Robert A Heinlein - Waldo

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Waldo by Robert Heinlein

The act was billed as ballet tap - which does not describe it.

His feet created an intricate tympany of crisp, clean taps.

There was a breath-catching silence as he leaped high

into the air, higher than a human being should - and

performed, while floating there, a fantastically improbable

entrechat douze.

He landed on his toes, apparently poised, yet producing

a fortissimo of thunderous taps.

The spotlights cut, the stage lights came up. The audience

stayed silent a long moment, then realized it was time to

applaud, and gave.

He stood facing them, letting the wave of their emotion

sweep through him. He felt as if he could lean against it;

it warmed him through to his bones.

It was wonderful to dance, glorious to be applauded, to be

liked, to be wanted.

When the curtain rang down for the last time he let his

dresser lead him away. He was always a little bit drunk at

the end of a performance; dancing was a joyous intoxication

even in rehearsal, but to have an audience lifting him,

carrying him along, applauding him - He never grew jaded

to it. It was always new and heartbreakingly wonderful.

'This way, chief. Give us a little smile.' The flash bulb flared.

'Thanks.'

'Thank'you. Have a drink.' He motioned towards one end of

his dressing room. They were all such nice fellows, such grand

guys - the reporters, the photographers - all of them.

'How about one standing up?' He started to comply, but his

dresser, busy with one slipper, warned him:

'You operate in half an hour.'

'Operate?' the news photographer said. 'What's it this time?'

'A left cerebrectomy,' he answered.

'Yeah? How about covering it?'

'Glad to have you - if the hospital doesn't mind.'

'We'll fix that.'

Such grand guys.

'-trying to get a little different angle on a feature article.'

It was a feminine voice, near his ear. He looked around hastily,

slightly confused. 'For example, what made you decide to take

up dancing as a career?'

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'I'm sorry,' he apologized. 'I didn't hear you. I'm afraid it's

pretty noisy in here.'

'I said, why did you decide to take up dancing?'

'Well, now, I don't quite know how to answer that. I'm afraid

we would have to go back quite a way-'

James Stevens scowled at his assistant engineer. 'What have

you got to look happy about?' he demanded.

'It's just the shape of my face,' his assistant apologized.

'Try laughing at this one: there's been another crash.'

'Oh, cripes! Don't tell me, let me guess. Passenger or freight?'

'A Climax duo-freighter on the Chicago-Salt Lake shuttle,

just west of North Platte. And, chief-'

'Yes?'

'The Big Boy wants to see you.'

'That's interesting. That's very, very interesting. Mac-'

'Yeah, chief.'

'How would you like to be Chief Traffic Engineer of North

American Power-Air? I hear there's going to be a vacancy.'

Mac scratched his nose. 'Funny that you should mention

that, chief. I was just going to ask you what kind of a

recommendation you could give me in case I went back into

civil engineering. Ought to be worth something to you to

get rid of me.'

'I'll get rid of you - right now. You bust out to Nebraska,

find that heap before the souvenir hunters tear it apart,

and bring back its deKalbs and its control board.'

'Trouble with cops, maybe?'

'You figure it out. Just be sure you come back.'

"With my slipstick, or on it."

Stevens's office was located immediately adjacent

to the zone power plant; the business offices of

North American were located in a hill, a good three

quarters of a mile away. There was the usual inter-

connecting tunnel; Stevens entered it and

deliberately chose the low-speed slide in order to

have more time to think before facing the boss.

By the time he arrived he had made up his mind,

but he did not like the answer.

The Big Boy, Stanley F. Gleason, Chairman of the Board

greeted him quietly. 'Come in, Jim. Sit down. Have a cigar.'

Stevens slid into a chair, declined the cigar and pulled out

a cigarette, which he lit while looking around. Besides the

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chief and himself, there were present Harkness, head of the

legal staff, Dr Rambeau, Stevens's opposite number for

research, and Striebel, the chief engineer for city power.

Us five and no more, he thought grimly- All the heavy-

weights and none of the middleweights. Heads will roll!-

Starting with mine.

'Well,' he said, almost belligerently, 'we're all here. Who's

got the cards? Do we cut for deal?'

Harkness looked faintly distressed by the impropriety;

Rambeau seemed too sunk in some personal gloom to pay

any attention to wisecracks in bad taste. Gleason ignored it.

'We've been trying to figure a way out of our troubles,

James.

I left word for you on the chance that you might not have left.'

'I stopped by simply to see if I had any personal mail,'

Stevens said bitterly. 'Otherwise I'd be on the beach at Miami,

turning sunshine into vitamin D.'

'I know,' said Gleason, 'and I'm sorry. You deserve that

vacation, Jimmie. But the situation has gotten worse instead

of better. Any ideas?'

'What does Dr Rambeau say?'

Rambeau looked up momentarily. 'The deKalb receptors can't fail,'

he stated.

'But they do.

''They can't. You've operated them improperly.' He sunk back

into his personal prison.

Stevens turned back to Gleason and spread his hands. 'So far

as I know, Dr Rambeau is right, but if the fault lies in the

engineering department, I haven't been able to locate it.

You can have my resignation.'

'I don't want your resignation,' Gleason said gently. 'What I

want is results. We have a responsibility to the public.'

'And to the stockholders,' Harkness put in.

'That will take care of itself if we solve the other,' Gleason

observed. 'How about it, Jimmie? Any suggestions?'

Stevens bit his lip. 'Just one,' he announced, 'and one I don't

like to make. Then I look for a job peddling magazine

subscriptions.'

'So? Well, what is it?'

'We've got to consult Waldo.'

Rambeau suddenly snapped out of his apathy. 'What! That

charlatan? This is a matter of science.'

Harkness said, 'Really, Dr Stevens-'

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Gleason held up a hand. 'Dr Stevens's suggestion is logicaL

But I'm afraid it's a little late, Jimmie. I talked with him last week.'

Harkness looked surprised; Stevens looked annoyed as well.

'Without letting me know?'

'Sorry, Jimmie. I was just feeling him out. But it's no good.

His terms, to us, amount to confiscation.'

'Still sore over the Hathaway patents?'

'Still nursing his grudge.'

'You should have let me handle the matter,' Harkness put in.

'He can't do this to us - There is public interest involved.

Retain him, if need be, and let the fee be adjudicated in equity.

I'll arrange the details.'

'I'm afraid you would,' Gleason said dryly. 'Do you think a

court order will make a hen lay an egg?'

Harkness looked indignant, but shut up.

Stevens continued, 'I would not have suggested going to

Waldo if I had not had an idea as to how to approach him.

I know a friend of his-'

'A friend of Waldo? I didn't know he had any.'

'This man is sort of an uncle to him, his first physician.

With his help I might get on Waldo's good side.'

Dr Rambeau stood up. 'This is intolerable,' he announced.

'I must ask you to excuse me.' He did not wait for an answer,

but strode out, hardly giving the door time to open in front

of him.

Gleason followed his departure with worried eyes. 'Why does

he take it so hard, Jimmie? You would think he hated Waldo

personally.'

'Probably he does, in a way. But it's more than that; his whole

universe is toppling. For the last twenty years, ever since

Pryor's reformulation of the General Field Theory did away

with Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle, physics has been

considered an exact science. The power failures and transmission

failures we have been suffering are a terrific nuisance to you and

to me, but to Dr Rambeau they amount to an attack on his faith.

Better keep an eye on him.'

'Why?'

'Because he might come unstuck entirely. It's a pretty serious

matter for a man's religion to fail him.'

'Hm-m-m. How about yourself? Doesn't it hit you just as hard?'

'Not quite. I'm an engineer- From Rambeau's point of view just

a high-priced tinker. Difference in orientation. Not but what I'm

pretty upset.'

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The audio circuit of the communicator on Gleason's desk came

to life. 'Calling Chief Engineer Stevens - calling Chief Engineer

Stevens.' Gleason flipped the tab.

'He's here. Go ahead.'

'Company code, translated. Message follows: "Cracked up

four miles north of Cincinnati. Shall I go on to Nebraska, or

bring in the you-know-what from my own crate?" Message

ends. Signed "Mac".'

'Tell him to walk back!' Stevens said savagely.

'Very well, sir.' The instrument cut off.

'Your assistant?' asked Gleason.

'Yes. That's about the last straw, chief. Shall I wait and try

to analyse this failure, or shall I try to see Waldo?'

'Try to see Waldo.'

'OK. If you don't hear from me, just send my severance pay

care of Palmdale Inn, Miami. I'll be the fourth beachcomber

from the right.'

Gleason permitted himself an unhappy smile. 'If you don't get

results, I'll bç the fifth. Good luck.'

'So long.'

When Stevens had gone, Chief Stationary Engineer Striebel

spoke up for the first time. 'If the power to the cities fails,' he

said softly, 'you know where I'll be, don't you?'

'Where? Beachcomber number six?'

'Not likely. I'll be number one in my spot, first man to be lynched.'

'But the power to the cities can't fail. You've got too many cross-

connects and safety devices.'

'Neither can the deKalbs fail, supposedly. Just the same, think

about Sublevel 7 in Pittsburgh, with the lights out. Or, rather,

don't think about it!'

Doc Grimes let himself into the aboveground access which led

into his home, glanced at the announcer, and noted with mild,

warm interest that someone close enough to him to possess

his house combination was inside. He moved ponderously

downstairs, favouring his game leg, and entered the lounging

room.

'Hi, Doc!' James Stevens got up when the door snapped open

and came forward to greet him.

'H'lo, James. Pour yourself a drink. I see you have. Pour me one.'

'Right.'

While his friend complied, Grimes shucked himself out of the

outlandish anachronistic greatcoat he was wearing and threw

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it more or less in the direction of the robing alcove. It hit the

floor heavily, much more heavily than its appearance justified,

despite its unwieldy bulk. It clunked.

Stooping, he peeled off thick overtrousers as massive as the coat.

He was dressed underneath in conventional business tights in

blue and sable. It was not a style that suited him. To an eye

unsophisticated in matters of civilized dress, let us say the

mythical Man-from-Antares - he might have seemed

uncouth, even unsightly. He looked a good bit like an elderly

fat beetle.

James Stevens's eye made no note of the tights, but he looked

with disapproval on the garments which had just been discarded.

'Still wearing that fool armour,' he commented.

'Certainly.'

'Damn it, Doc - you'll make yourself sick, carrying that junk around.

It's unhealthy.'

'Danged sight sicker if I don't.'

'Rats! 1 don't get sick, and I don't wear armour - outside the lab.'

'You should.' Grimes walked over to where Stevens had reseated

himself. 'Cross your knees.' Stevens complied; Grimes struck him

smartly below the kneecap with the edge of his palm. The reflex

jerk was barely perceptible. 'Lousy,' he remarked, then peeled back

his friend's right eyelid.

'You're in poor shape,' he added after a moment. Stevens drew

away impatiently. 'i'm all right. It's you we're talking about.'

'What about me?'

'Well- Damnation, Doc, you're throwing away your reputation.

They talk about you.'

Grimes nodded. 'I know. "Poor old Gus Grimes - a slight touch of

cerebral termites." Don't worry about my reputation; I've always

been out of step. What's your fatigue index?'

'I don't know. It's all right.'

'It is, eh? I'll wrestle you, two falls out of three.' Stevens rubbed

his eyes. 'Don't needle me, Doc. I'm rundown. I know that, but it

isn't anything but overwork.'

'Humph! James, you are a fair-to-middlin' radiation physicist - 'Engineer.'

'-engineer. But you're no medical man. You can't expect to pour every sort

of radiant energy through the human system year after year and not pay

for it. It wasn't designed to stand it.'

'But I wear armour in the lab. You know that.'

'Surely. And how about outside the lab?'

'But- Look, Doc - I hate to say it, but your whole thesis

is ridiculous. Sure there is radiant energy in the air these days,

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but nothing harmful. All the colloidal chemists agree-'

'Colloidal, fiddlesticks!'

'But you've got to admit that biological economy is a matter of

colloidal chemistry.'

'I've got to admit nothing. I'm not contending that colloids are

not the fabric of living tissue- They are. But I've maintained for

forty years that it was dangerous to expose living tissue to assorted

radiation without being sure of the effect. From an evolutionary

standpoint the human animal is habituated to and adapted to only

the natural radiation of the sun, and he can't stand that any too well,

even under a thick blanket of ionization. Without that blanket- Did

you ever see a solar-X type cancer?'

'Of course not.'

'No, you're too young. I have. Assisted at the autopsy of one, when

I was an intern. Chap was on the Second Venus Expedition. Four

hundred and thirty-eight cancers we counted in him, then gave up.'

'Solar-X is whipped.'

'Sure it is. But it ought to be a warning. You bright young squirts

can cook up things in your labs that we medicos can't begin to

cope with. We're behind - bound to be. We usually don't know

what's happened until the damage is done. This time you've torn it.'

He sat down heavily and suddenly looked as tired and whipped as

did his younger friend.

Stevens felt the sort of tongue-tied embarrassment a man may feel

when a dearly beloved friend falls in love with an utterly worthless

person. He wondered what he could say that would not seem rude.

He changed the subject. 'Doc, I came over because I had a couple

of things on my mind-'

'Such as?'

'Well, a vacation for one. I know I'm run-down. I've been overworked,

and a vacation seems in order. The other is your pal, Waldo.'

'Huh?'

'Yeah. Waldo Farthingwaite-Jones, bless his stiff-necked, bad-tempered

heart.'

'Why Waldo? You haven't suddenly acquired an interest in

myasthenia gravis, have you?'

'Well, no. I don't care what's wrong with him physically.

He can have hives, dandruff, or the galloping never-get-overs,

for all I care. I hope he has. What I want is to pick his brains.'

'So?'

'I can't do it alone. Waldo doesn't help people; he uses them.

You're his only normal contact with people.'

'That is not entirely true-'

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'Who else?'

'You misunderstand me. He has no normal contacts. I am

simply the only person who dares to be rude to him.'

'But I thought- Never mind. D'you know, this is an

inconvenient setup? Waldo is the man we've got to have.

Why should it come about that a genius of his calibre

should be so unapproachable, so immune to ordinary social

demands? Oh, I know his disease has a lot to do with it, but

why should this man have this disease? It's an improbable

coincidence.'

'It's not a matter of his infirmity,' Grimes told him. 'Or, rather,

not in the way you put it. His weakness is his genius, in a way-'

'Huh?'

'Well-' Grimes turned his sight inward, let his mind roam back

over his long association, lifelong, for Waldo, with this

particular patient. He remembered his subliminal misgivings

when he delivered the child. The infant had been sound

enough, superficially, except for a slight blueness. But then

lots of babies were somewhat cyanotic in the delivery room.

Nevertheless, he had felt a slight reluctance to give it the tunk

on the bottom, the slap which would shock it into taking its

first lungful of air.

But he had squelched his own feelings, performed the necessary

'laying on of hands', and the freshly born human had declared its

independence with a satisfactory squall. There was nothing else

he could have done; he was a young GP then, who took his

Hippocratic oath seriously. He still took it seriously, he supposed,

even though he sometimes referred to it as the 'hypocritical' oath.

Still, he had been right in his feelings; there had been something

rotten about that child, something that was not entirely myasthenia

gravis.He had felt sorry for the child at first, as well as having an

irrational feeling of responsibility for its condition. Pathological

muscular weakness is an almost totally crippling condition, since

the patient has no unaffected limbs to retrain into substitutes.

There the victim must lie, all organs, limbs, and functions present,

yet so pitifully, completely weak as to be unable to perform any

normal action. He must spend his life in a condition of exhausted

collapse, such as you or I might reach at the finish line of a

gruelling cross-country run. No help for him, and no relief.

During Waldo's childhood he had hoped constantly that the child

would die, since he was so obviously destined for tragic

uselessness, while simultaneously, as a physician, doing

everything within his own skill and the skills of numberless

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consulting specialists to keep the child alive and cure it.

Naturally, Waldo could not attend school; Grimes ferreted out

sympathetic tutors. He could indulge in no normal play; Grimes

invented sickbed games which would not only stimulate Waldo's

imagination but encourage him to use his flabby muscles to the full,

weak extent of which he was capable.

Grimes had been afraid that the handicapped child, since it was not

subjected to the usual maturing stresses of growing up, would remain

infantile. He knew now, had known for a long time, that he need not

have worried. Young Waldo grasped at what little life was offered him,

learned thirstily, tried with a sweating tenseness of will to force his

undisciplined muscles to serve him.

He was clever in thinking of dodges whereby to circumvent his

muscular weakness. At seven he devised a method of controlling

a spoon with two hands, which permitted him, painfully, to feed himself.

His first mechanical invention was made at ten.

It was a gadget which held a book for him, at any angle, controlled

lighting for the book, and turned its pages. The gadget responded to

fingertip pressure on a simple control panel. Naturally, Waldo could

not build it himself, but he could conceive it, and explain it; the

Farthingwaite-Joneses could well afford the services of a designing

engineer to build the child's conception.

Grimes was inclined to consider this incident, in which the child Waldo

acted in a role of intellectual domination over a trained mature adult

neither blood relation nor servant, as a landmark in the psychological

process whereby Waldo eventually came to regard the entire human

race as his servants, his hands, present or potential.

'What's eating you, Doc?'

'Eh? Sorry, I was daydreaming. See here, son - you mustn't be too harsh

on Waldo. I don't like him myself. But you must take him as a whole.'

'You take him.'

'Shush. You spoke of needing his genius. He wouldn't have been a

genius if he had not been crippled. You didn't know his parents.

They were good stock, fine, intelligent people, but nothing spectacular.

Waldo's potentialities weren't any greater than theirs, but he had to

do more with them to accomplish anything. He had to do everything

the hard way. He had to be clever.

'Sure. Sure, but why should he be so utterly poisonous? Most

big men aren't.'

'Use your head. To get anywhere in his condition he had to develop a

will, a driving one-track mind, with a total disregard for any other

considerations. What would you expect him to be but stinking selfish?'

'I'd- Well, never mind. We need him and that's that.'

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'Why?'

Stevens explained.

It may plausibly be urged that the shape of a culture,

its mores, evaluations, family organization, eating habits, living

patterns, pedagogical methods, institutions, forms of government,

and so forth, arise from the economic necessities of its technology.

Even though the thesis be too broad and much oversimplified, it is

nonetheless true that much which characterized the long peace which

followed the constitutional establishrnent of the United Nations grew

out of the technologies which were hot-house-forced by the needs of the

belligerents in the war of the forties. Up to that time broadcast and

beam-cast were used only for commercial radio, with rare exceptions.

Even telephony was done almost entirely by actual metallic connexion

from one instrument to another. If a man in Monterey wished to speak

to his wife or partner in Boston, a physical, copper neuron stretched

bodily across the continent from one to the other.

Radiant power was then a hop dream, found in Sunday supplements

and comic books.

A concatenation, no, a meshwork of new developments was necessary

before the web of copper covering the continent could be dispensed with.

Power could not be broadcast economically; it was necessary to wait for

the co-axial beam, a direct result of the imperative military shortages of

the Great War. Radio telephony could not replace wired telephony until

ultra micro-wave techniques made room in the ether, so to speak, for the

traffic load. Even then it was necessary to invent a tuning device which

could be used by a nontechnical person, a ten-year-old child, let us say

,as easily as the dial selector which was characteristic of the commercial

wired telephone of the era then terminating.

Bell Laboratories cracked that problem; the solution led directly to the

radiant power receptor, domestic type, keyed, sealed, and metered.

The way was open for commercial radio power transmission, except in

one respect: efficiency. Aviation waited on the development of the

Otto-cycle engine; the Industrial Revolution waited on the steam

engine; radiant power waited on a really cheap, plentiful power

source. Since radiation of power is inherently wasteful, it was

necessary to have power cheap and plentiful enough to waste.

The same war brought atomic energy. The physicists working for

the United States Army, the United States of North America had its

own army then, produced a superexplosive; the notebooks recording

their tests contained, when properly correlated, everything necessary

to produce almost any other sort of nuclear reaction, even the so-called

Solar Phoenix, the hydrogen-helium cycle, which is the source of the

sun's power.

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Robert A Heinlein - Waldo

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