suddenly over, went crashing with majestic slowness. Bullets whistled all about him.
The old general paused awhile to recover his breath—he was not as physically fit as he once was—then crept slowly down the hill through the woods, crouching low to avoid the deadly storm. He reached a point where a notch in the trees gave him an unobstructed view of the valley and clearing below.
Hiller's men had deployed in front of the building, lying flat on their stomachs to take advantage of certain small irregularities of ground. They were firing and reloading with furious speed. There were about two hundred of them.
The attacking force was hidden in the trees abutting the trail. Flames spurted out in thin streaks, punctuated by a regular boom—boom. That was a field piece, the general reflected.
Then, even as he watched, the hidden forces decided to attack. A great cheer burst through the medley of sounds, and a wave of men swarmed out of the woods, firing as they ran. Another wave, and a third, then there were no more.
With a great bound of his heart, Wingdale recognized the familiar khaki of his forces, but there were other shades intermingled too. Horizon blue of the Monarchists, dark red of the Socialists; half a dozen other colors. Damn it, if only he had a gun. He'd give ten years of his life to be down there, leading the assault.
Then he cursed, deeply, amazedly. A slight figure had sprung to the fore of the first wave, brandishing a pistol, shouting orders as he ran. Wingdale recognized young Rashdell at once. It was magnificent, but it was suicide. The hail of bullets that was decimating the attacking men, seemed to concentrate on the reckless leader. Peter staggered and fell. Then the waves of attack went over him.
Red fury engulfed the general. He sprang to his feet, shouting terrible phrases, and ran down the hill headlong, heedless of the fact that he was unarmed and exposed to the crossfire of both factions.
The allied forces, or what was left of them from the pitiless raking slaughter, had washed up to the defenders. A terrific hand-to-hand fight was in progress. Pistols went off point-blank, clubbed weapons rose and fell, men smashed bare fists into each other's faces. Wingdale precipitated himself into the thick of the melee, snatched a gun from the lifeless fingers of a soldier, and took command.
Slowly but surely the attackers were being overwhelmed; superiority of numbers lay with the defending force; when guns roared from almost directly underneath them. Kalmikoff's weapons had finally found tongue.
Caught between two fires, unknowing where the new enemy had appeared from, the Nationalists' resistance collapsed into demoralized flight. They threw down their weapons and ran. For a quarter hour the woods echoed with the noise of pursuit, the cutting down of some unfortunate wretch. But Wingdale remained on the battlefield, searching among the heaps of the dead and dying.
At last he found what he was looking for. Underneath sprawled, unmoving figures, lay another. It was Rashdell, pale and bloody of face, but breathing. The old general lifted him out gently, staggered under the load toward the building. Hawkes, eyes somber, met him half way, took the limp body off his shoulders, brought it into the chamber of the "Brain" machine.
The survivors clustered around them excitedly. A barrage of questions swept over the general.
"Easy!" he warned. "Young Rashdell's the only one to know the answers, and he's almost out. Some water, quickly."
Marinelli brought a bucketful. Under its cold ministrations Peter revived, sputtering and gasping.
"Easy there, lad," soothed Wingdale, examining his wounds with practiced fingers. One bullet had fractured a collarbone, another had ploughed through the scalp, but there was nothing inherently dangerous.
"Now, Peter, tell us about it," said Corbin, after his wounds and those of the others had been dressed. The pursuit was over, the allied partisans bivouacked in the glade.
"Nothing much to tell, sir," said Peter. "I dived through that door out on the hillside, picked myself up and started running for dear life. I kept to the woods, not daring to try and find the trail. After a while I heard no more sounds of search, but I kept on, circling to get back to the main road. I hit it about half a mile below this place.
"While I stood there, hesitating, not knowing what to do, a fleet of armored cars came tearing around a bend. Judge how I jumped when I saw the insignia of the Reconstructionists on the leading automobile. I ran out into the middle of the road, and waved madly. The procession stopped at once, and soldiers hopped out. I recognized Manning and explained rapidly." Peter hesitated and smiled boyishly. "At least I told them part of the truth—that Hiller had you all in his power."
"Good lad," Wingdale approved. "Go on."
"I found out that this was but one of hundreds of contingents that were scouring the country in search of the kidnapped leaders. Party lines had broken down; Hiller had absorbed all the hatred; and the Nationalists were everywhere fleeing for their lives. That is all, sir, the rest you know."
"Who made you commander of the troop?" Wingdale demanded abruptly.
"Why, sir," the boy blushed and stammered. "Manning was in command, but back in the woods, he was shot, and I—I didn't think of it much, but just yelled for them to come on."
Corbin stared at his secretary. "So you ordered the attack, eh?"
Rashdell stammered something, but old Wingdale was already talking, mopping his bald head as he always did when he was most serious. He addressed them all generally.
"You've all heard what young Rashdell said about the kidnaping; how the outside world, your own parties, feel about it?"
A murmur of assent.
The general fixed them with glaring eyes. "That story stands, doesn't it?"
The surviving leaders looked at each other, turned simultaneously, and chorused: "It stands!"
Wingdale chuckled and relaxed. He positively beamed on them now.
"That's fine. Now listen carefully to me. The extremist leaders are all dead, their parties will die with them—Gelb, Beck, Wellman, and outside I saw Hiller. His dictatorship days are over. That leaves only the moderate and moderately radical parties. You've been through something together; you've heard things that should have changed all your views. Why not cooperate instead of fighting each other? Surely the country, civilization, humanity itself is worth it. God knows we don't want another twenty years of hell such as we've been through. We can pull out, but only if everyone puts their shoulders to the task. What do you say?"
Big Bob Heywood sprang forward, his eyes shining.
"I'm the first to say 'yes,' " he cried. "And I'll go further. Right here and now I cast my vote for Corbin Reconstruction Plan. I prefer my own; but his has the best chance of getting all your sanctions; and it will work, I am sure of that."
Impelled by that strange thing known as crowd psychology, the other leaders caught the contagion and rose to their feet, shouting: "Corbin's plan, Corbin's plan!"
The sentinel guarding the door took alarm at the tumult, stuck his head through the doorway, and as hastily withdrew it.
"There, you see," Wingdale grinned at Kalmikoff, who was listening with intent interest, "your know-all 'Brain' machine couldn't foretell this."
The Russian scientist smiled calmly. "I never claimed it was a fortune-telling machine. It shows the result of the present state of facts in accordance with rigid mathematical laws. The state of facts has changed, that is all."
Corbin said eagerly: "Suppose we set it for the situation as it now stands."
"It would be wise," Kalmikoff nodded, "before any commitments are made."
Once more the factors were set, with certain changes necessitated by the deaths of four leaders and the dissolution of their followings. Then Corbin entered the booth, alone this time.
Again silence ruled, while the inexorable machine went through its intricate calculations.
Then the loudspeaker broke into its unhuman tones, while everyone leaned forward, straining to hear every syllable. The destiny of the United States, and ultimately of the world, was in the balance.
"Corbin... sole... leader... click..." the machine spoke. "Parties... harmony... Advisory Council... Reconstruction Plan... slow... click... years... work... rebuilding civilization... machinery... setbacks... Europe... invasions... defeated... Plan proceeds... efficient production... efficient distribution... ten years... success...
"Mankind happy... plenty food... machines... servants... free people... glorious civilization... click..."
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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