Beyond This Horizon

CHAPTER TEN

"-the only game in town"

IT WAS pleasant to be dead. Pleasant and peaceful, not monotonous. But a little bit lonely. He missed those others- serene Mordan, the dauntless gallantry of Phyllis, Cliff and his frozen face. And there was that funny little man, pathetic little man who ran the Milky Way Bar-what had he named him? He could see his face, but what had he named him? Herbie, Herbert, something like that-names didn't taste the same when words were gone. Why had he named him Herbert?

Never mind. The next time he would not choose to be a mathematician. Dull, tasteless stuff, mathematics-quite likely to give the game away before it was played out. No fun in the game if you knew the outcome. He had designed a game like that once, and called it Futility-no matter how you played, you had to win. No, that wasn't himself, that was a player called Hamilton. Himself wasn't Hamilton-not this game. He was a geneticist-that was a good one!-a game within a game. Change the rules as you go along. Move the players around. Play tricks on yourself.

"Don't you peek and close your eyes, And I'll give you something to make a s'prise!"

That was the essence of the game-surprise. You locked up your memory, and promised not to look, then played through the part you had picked with just the rules assigned to that player. Sometimes the surprises were pretty ghastly, though-he didn't like having his fingers burned off.

No! He hadn't played that position at all. That piece was an automatic, some of the pieces had to be. Himself had burned off that piece's lingers, though it seemed real at the time.

It was always like this on first waking up. It was always a little hard to remember which position Himself had played, forgetting that he had played all of the parts. Well, that was the game; it was the only game in town, and there was nothing else to do. Could he help it if the game was crooked? Even if he had made it up and played all the parts. But he would think up another game the next time. Next time...

His eyes didn't work right. They were open but he couldn't see anything. A hell of a way to run things-some mistake.

"Hey! What's going on here?"

It was his own voice. He sat up, the cloth fell from his eyes. Everything was too bright; his eyes smarted.

"What's the trouble, Felix?" He turned in the direction of the voice and strove to focus his aching eyes. It was Mordan, lying a few feet away from him. There was something he wanted to ask Mordan, but it escaped him.

"Oh. Claude. I don't feel right. How long have we been dead?"

"We aren't dead. You're just a bit sick. You'll get over it."

"Sick? Is that what it is?"

"Yes. I was sick once, about thirty years ago. It was much like this."

"Oh-" There was still something he wanted to ask Mordan, but he couldn't for the life of him recall what it was. It was important, too, and Claude would know. Claude knew everything-he made the rules.

That was silly. Still, Claude would know.

"Do you want to know what happened?" Mordan asked.

Maybe that was it. "They gassed us, didn't they? I don't remember anything after that." That wasn't quite right- there was something else. He couldn't recall.

"We were gassed, but it was done by our own monitors. Through the conditioning system. We were lucky. No one knew we were under siege inside, but they could not be sure that all of the staff were out of the building-else they would have used a lethal gas."

His head was clearing now. He remembered the fight in detail. "So? How many were left? How many did we fail to get?"

"I don't know exactly, and it's probably too late to find out. They are probably all dead."

"Dead? Why? They didn't burn them after they were down, did they?"

"No ... But this gas we took is lethal without an immediate antidote-and I'm afraid that the therapists were a little bit over-worked. Our own people came first."

Hamilton grinned. "You old hypocrite. Say! How about Phyllis?"

"She's all right, and so is Martha. I ascertained that when I woke up. By the way, do you know that you snore?"

"Do I really?"

"Outrageously. I listened to your music for more than an hour. You must have had a heavier dose of gas than I had. Perhaps you struggled."

"Maybe. I wouldn't know. Say, where are we?" He swung his legs out of bed, and attempted to stand. It was a foolish attempt; he just missed falling on his face.

"Lie down," ordered Mordan. "You won't be fit for several hours yet."

"I guess you're right," Hamilton admitted, sinking back on the cushion. "Say, that's a funny feeling. I thought I was going to fly."

"We're next door to the Carstairs Infirmary, in a temporary annex," Mordan continued. "Naturally, things are a bit crowded today."

"Is the party all over? Did we win?"

"Of course we won. I told you the issue was never in doubt."

"I know, but I've never understood your confidence." Mordan considered how to reply to this. "Perhaps," he said, "it would be simplest to state that they never did have what it takes. The leaders were, in most cases, genetically poor types, with conceit far exceeding their abilities. I doubt if any one of them had sufficient imagination to conceive logically the complexities of running a society, even the cut-to-measure society they dreamed of."

"They talked as if they did."

Mordan nodded. "No doubt. It's a common failing, and it's been with the race as long as it has had social organization. A little businessman thinks his tiny business is as complex and difficult as the whole government. By inversion, he conceives himself as competent to plan the government as the chief executive. Going further back in history, I've no doubt that many a peasant thought the job of the king was a simple one and that he could do it better if he only had a chance. What it boils down to is lack of imagination and overwhelming conceit."

"I would never have thought them lacking in imagination."

"There is a difference between constructive imagination and wild, uncontrolled daydreams. One is psychopathic-megalomania-unable to distinguish between fact and fancy. The other is hardheaded. In any case, the fact remains that they did not have a single competent scientist, nor a synthesist of any sort, in their whole organization. I venture to predict that, when we get around to reviewing their records, we will find that the rebels were almost all-all, perhaps-men who had never been outstandingly successful at anything. Their only prominence was among themselves."

Hamilton thought this over to himself. He had noticed something of the sort. They had seemed like thwarted men. He had not recognized a face among them as being anyone in particular outside the Survivors Club. But inside the club they were swollen with self-importance, planning this, deciding that, talking about what they would do when they "took over." Pipsqueaks, the lot of 'em.

But dangerous pipsqueaks, no matter what Mordan said. You were just as dead, burned by a childish man, as you would be if another killed you. "Felix, are you still awake?"

"Yes."

"Do you recall the conversations we were having during the fight?"

"Why, um-yes-yes, I think I do."

"You were about to say something when the gas hit us." Hamilton was slow in replying. He recalled what had been on his mind but it was difficult to fit it into adequate words. "It's like this, Claude. It seems to me that scientists tackle every problem but the important ones. What a man wants to know is 'Why?'-all that science tells him is 'What.'"

"'Why' isn't the business of science. Scientists observe, describe, hypothecate, and predict. 'What' and 'How' are their whole field; 'Why' doesn't enter into it."

"Why shouldn't 'Why' enter into it? I don't want to know how far it is from here to the Sun; I want to know why the Sun is there-and why I am standing here looking at it. I ask what life is for, and they show me a way to make better bread."

"Food is important. Try going without it."

"Food isn't important after you've solved that problem."

"Were you ever hungry?"

"Once-when I was studying basic socio-economics. But It was just instructional. I never expect to be hungry again- and neither does anybody else. That's a solved problem and it answers nothing. I want to know What next? Where to? Why?"

"I had been thinking about these matters," Mordan said slowly, "while you were sleeping. The problems of philosophy seem to be unlimited, and it is not too healthy to dwell on unlimited questions. But last night you seemed to feel that the key problem, for you, was the old, old question as to whether a man was anything more than his hundred years here on earth? Do you still feel that way?"

"Yes ... I think I do. If there was anything, anything more at all, after this crazy mix-up we call living, I could feel that there might be some point to the whole frantic business, even if I did not know and could not know the full answer while I was alive."

"And suppose there was not? Suppose that when a man's body disintegrates, he himself disappears absolutely. I'm bound to say I find it a probable hypothesis."

"Well- It wouldn't be cheerful knowledge, but it would be better than not knowing. You could plan your life rationally, at least. A man might even be able to get a certain amount of satisfaction in planning things better for the future, after he's gone. A vicarious pleasure in the anticipation."

"I assure you he can," Mordan stated, from his own inner knowledge. "But, I take it, either way, you would feel that the question you posed to me in our first interview was fairly answered." "Mmm, yes."

"Whereupon you would be willing to co-operate in the genetics program planned for you?"

"Yes, if."

"I don't propose to give you an answer here and now," Mordan answered equably. "Would you be willing to cooperate if you knew that a serious attempt was being made to answer your question?"

"Easy there! Wait a minute. You-win-and-I-lose. I ought to be entitled to look at the answer. Suppose you do assign someone to look into the matter and he comes back with a negative report-after I've fulfilled my part of the bargain?"

"It would be necessary for you to place credence in me. Such a research might not be completed in years, or in our lifetimes. But suppose I declare to you that such a research were to be attempted, seriously, hard headedly, all out, and no trouble spared, would you then consent to co-operate?"

Hamilton covered his face with his hands. There were myriad factors revolving in his brain-some of which he was not fully aware of, none of which he wished to talk about. "If you did-if you did-I think perhaps-"

"Here, here," a voice boomed in the room. "What's going on in here? Mustn't excite yourselves yet."

"Hello, Joseph," Mordan greeted the newcomer.

"Morning, Claude. Feel better?"

"Much."

"You still need sleep. Put yourself to sleep."

"Very well." Mordan closed his eyes.

The man called Joseph stepped up to Felix, felt his wrist, peeled back his eyelid, and examined the eye. "You'll do."

"I want to get up."

"Not yet. I want you to sleep for a few hours first. Look at me. You feel sleepy. You-"

Felix tore his gaze away from the man's eyes, and said, "Claude!"

"He's asleep. You can't possibly wake him."

"Oh. See here, you're a therapist, aren't you?"

"Certainly."

"Is there anything that can be done to cure snoring?"

The man chuckled. "All I can suggest is that you sleep through it. Which is what I want you to do now. You are sleepy. You are falling asleep. Sleep..."

When they let him go he tried to look up Phyllis, It was difficult to find her, to begin with, since the meager hospital accommodations of the city were overcrowded and she had been ministered to, as he had been, in temporary quarters. When he did find her, they wouldn't let him in-she was sleeping, they said. Nor were they inclined to give him any information as to her condition; he could show no claim on such knowledge and it was clearly in the private sphere.

He made such a nuisance of himself that he was finally told that she was entirely well, save for a slight indisposition pursuant to gas poisoning. He had to be contented with that.

He might have gotten himself into serious trouble had he been dealing with a man, but his argument was with a grimly inflexible matron, who was about twice as tough as he was.

He had the faculty of dismissing from mind that which could not be helped. Phyllis was not on his mind once he had turned away. He started for his apartment automatically, then recalled, for the first time in a good many hours, Monroe-Alpha.

The fool, the silly fool! He wondered what had happened to him. He was reluctant to inquire since to do so might give away his connection with the conspiracy. It seemed likely that he had already found some means to do that himself.

It did not occur to him then, or at any other time, to "do the honorable thing" by reporting Monroe-Alpha. His morals were strictly pragmatic, and conformed to accepted code as closely as they did only through a shrewd and imaginative self-interest.

He called Monroe-Alpha's office-no, he was not there. He called his apartment. No answer. Temporarily blocked, he decided to go to his friend's apartment on the assumption that he might show up there first.

He got no response at the door. He knew the combination but ordinarily would not think of using it. This seemed to him an extraordinary occasion.

Monroe-Alpha was sitting in his lounging room. He looked up when Hamilton entered, but did not rise and said nothing. Hamilton walked over and planted himself in front of him. "So you're back."

"Yes."

"How long have you been back?"

"I don't know. Hours."

"You have? I signalled your phone."

"Oh, was that you?"

"Certainly it was. Why didn't you answer?"

Monroe-Alpha said nothing, looked at him dully, and looked away. "Snap out of it, man," Hamilton snapped, by now exasperated. "Come to life. The putsch failed. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes." Then he added, "I'm ready."

"Ready for what?"

"You've come to arrest me, haven't you?"

"Me? Great Egg! I'm no monitor."

"It's all right. I don't mind."

"Look here, Cliff," Hamilton said seriously. "What's gotten into you? Are you still filled up with the guff McFee dished out? Are you determined to be a martyr? You've been a fool-there's no need to be a damned fool. I've reported that you were an agent of mine." (In this he anticipated a decision he had made at the moment; he would carry it out later-if necessary.) "You're all in the clear. Well, speak up. You didn't get in on the fighting, did you?"

"No."

"I didn't think you would, after the hypno pills I stuffed down you. One more and you would have listened to the birdies. What's the trouble, then? Are you still fanatical about this damned Survivors Club tommyrot?"

"No. That was a mistake. I was crazy."

"I'll say you were crazy! But see here-you don't rate it, but you're getting away with it, cold. You don't have to worry. Just slide back in where you were and no one's the wiser."

"It's no good, Felix. Nothing's any good. Thanks, just the same." He smiled briefly and wanly.

"Well, for the love o'-I've a good mind to paste you right in the puss, just to get a rise out of you." Monroe-Alpha did not answer. His face he had let sink down into his hands; he showed in no way that he had even heard. Hamilton shook his shoulder.

"What's the matter? Did something else happen? Something I don't know about."

"Yes." It was barely a whisper.

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

"It doesn't matter." But he did start to tell of it; once started he went on steadily, in a low voice and without raising his head. He seemed to be talking only to himself, as if he were repeating over something he wished to learn by heart.

Hamilton listened uneasily, wondering whether or not he should stop him. He had never heard a man bare his secret thoughts as Monroe-Alpha was doing. It seemed indecent.

But he went on and on, until the whole pitiful, silly picture was mercilessly sharp. "And so I came back here," he concluded. He said nothing further, nor did he look up.

Hamilton looked amazed. "Is that all?"

"Yes."

"You're sure you haven't left anything out?"

"No, of course not."

"Then what, in the Name of the Egg, are you doing here?"

"Nothing. There wasn't anyplace else to go."

"Cliff, you'll be the death of me, yet. Get going. Get started. Get up off that fat thing you're sitting on and get a move on."

"Huh? Where?"

"After her, you bubble-brained idiot! Go find her."

Monroe-Alpha shook his head wearily. "You must not have listened. I tell you I tried to burn her."

Hamilton took a deep breath, let it out, then said, "Listen to me. I don't know much about women, and sometimes it seems like I didn't know anything about them. But I'm sure of this-she won't let a little thing like you taking a pot shot at her stand in the way if you ever had any chance with her at all. She'll forgive you."

"You don't really mean that, do you?" Monroe-Alpha's face was still tragic, but he clutched at the hope.

"Certainly I do. Women will forgive anything." With a flash of insight he added, "Otherwise the race would have died out long ago."