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Authors: Clifford D. Simak


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Clifford D. Simak

Copyright 1951 by World Editions, Inc.


Spencer Chambers
frowned at the spacegram on the desk before him. John Moore Mallory. That was the man who had caused so much trouble in the Jovian elections. The troublemaker who had shouted for an investigation of Interplanetary Power. The man who had said that Spencer Chambers and Interplanetary Power were waging economic war against the people of the Solar System.

Chambers smiled. With long, well-kept fingers, he rubbed his iron-gray mustache.

John Moore Mallory was right; for that reason, he was a dangerous man. Prison was the place for him, but probably a prison outside the Jovian confederacy. Perhaps one of the prison ships that plied to the edge of the System, clear to the orbit of Pluto. Or would the prison on Mercury be better?

Spencer Chambers leaned back in his chair and matched his fingertips, staring at them, frowning again.

Mercury was a hard place. A man’s life wasn’t worth much there. Working in the power plants, where the Sun poured out its flaming blast of heat, and radiations sucked the energy from one’s body, in six months, a year at most, any man was finished.

Chambers shook his head. Not Mercury. He had nothing against Mallory. He had never met the man but he rather liked him. Mallory was just a man fighting for a principle, the same as Chambers was doing.

He was sorry that it had been necessary to put Mallory in prison. If the man only had listened to reason, had accepted the proposals that had been made, or just had dropped out of sight until the Jovian elections were over . . . or at least had moderated his charges. But when he had attempted to reveal the offers, which he termed bribery, something had to be done.

Ludwig Stutsman had handled that part of it. Brilliant fellow, this Stutsman, but as mean a human as ever walked on two legs. A man utterly without mercy, entirely without principle. A man who would stoop to any depth. But a useful man, a good one to have around to do the dirty work. And dirty work sometimes was necessary.

Chambers picked up the spacegram again and studied it. Stutsman, out on Callisto now, had sent it. He was doing a good job out there. The Jovian confederacy, less than one Earth year under Interplanetary domination, was still half rebellious, still angry at being forced to turn over its government to the hand-picked officials of Chambers’ company. An iron heel was needed and Stutsman was that iron heel.

* * * *

the people on the Jovian satellites wanted the release of John Moore Mallory. “They’re getting ugly,” the spacegram said. It had been a mistake to confine Mallory to Callisto. Stutsman should have thought of that.

Chambers would instruct Stutsman to remove Mallory from the Callisto prison, place him on one of the prison ships. Give instructions to the captain to make things comfortable for him. When this furor had blown over, after things had quieted down in the Jovian confederacy, it might be possible to release Mallory. After all, the man wasn’t really guilty of any crime. It was a shame that he should be imprisoned when racketeering rats like Scorio went scot-free right here in New York.

A buzzer purred softly and Chambers reached out to press a stud.

“Dr. Craven to see you,” his secretary said. “You asked to see him, Mr. Chambers.”

“All right,” said Chambers. “Send him right in.”

He clicked the stud again, picked up his pen, wrote out a spacegram to Stutsman, and signed it.

Dr. Herbert Craven stood just inside the door, his black suit wrinkled and untidy, his sparse sandy hair standing on end.

“You sent for me,” he said sourly.

“Sit down, Doctor,” invited Chambers.

sat down. He peered at Chambers through thick-lensed glasses.

“I haven’t much time,” he declared acidly.

“Cigar?” Chambers offered.

“Never smoke.”

“A drink, then?”

“You know I don’t drink,” snapped Craven.

“Doctor,” said Chambers, “you’re the least sociable man I’ve ever known. What do you do to enjoy yourself?”

“I work,” said Craven. “I find it interesting.”

“You must. You even begrudge the time it takes to talk with me.”

“I won’t deny it. What do you want this time?”

Chambers swung about to face him squarely across the desk. There was a cold look in the financier’s gray eyes and his lips were grim.

“Craven,” he said, “I don’t trust you. I’ve never trusted you. Probably that’s no news to you.”

“You don’t trust anyone,” countered Craven. “You’re watching everybody all the time.”

“You sold me a gadget I didn’t need five years ago,” said Chambers. “You outfoxed me and I don’t hold it against you. In fact, it almost made me admire you. Because of that I put you under a contract, one that you and all the lawyers in hell can’t break, because someday you’ll find something valuable, and when you do, I want it. A million a year is a high price to pay to protect myself against you, but I think it’s worth it. If I didn’t think so, I’d have turned you over to Stutsman long ago. Stutsman knows how to handle men like you.”

“You mean,” said Craven, “that you’ve found I’m working on something I haven’t reported to you.”

“That’s exactly it.”

“You’ll get a report when I have something to report. Not before.”

“That’s all right,” said Chambers. “I just wanted you to know.”

Craven got to his feet slowly. “These talks with you are so refreshing,” he remarked.

“We’ll have to have them oftener,” said Chambers.

Craven banged the door as he went out.

Chambers stared after him. A queer man, the most astute scientific mind anywhere, but not a man to be trusted.

* * * *

president of Interplanetary Power rose from his chair and walked to the window. Below spread the roaring inferno of New York, greatest city in the Solar System, a strange place of queer beauty and weighty materialism, dreamlike in its super-skyscraper construction, but utilitarian in its purpose, for it was a port of many planets.

The afternoon sunlight slanted through the window, softening the iron-gray hair of the man who stood there. His shoulders almost blocked the window, for he had the body of a fighting man, one, moreover, in good condition. His short-clipped mustache rode with an air of dignity above his thin, rugged mouth.

His eyes looked out on the city, but did not see it. Through his brain went the vision of a dream that was coming true. His dream spun its fragile net about the planets of the Solar System, about their moons, about every single foot of planetary ground where men had gone to build and create a second homeland — the mines of Mercury and the farms of Venus, the pleasure-lands of Mars and the mighty domed cities on the moons of Jupiter, the moons of Saturn and the great, cold laboratories of Pluto.

Power was the key, supplied by the accumulators owned and rented by Interplanetary Power. A monopoly of power. Power that Venus and Mercury had too much of, must sell on the market, and that the other planets and satellites needed. Power to drive huge spaceships across the void, to turn the wheels of industry, to heat the domes on colder worlds. Power to make possible the life and functioning of mankind on hostile worlds.

In the great power plants of Mercury and Venus, the accumulators were charged and then shipped out to those other worlds where power was needed. Accumulators were rented, never sold. Because they belonged at all times to Interplanetary Power, they literally held the fate of all the planets in their cells.

A few accumulators were manufactured and sold by other smaller companies, but they were few and the price was high. Interplanetary saw to that. When the cry of monopoly was raised, Interplanetary could point to these other manufacturers as proof that there was no restraint of trade. Under the statute no monopoly could be charged, but the cost of manufacturing accumulators alone was protection against serious competition from anyone.

Upon a satisfactory, efficient power-storage device rested the success or failure of space travel itself. That device and the power it stored were for sale by Interplanetary . . . and, to all practical purposes, by Interplanetary only.

Accordingly, year after year, Interplanetary had tightened its grip upon the Solar System. Mercury was virtually owned by the company. Mars and Venus were little more than puppet states. And now the government of the Jovian confederacy was in the hands of men who acknowledged Spencer Chambers as their master. On Earth the agents and the lobbyists representing Interplanetary swarmed in every capital, even in the capital of the Central European Federation, whose people were dominated by an absolute dictatorship. For even Central Europe needed accumulators.

“Economic dictatorship,” said Spencer Chambers to himself. “That’s what John Moore Mallory called it.” Well, why not? Such a dictatorship would insure the best business brains at the heads of the governments, would give the Solar System a business administration, would guard against the mistakes of popular government.

Democracies were based on a false presumption — the theory that all people were fit to rule. It granted intelligence where there was no intelligence. It presumed ability where there was not the slightest trace of any. It gave the idiot the same political standing as the wise man, the crackpot the same political opportunity as the man of well-grounded common sense, the weakling the same voice as the strong man. It was government by emotion rather than by judgment.

* * * *

Spencer Chambers’
face took on stern lines. There was no softness left now. The late afternoon sunlight painted angles and threw shadows and created highlights that made him look almost like a granite mask on a solid granite body.

There was no room for Mallory’s nonsense in a dynamic, expanding civilization. No reason to kill him — even he might have value under certain circumstances, and no really efficient executive destroys value — but he had to be out of the way where his mob-rousing tongue could do no damage. The damned fool! What good would his idiotic idealism do him on a prison spaceship?


Russell Page
squinted thoughtful eyes at the thing he had created — a transparent cloud, a visible, sharply outlined cloud of
. It was visible as a piece of glass is visible, as a globe of water is visible. There it lay, within his apparatus, a thing that shouldn’t be.

“I believe we have something there, Harry,” he said slowly.

Harry Wilson sucked at the cigarette that drooped from the corner of his mouth, blew twin streams of smoke from his nostrils. His eyes twitched nervously.

“Yeah,” he said. “Anti-entropy.”

“All of that,” said Russell Page. “Perhaps a whole lot more.”

“It stops all energy change,” said Wilson, “as if time stood still and things remained exactly as they were when time had stopped.”

“It’s more than that,” Page declared. “It conserves not only energy
in toto
, not only the energy of the whole, but the energy of the part. It is perfectly transparent, yet it has refractive qualities. It won’t absorb light because to do so would change its energy content. In that field, whatever is hot stays hot, whatever is cold can’t gain heat.”

He scraped his hand over a week’s growth of beard, considering. From his pocket he took a pipe and a leather pouch. Thoughtfully he filled the pipe and lit it.

It had started with his experiments in Force Field 348, an experiment to observe the effects of heating a conductor in that field. It had been impossible to heat the conductor electrically, for that would have upset the field, changed it, twisted it into something else. So he had used a Bunsen burner.

Through half-closed eyes, he still could see that slender strand of imperm wire, how its silvery length had turned to red under the blue flame. Deep red at first and then brighter until it flamed in almost white-hot incandescence. And all the while the humming of the transformer as the force field built up. The humming of the transformer and the muted roaring of the burner and the glowing heat in the length of wire.

Something had happened then . . . an awesome something. A weird wrench as if some greater power, some greater law had taken hold. A glove of force, invisible, but somehow sensed, had closed about the wire and flame. Instantly the roaring of the burner changed in tone; an odor of gas spewed out of the vents at its base. Something had cut off the flow of flame in the brass tube. Some force,
 . . .

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