Anthony Bouche - A Treasury of Great Science Fiction Vol2

A Treasury of GREAT SCIENCE FICTION

VOLUME TWO

Edited by Anthony Boucher

DOUBLEDAY & COMPANY, ING. Garden City, New York

This book is for PHYLLIS as what is not?

All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or

dead, is purely coincidental.

CONTENTS

BRAIN WAVE by Poul Anderson

BULLARD REFLECTS by Malcolm Jameson

THE LOST YEARS by Oscar Lewis

DEAD CENTER by Judith Merril

LOST ART by George O. Smith

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE SKY by Arthur C. Clarke

THE MAN WHO SOLD THE MOON by Robert A. Heinlein

MAGIC CITY by Nelson S. Bond

THE MORNING OF THE DAY THEY DID IT by E. B. White

PIGGY BANK by Henry Kuttner

LETTERS FROM LAURA by Mildred Clingerman

THE STARS MY DESTINATION by Alfred Bester

BRAIN WAVE

by Poul Anderson

CHAPTER ONE

THE TRAP HAD CLOSED at sundown. In the last red light, the rabbit had battered himself against its

walls until fear and numbness ached home and he crouched shaken by the flutterings of his own heart.

Otherwise there was no motion in him as night and the stars came. But when the moon rose, its light was

caught icily in his great eyes, and he looked through shadows to the forest.

His vision was not made to focus closely, but after a while it fell on the entrance to the trap. It had

snapped down on him when he entered, and then there had been only the flat bruising beat of himself

against the wood. Now slowly, straining through the white unreal haze of moonlight, he recalled a

memory of the gate falling, and he squeaked ever so faintly with terror. For the gate was there now, solid

and sullen against the breathing forest, and yet it had been up and had come thunking down, and this

now-then doubleness was something the rabbit had never known before.

The moon rose higher, swinging through a sky full of stars. An owl hooted, and the rabbit froze into

movelessness as its wings ghosted overhead. There was fear and bewilderment and a new kind of pain in

the owl’s voice, too. Presently it was gone, and only the many little murmurs and smells of night were

around him. And he sat for a long time looking at the gate and remembering how it had fallen.

The moon began to fall too, into a paling western heaven. Perhaps the rabbit wept a little, in his own way.

A dawn which was as yet only a mist in the dark limned the bars of the trap against gray trees. And there

was a crossbar low on the gate.

Slowly, very slowly, the rabbit inched across until he was at the entrance. He shrank from the thing which

had clamped him in. It smelled of man. Then he nosed it, feeling dew cold and wet on his muzzle. It did

not stir. But it had fallen down.

Reprinted by permission of the author and author’s agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

The rabbit crouched, bracing his shoulders against the crossbar. He strained then, heaving upward, and

the wood shivered. The rabbit’s breath came fast and sharp, whistling between his teeth, and he tried

again. The gate moved upward in its grooves, and the rabbit bolted free.

For an instant he poised wildly. The sinking moon was a blind dazzle in his eyes. The gate smacked back

into place, and he turned and fled.

Archie Brock had been out late grubbing stumps in the north forty. Mr. Rossman wanted them all pulled

by Wednesday so he could get the plowing started in his new field, and promised Brock extra pay if he

would see to it. So Brock took some dinner out with him and worked till it got too dark to see. Then he

started walking the three miles home, because they didn’t let him use the jeep or a truck.

He was tired without thinking of it, aching a little and wishing he had a nice tall beer. But mostly he didn’t

think at all, just picked them up and laid them down, and the road slid away behind him. There were dark

woods on either side, throwing long shadows across the moon-whitened dust, and he heard the noise of

crickets chirring and once there was an owl. Have to take a gun and get that owl before he swiped some

chickens. Mr. Rossman didn’t mind if Brock hunted.

It was funny the way he kept thinking things tonight. Usually he just went along, especially when he was

as tired as now, but—maybe it was the moon—he kept remembering bits of things, and words sort of

formed themselves in his head like someone was talking. He thought about his bed and how nice it would

have been to drive home from work; only of course he got sort of mixed up when driving, and there’d

been a couple of smashups. Funny he should have done that, because all at once it didn’t seem so hard:

just a few signals to learn, and you kept your eyes open, and that was all.

The sound of his feet was hollow on the road. He breathed deeply, drawing a cool night into his lungs,

and looked upward, away from the moon. The stars were sure big and bright tonight.

Another memory came back to him, somebody had said the stars were like the sun only further away. It

hadn’t made much sense then. But maybe it was so, like a light was a small thing till you got up close and

then maybe it was very big. Only if the stars were as big as the sun, they’d have to be awful far away.

He stopped dead, feeling a sudden cold run through him. Jesus GodI How far up the stars werel

The earth seemed to fall away underfoot, he was hanging on to a tiny rock that spun crazily through an

everlasting darkness, and the great stars burned and roared around him, so far up that he whimpered with

knowing it.

He began to run.

The boy rose early, even if it was summer and no school and breakfast wouldn’t be for a while yet. The

street and the town outside his windows looked very clean and bright in the young sunshine. A single

truck clattered down the road and a man in blue denim walked toward the creamery carrying a lunch

pail, otherwise it was as if he had the whole world to himself. His father was already off to work, and

Mom liked to go back to bed for an hour after fixing his breakfast, and Sis was still asleep, so the boy

was all alone in the house.

His friend was coming over and they’d go fishing, but first he wanted to get some more done on his

model plane. He washed as thoroughly as you could ask a ten-year-old to, snatched a roll from the

pantry, and went back to his room and the littered table there. The plane was going to be a real beauty, a

Shooting Star with a CO2 cartridge to make a jet. Only somehow, this morning it didn’t look as good as

it had last night. He wished he could make a real jet motor for it.

He sighed, pushing the work away, and took a sheet of paper. He’d always liked to doodle around with

numbers, and one of the teachers had taught him a little about algebra. Some of the fellows had called

him teacher’s pet for that, till he licked them, but it was real interesting, not just like learning multiplication

tables. Here you made the numbers and letters do something. The teacher said that if he really wanted to

build spaceships when he grew up, he’d have to learn lots of math.

He started drawing some graphs. The different kinds of equations made different pictures. It was fun to

see how x=ky-|-c made a straight line while x2 -j-y2=c was always a circle. Only how if you changed one

of the x’s, made it equal 3 instead of 2? What would happen to the y in the meantime? He’d never

thought of that before!

He grasped the pencil tightly, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth. You had to kind of sneak

up on the x and the y, change one of them just a weeny little bit, and then———

He was well on the way to inventing differential calculus when his mother called him down to breakfast.

CHAPTER TWO

PETER CORINTH CAME OUT of the shower, still singing vigorously, to find Sheila busy frying bacon

and eggs. He ruffled her soft brown hair up, kissing her on the neck, and she turned to smile at him.

“She looks like an angel and cooks like an angel,” he said.

“Why, Pete,” she answered, “you never———”

“Never could find words,” he agreed. “But it’s gospel truth, me love.” He bent over the pan, inhaling the

crisp odor with a contented sigh. “I have a hunch this is one of those days when everything will go right,”

he said. “A bit of Hubris for which the gods will doubtless visit a Nemesis on me. Ate: Gertie, the slut,

will burn out a tube. But you’ll amend it all.”

“Hubris, Nemesis, Ate.” A tiny frown creased her broad clear forehead. “You’ve used those words

before, Pete. What do they mean?”

He blinked at her. Two years after marriage, he was still far gone in love with his wife, and as she stood

there his heart turned over within him. She was kind and merry and beautiful and she could cook—but

she was nothing of an intellectual, and when his friends came over she sat quietly back, taking no part in

the conversation. “What do you care?” he asked.

“I was just wondering,” she said.

He went into the bedroom and began dressing, leaving the door open so he could explain the basis of

Greek tragedy. It was much too bright a morning to dwell on so somber a theme, but she listened closely,

with an occasional question. When he came out, she smiled and went over to him.

“You dear clumsy physicist,” she said. “You’re the only man I ever knew who could put on a suit straight

from the cleaners and make it look like you’ve been fixing a car in it.” She adjusted his tie and pulled

down the rumpled coat. He ran a hand through his black hair, immediately reducing it to unkemptness,

and followed her to the kitchenette table. A whiff of steam from the coffeepot fogged his hom-rimmed

glasses, and he took them off and polished them on his necktie. His lean, broken-nosed face looked

different without them—younger, perhaps only the thirty-three years which was his actual age.

“It came to me just when I woke up,” he said as he buttered his toast. “I must have a well-trained

subconscious after all.”

“You mean the solution to your problem?” asked Sheila.

He nodded, too absorbed to consider what her query meant. She usually just let him run on, saying “yes”

and “no” in the right places but not really listening. To her, his work was altogether mysterious. He had

sometimes thought she lived in a child’s world, with nothing very well known but all of it bright and

strange.

“I’ve been trying to build a phase analyzer for intermolecular resonance bonds in crystal structure,” he

said. “Well, no matter. The thing is, I’ve been plugging along for the past few weeks, trying to design a

circuit which would do what I wanted, and was baffled. Then I woke up just this morning with an idea

that might work. Let’s see———” His eyes looked beyond her and he ate without tasting. Sheila

laughed, very softly.

“I may be late tonight,” he said at the door. “If this new idea of mine pans out, I may not want to break

off work till—Lord knows when. I’ll call you.”

“Okay, honey. Good hunting.”

When he was gone, Sheila stood for a moment smiling after him. Pete was a—well, she was just lucky,

that was all. She’d never really appreciated how lucky, but this morning seemed different, somehow.

Everything stood out sharp and clear, as if she were up in the Western mountains her husband loved so

well.

She hummed to herself as she washed the dishes and straightened up the apartment. Memory slid through

her, the small-town Pennsylvania girlhood, the business college, her coming to New York four years ago

to take a clerical job at the office of a family acquaintance. Dear God, but she had been unsuited for that

kind of life! One party and boy friend after another, everybody fast-talking, jerky-moving, carefully

hard-boiled and knowing, the expensive and market-wise crowd where she always had to be on her

guard———All right, she’d married Pete on the rebound, after Bill walked out calling her a

stupid———never mind. But she’d always liked the shy, quiet man, and she had been on the rebound

from a whole concept of living.

So I’m stodgy now, she told herself, and glad of it, too.

An ordinary housewifely existence, nothing more spectacular than a few friends in for beer and talk, going

to church now and then while Pete, the agnostic, slept late; vacation trips in New England or the Rocky

Mountains; plans of having a kid soon—who wanted more? Her friends before had always been ready

for a good laugh at the shibboleth-ridden boredom which was bourgeois existence; but when you got

right down to it, they had only traded one routine and one set of catchwords for another, and seemed to

have lost something of reality into the bargain.

Sheila shook her head, puzzled. It wasn’t like her to go daydreaming this way. Her thoughts even

sounded different, somehow.

She finished the housework and looked about her. Normally she relaxed for a while before lunch with

one of the pocket mysteries which were her prime vice; afterward there was some shopping to do,

maybe a stroll in the park, maybe a visit to or from some woman friend, and then supper to fix and Pete

to expect. But today———

She picked up the detective story she had planned to read. For a moment the bright cover rested

between uncertain fingers, and she almost sat down with it. Then, shaking her head, she laid it back and

went over to the crowded bookshelf, took out Pete’s worn copy of Lord Jim, and returned to the

armchair. Midafternoon came before she realized that she had forgotten all about lunch.

Corinth met Felix Mandelbaum in the elevator going down. They were that rare combination, neighbors

in a New York apartment building who had become close friends. Sheila, with her small-town

background, had insisted on getting to know everyone on their own floor at least, and Corinth had been

glad of it in the case of the Mandelbaums. Sarah was a plump, quiet, retiring Hausfrau sort, pleasant but

not colorful; her husband was a horse of quite another shade.

Felix Mandelbaum had been born fifty years ago in the noise and dirt and sweatshops of the lower East

Side, and life had been kicking him around ever since; but he kicked back, with a huge enjoyment. He’d

been everything from itinerant fruit picker to skilled machinist and O.S.S. operative overseas during the

war—where his talent for languages and people must have come in handy. His career as a labor

organizer ran parallel, from the old Wobblies to the comparative respectability of his present job: officially

executive secretary of a local union, actually a roving trouble shooter with considerable voice in national

councils. Not that he had been a radical since his twenties; he said he’d seen radicalism from the inside,

and that was enough for any sane man. Indeed, he claimed to be one of the last true conservatives—

only, to conserve, you had to prune and graft and adjust. He was self-educated, but widely read, with

more capacity for life than anyone else of Corinth’s circle except possibly Nat Lewis. Fun to know.

“Hello,” said the physicist. “You’re late today.”

“Not exactly.” Mandelbaum’s voice was a harsh New York tone, fast and clipped. He was a small, wiry,

gray-haired man, with a gnarled beaky face and intense dark eyes. “I woke up with an idea. A

reorganization plan. Amazing nobody’s thought of it yet. It’d halve the paper work. So I’ve been

outlining a chart.”

Corinth shook his head dolefully. “By now, Felix, you should know that Americans are too fond of paper

work to give up one sheet/‘ he said.

“You haven’t seen Europeans,” grunted Mandelbaum.

“You know,” said Corinth, “it’s funny you should’ve had your idea just today. (Remind me to get the

details from you later, it sounds interesting.) I woke up with the solution to a problem that’s been

bedeviling me for the past month.”

“Hm?” Mandelbaum pounced on the fact, you could almost see him turning it over in his hands, sniffing it,

and laying it aside. “Odd.” It was a dismissal.

The elevator stopped and they parted company. Corinth took the subway as usual. He was currently

between cars; in this town, it just didn’t pay to own one. He noticed vaguely that the train was quieter

than ordinarily. People were less hurried and unmannerly, they seemed thoughtful. He glanced at the

newspapers, wondering with a gulf if it had started, but there was nothing really sensational—except

maybe for that local bit about a dog, kept overnight in a basement, which had somehow opened the deep

freeze, dragged out the meat to thaw, and been found happily gorged. Otherwise: fighting here and there

throughout the world, a strike, a Communist demonstration in Rome, four killed in an auto crash—words,

as if rotary presses squeezed the blood from everything that went through them.

Emerging in lower Manhattan, he walked three blocks to the Rossman Institute, limping a trifle. The same

accident which had broken his nose years ago had injured his right knee and kept him out of military

service; though being yanked directly from his youthful college graduation into the Manhattan Project

might have had something to do with that.

He winced at the trailing memory. Hiroshima and Nagasaki still lay heavily on his conscience. He had quit

immediately after the war, and it was not only to resume his studies or to escape the red tape and probing

and petty intrigue of government research for the underpaid sanity of academic life; it had been a flight

from guilt. So had his later activities, he supposed— The Atomic Scientists, the United World

Federalists, the Progressive Party. When he thought how those had withered away or been betrayed,

and recalled the brave cliches which had stood like a shield between him and the Soviet snarl—there for

any to see who had eyes—he wondered how sane the professors were after all.

Only, was his present retreat into pure research and political passivity— voting a discouraged

Democratic ticket and doing nothing else—any more balanced? Nathan Lewis, frankly labeling himself a

reactionary, was a local

Republican committeeman, an utter and cheerful pessimist who still tried to salvage something; and Felix

Mandelbaum, no less realistic than his chess and bull-session opponent Lewis, had more hope and

energy, even looked forward to the ultimate creation of a geniune American Labor Party. Between them,

Corinth felt rather pallid.

And I’m. younger than either onel

He sighed. What was the matter with him? Thoughts kept boiling up out of nowhere, forgotten things,

linking themselves into new chains that rattled in his skull. And just when he had the answer to his

problem, too.

That reflection drove all others out. Again, it was unusual: ordinarily he was slow to change any train of

thought. He stepped forward with a renewed briskness.

The Rossman Institute was a bulk of stone and glass, filling half a block and looking almost shiny among

its older neighbors. It was known as a scientist’s heaven. Able men from all places and all disciplines

were drawn there, less by the good pay than by the chance to do unhampered research of their own

choosing, with first-rate equipment and none of the projectitis which was strangling pure science in

government, in industry, and in too many universities. It had the inevitable politicking and backbiting, but

in lesser degree than the average college; it was the Institute for Advanced Study—less abstruse and

more energetic, perhaps, and certainly with much more room. Lewis had once cited it to Mandelbaum as

proof of the cultural necessity for a privileged class. “D’you think any government would ever endow

such a thing and then, what’s more, have the sense to leave it to itself?”

“Brookhaven does all right,” Mandelbaum had said, but for him it was a feeble answer.

Corinth nodded to the girl at the newsstand in the lobby, hailed a couple of acquaintances, and fumed at

the slowness of the elevator. “Seventh,” he said automatically when it arrived.

“I should know that, Dr. Corinth,” grinned the operator. “You’ve been here—let’s see—almost six years

now, isn’t it?”

The physicist blinked. The attendant had always been part of the machinery to him; they had exchanged

the usual pleasantries, but it hadn’t meant a thing. Suddenly Corinth saw him as a human being, a living

and unique organism, part of an enormous impersonal web which ultimately became the entire universe,

and yet bearing his own heart within him. Now why, he asked himself amazedly, should I think that?

“You know, sir,” said the attendant, “I been wondering. I woke up this morning and wpndered what I

was doing this for and if I really wanted more out of it than just my job and my pension and———” He

paused awkwardly as they stopped to let off a third-floor passenger. “I envy you. You’re going

somewhere.”

The elevator reached the seventh floor. “You could—well, you could take a night course if you wanted,”

said Corinth.

“I think maybe I will, sir. If you’d be so kind as to recommend———Well, later. I got to go now.” The

doors slid smoothly across the cage, and Corinth went down hard marble ways to his laboratory.

He had a permanent staff of two, Johansson and Grunewald, intense young men who probably dreamed

of having labs of their own someday. They were already there when he entered and took off his coat.

“Good morning… ‘Morning… ’Morning.”

“I’ve been thinking, Pete,” said Grunewald suddenly, as the chief went over to his desk. “I’ve got an idea

for a circuit that may work———”

“Et tu, Brute,” murmured Corinth. He sat down on a stool, doubling his long legs under him. “Let’s have

it.”

Grunewald’s gimmick seemed remarkably parallel to his own. Johansson, usually silent and competent

and no more, chimed in eagerly as thoughts occurred to him. Corinth took over leadership in the

discussion, and within half an hour they were covering paper with the esoteric symbols of electronics.

Rossman might not have been entirely disinterested in establishing the Institute, though a man with his

bank account could afford altruism. Pure research helped industry. He had made his fortune in light

metals, all the way from raw ores to finished products, with cross-connections to a dozen other

businesses; officially semi-retired, he kept his fine thin hands on the strings. Even bacteriology could turn

out to be useful—not very long ago, work had been done on bacteria extraction of oil from shales—and

Corinth’s study of crystal bonds could mean a good deal to metallurgy. Grunewald fairly gloated over the

prospect of what success would do to their professional reputations. Before noon, they had set up a

series of partial differential equations which would go to the computer at their regular scheduled time to

use it, and were drawing up elements of the circuit they wanted.

The phone rang. It was Lewis, suggesting lunch together. “I’m on a hot trail today,” said Corinth. “I

thought maybe I’d just have some sandwiches sent up.”

“Well, either I am too, or else I’m up you know what creek with no paddle,” said Lewis. “I’m not sure

which, and it might help me straighten out my ideas if I could bounce them off you.”

“Oh, all right. Commissary do?”

“If you merely want to fill your belly, I suppose so.” Lewis went in for three-hour lunches complete with

wine and violins, a habit he had picked up during his years in pre-Anschluss Vienna. “One o’clock suit

you? The peasantry will have gorged by then.”

“Okay,” Corinth hung up and lost himself again in the cool ecstasy of his work. It was one-thirty before

he noticed the time, and he hurried off swearing.

Lewis was just seating himself at a table when Corinth brought his tray over. “I figured from your way of

talk you’d beJate,” he said. “What’d you get? The usual cafeteria menu, I suppose: mice drowned in

skim milk, fillet of sea urchin, baked chef’s special, baked chef—well, no matter.” He sipped his coffee

and winced.

He didn’t look delicate: a short square man of forty-eight, getting a little plump and bald, sharp eyes

behind thick, rimless glasses. He was, indeed, a hearty soul at table or saloon. But eight years in Europe

did change tastes, and he insisted that his postwar visits had been purely gastronomical.

“What you need,” said Corinth with the smugness of a convert, “is to get married.”

“I used to think so, when I began leaving my libertine days behind. But, well, never mind. Too late now.”

Lewis attacked a minute steak, which he always pronounced as if the adjective were synonymous with

“tiny,” and scowled through a mouthful. “I’m more interested in the histological aspect of biology just

now.”

“You said you were having trouble———”

“That’s mostly with my assistants. Everybody seems jumpy today, and young Roberts is coming up with

even wilder ideas than usual. But it’s my work. I’ve told you, haven’t I? I’m studying nerve

cells—neurones. Trying to keep them alive in different artificial media, and seeing how their electrical

properties vary with conditions. I have them in excised sections of tissue— Lindbergh-Carrel technique,

with modifications. It was coming along pretty good—and then today, when we ran a routine check, the

results came out different. So I tested them all———Every one is changed!”

“Hm?” Corinth raised his eyebrows and chewed quietly for a minute. “Something wrong with your

apparatus?”

“Not that I can find. Nothing different—except the cells themselves. A small but significant shift.” Lewis’

tones came faster, with a hint of rising excitement. “You know how a neurone works? Like a digital

computer. It’s stimulated by a—a stimulus, fires a signal, and is thereafterinactive for a short time. The

next neurone in the nerve gets the signal, and is thereafter inactive for a short time. The next neurone in

the nerve gets the signal, fires, and is also briefly inactivated. Well, it turns out that everything is screwy

today. The inactivation time is a good many microseconds less, the—well, let’s just say the whole system

reacts significantly faster than normally.-And the signals are also more intense.”

Corinth digested the information briefly, then, slowly: “Looks like you may have stumbled onto something

big.”

“Well, where’s the cause? The medium, the apparatus, it’s all the same as yesterday, I tell you. I’m going

nuts trying to find out if I’ve got a potential Nobel Prize or just sloppy technique!”

Very slowly, as if his mind were shying away from a dimly seen realization, Corinth said: “It’s odd this

should have happened today.”

“Hm?” Lewis glanced sharply up, and Corinth related his own encounters.

“Very odd,” agreed the biologist. “And no big thunderstorms lately— ozone stimulates the mind—but my

cultures are sealed in glass anyway———”

Something flashed in his eyes.

Corinth looked around. “Hullo, there’s Helga. Wonder what made her so late? Hi, there!” He stood up,

waving across the room, and Helga Arnulfsen bore her tray over to their table and sat down.

She was a tall, rangy, handsome woman, her long blonde hair drawn tightly around the poised head, but

something in her manner—an impersonal energy, an aloofness, perhaps only the unfeminine crispness of

speech and dress—made her less attractive than she could have been. She’d changed since the old days,

right after the war, thought Corinth. He’d been taking his doctorate at Minnesota, where she was

studying journalism, and they’d had fun together; though he’d been too much and too hopelessly in love

with his work and another girl to think seriously about her. Afterward they had corresponded, and he had

gotten her a secretarial post at the Institute, two years before. She was chief administrative assistant now,

and did a good job of it.

“Whew! What a day!” She ran a strong slim hand across her hair, sleeking it down, and smiled wearily at

them. “Everybody and his Uncle Oscar is having trouble, and all of them are wishing it on me. Gertie

threw a tantrum———”

“Huh?” Corinth regarded her in some dismay. He’d been counting on the big computer to solve his

equations that day. “What’s wrong?”

“Only God and Gertie know, and neither one is telling. Allanbee ran a routine test this morning, and it

came out wrong. Not much, but enough to throw off anybody that needed precise answers. He’s been

digging into her ever since, trying to find the trouble, so far without luck. And I have to reschedule

everybody!”

“Very strange,” murmured Lewis.

“Then different instruments, especially in the physics and chemistry sections, are a little crazy.

Murchison’s polarimeter has an error of—oh, something horrible like one tenth of one per cent, I don’t

know.”

“Izzat so?” Lewis leaned forward, thrusting his jaw out above the dishes.

“Maybe it’s not my neurones but my instruments that’re off whack———No, can’t be. Not that much.

It must be something in the cells themselves— but how can I measure that if the gadgets are all awry?”

He broke into vigorous German profanity, though his eyes remained alight.

“Lots of the boys have come up with brave new projects all at once, too,” went on Helga. “They want

immediate use of things like the big centrifuge, and blow their tops when I tell them to wait their turn.”

“All today, eh?” Corinth pushed his dessert aside and took out a cigarette. “ ‘Curiouser and curiouser,’

said Alice.” His eyes widened, and the hand that struck a match shook ever so faintly. “Nat, I

wonder———”

“A general phenomenon?” Lewis nodded, holding excitement in check with an effort. “Could be, could

be. We’d certainly better find out.”

“What’re you talking about?” asked Helga.

“Things.” Corinth explained while she finished eating. Lewis sat quietly back, blowing cigar fumes and

withdrawn into himself.

“Hm.” Helga tapped the table with a long, unpainted fingernail. “Sounds —interesting. Are all nerve cells,

including those in our own brains, suddenly being speeded up?”

“It’s more basic than that,” said Corinth. “Something may have happened to—what? Electrochemical

phenomena? How should I know? Let’s not go off the deep end till we’ve investigated this.”

“Yeah. I’ll leave it to you.” Helga took out a cigarette for herself and inhaled deeply. “I can think of a few

obvious things to check up on—but it’s your child.” She turned again to smile at Corinth, the gentle smile

she saved for a very few. “Apropos, how’s Sheila?”

“Oh, fine, fine. How’s yourself?”

“I’m okay.” There was a listlessness in her answer.

“You must come over to our place sometime for dinner.” It was a small strain to carry on polite

conversation, when his mind was yelling to be at this new problem. “We haven’t seen you in quite a

while. Bring the new boy friend if you want, whoever he is.”

“Jim? Oh, him. I gave him the sack last week. But I’ll come over, sure.” She got up. “Back to the oars,

mates. See you.”

Corinth regarded her as she strode toward the cashier’s desk. Almost in spite of himself—his thoughts

were shooting off in all directions today— he murmured: “I wonder why she can’t keep a man. She’s

good-looking and intelligent enough.”

“She doesn’t want to,” said Lewis shortly.

“No, I suppose not. She’s turned cold since I knew her in Minneapolis. Why?”

Lewis shrugged.

“I think you know,” said Corinth. “You’ve always understood women better than you had any right to.

And she likes you better than anyone else around here, I think.”

“We both go for music,” said Lewis. It was his opinion that none had been written since 1900. “And we

both know how to keep our mouths shut.”

“Okay, okay,” laughed Corinth. He got up. “I’m for the lab again. Hate to scrap the phase analyzer, but

this new business———” Pausing: “Look, let’s get hold of the others and divide up the labor, huh?

Everybody check something. It won’t take long then.”

Lewis nodded curtly and followed him out.

By evening the results were in. As Corinth looked at the figures, his interest lost way to a coldness rising

within him. He felt suddenly how small and helpless a thing he was.

Electromagnetic phenomena were changed.

Anthony Bouche - A Treasury of Great Science Fiction Vol2

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