The Two Timers (13 page)

"Who with?" Breton laughed. "I can't fight myself."
"Well, I thought maybe the guy who delivered your car." Convery slapped
the metal and the unsecured lid of the trunk vibrated noisily. "The way
those grease-monkeys speak to customers I often feel like belting them
myself -- that's one of the reasons I do all my own maintenance."
Breton felt his mouth go dry. So Convery had noticed the car had not
been around on his earlier visit. "No," he said. "I'm on the best of
terms with my service station."
"What were you getting done to her?" Convery eyed the Lincoln with a
practical man's disdain.
"Brakes needed adjusting."
"Is that so? I thought the brakes on these things were self-adjusting."
"Perhaps they are -- I never looked to see." Breton began to wonder how
long this could go on. "All I know is she wasn't stopping too well."
"Do you want some advice? Make sure the wheels are bolted on properly
before you take her out on the road. I've seen cars come back from a
brake job with the wheels' nuts hanging on by a single thread."
"I'm sure it'll be all right."
"Don't trust 'em, John -- if there's anything they can leave loose
without it actually falling off, they'll do it."
Convery suddenly uncoiled himself and whipped around to the rear of the
car before Breton could move. He caught the handle of the trunk lid,
raised it -- staring triumphantly at Breton -- and slammed it down hard,
twisting the handle into the locked position.
"See what I mean? That could have sprung up while you were traveling
fast -- very dangerous."
"Thanks," Breton said faintly. "I'm obliged."
"Think nothing of it -- all part of the service to the taxpayers." Convery
pulled thoughtfully on one of his ears. "Well, I've got to go. My kids are
having a birthday party, and I'm not supposed to be out at all. Be seeing
you."
"Any time," Breton replied. "Look me up any time."
He waited uncertainly, then followed Convery around the side of the house,
reaching the front in time to see a green saloon surge down the street
with a grumbling of exhausts. A cool breeze scattered dry leaves before
him as he turned and walked back to the car. Convery's last remark had
been a significant one. It had revealed that his call had been neither
social nor accidental, and Convery was unlikely to give away information
without a reason. Breton was left with the distinct impression that he
had been given a warning -- which left him in a strange and potentially
lethal situation.
He could not risk killing John Breton with Lieutenant Convery possibly
circling the block, waiting for something to happen.
Yet he could not let John Breton live after what had happened -- and
there was very little time in which to resolve the dilemma.
XI
Several decades had gone by since General Theodor Abram had actually
set foot on a field of battle, but he thought of himself as living in
an ephemeral no-man's-land separating two of the greatest war machines
ever seen in the region's ancient and bloody history.
There was never an hour, a minute, a single instant in which his mind
was not dominated by the realization that he was a vital part of his
country's front line defenses. If the ultimate conflict was ever joined
he would not be required to press any buttons; the tools of his trade
were made of paper, not steel; but he was a warrior nonetheless because
the burden of responsibility for technical preparedness was such that
only a patriot and a hero could have borne it.
The nightmare of General Abram's life was compounded by the fact that he
had two entirely separate sets of enemies.
One was the nation against whom his own people might some day be called
to arms; the other set was represented by his own missiles and the
technicians who designed and maintained them. A scarred fortress of
a man, intended by nature for fighting with broadsword and mace, he
had little instinct for technological warfare and even less for the
interminable waiting which was the alternative. As far as possible he
avoided making personal visits to the underground bases -- too often,
seven out of a batch of eight missiles would have malfunctionings in
their incredibly complex innards. The technicians in charge seemed
oblivious to the thought that these "minor defects" and the subsequent
replacernent and testing procedures were reducing the country's initial
strike power to a fraction of its nominal value.
Abram could not understand why a ballistic missile had to have something
like a million parts; still less could he fathom the mathematics of
reliability which dictated that the assembly of individually trustworthy
components in such large numbers invariably produced a willful, capricious
entity whose effectiveness could vary from minute to minute. During his
years in office he had developed a profound dislike for the scientists
and engineers who had inflicted his present circumstances on him, and
he took every opportunity to show it.
He glanced at his watch. Dr. Rasch, chief scientist in the Defense Ministry,
had phoned earlier for an appointment and was due to arrive at any second.
The thought of having to endure the little man's thin, overly-precise tones
so late in the afternoon made General Abram's already taut nerves sing
like high tension cables in a storm. When he heard the outer door of
his office open, he leaned forward on his desk, scowling, ready to crush
the scientist by the sheer weight of his hatred.
"Good afternoon, General," Dr. Rasch said as he was shown in. "It was
most kind of you to see me at such short notice."
"Afternoon." Abram looked closely at Rasch, wondering what had happened.
The little man's yellowed eyes had a strange light in them. It could have
been fear, relief, or even triumph. "What's the news?"
"I don't quite know how to tell you, General." Abram suddenly realized that
Rasch was enjoying himself, and his depression grew even deeper. They must
have found a design flaw in some component -- a pump perhaps, or a
microscopic valve -- which demanded retrospective modification to every
installation.
"I hope you'll find some way to express yourself," Abram said heavily.
"Otherwise your visit seems rather pointless."
Rasch's lean face twitched violently. "The difficulty is not in my powers
of expression, but in your powers of comprehension." Even in anger,
Rasch still spoke with carefully measured pedantry.
"Make it very simple for me," Abram challenged.
"Very well. I presume you've noticed the meteor shower which has been
going on for some time now?"
"Very pretty," Abram sneered. "Is that what you came to discuss with me?"
"Indirectly. Have you learned what's causing this unprecedented display?"
"If I have, I've forgotten it already. I have no time for scientific
trivialities."
"Then I'll remind you." Rasch had recovered his poise -- a fact which
Abram found vaguely disturbing. "There is now no doubt that the force of
gravity is decreasing. The Earth normally travels in an orbit which it
has long ago swept clear of cosmic debris, but with the new change in
the gravitic constant the orbit is becoming cluttered again -- partly
as a result of displacement of the planet, even more so as a result of
the apparently greater effect on minute bodies. The meteor displays are
visual evidence that gravity -- "
"Gravity, gravity!" Abram shouted. "What do I care about gravity?"
"But you should care, General." Rasch permitted himself a small, tight
smile. "Gravity is one of the constants in the calculations which
the computers in your missiles perform to enable them to reach their
designated targets -- and now the constant is no longer a constant."
"You mean .. ." Abram broke off as the enormity of Rasch's words got
through to him.
"Yes, General. The missiles won't land precisely on the selected targets."
"But you can allow for this change in gravity, surely."
"Of course, but it's going to take some time. The decrease is progressive,
and -- "
"How long?"
Rasch shrugged carelessly. "Six months, perhaps. It all depends."
"But this places me in an impossible situation. What will the President say?"
"I wouldn't venture a guess, General -- but we all have one consolation."
"Which is?"
"Every nation in the world is facing the same problem. You are worried
about a comparative handful of short-range missiles -- think how the
Russians and the Americans and the others must be feeling." Rasch
had acquired an air of dreamy, philosophical calm which Abram found
infuriating.
"And what about you, Dr. Rasch?" he said. "Aren't you worried too?"
"Worried, General, worried?" Rasch stared out through the window to where
the desert was shimmering in the day's still-growing heat. "If you have time
to listen, I'll explain how these scientific trivialities -- as you term
them -- are going to affect the future of humanity."
He began to speak in a thin, strangely wistful monotone. And, as he
listened, General Abram discovered the real meaning of fear. . . .
On almost any clear night on Ridgeway Street, especially if there was
a moon, an open window could be seen at the top of the highest house.
People out late sometimes saw a pale blur moving in the oblong of darkness
and knew they had caught Willy Lucas watching them. And Willy, his pimply
fuzz-covered face twisted with panic, would lunge back from the window,
afraid of being seen.
The women who lived opposite often thought Willy was trying to spy
into their bedrooms, and had had him punished by complaining to his
brother. But Willy was not interested in the tight-lipped, bleak-eyed
housewives of Ridgeway Street, nor even in the strange and alluring
females who sometimes walked near him in dreams.
The truth was that Willy enjoyed looking out across the silent town
when all others had gone to sleep. It was, for those treasured hours,
as though they had died and left him alone, and there was nobody to
shout or look at him with exasperation. . . .
When the first of the meteors began to fall Willy was at his post high
in the tall, narrow building. Quivering with excitement, he snatched up
his old mother-of-pearl opera glasses, stolen from Cooney's junk store on
the corner, and focused them into the dark bowl of the sky. Each time he
saw a meteor, its transient brilliance limned with prismatic color by the
damaged optical system of his glasses, formless and disturbing thoughts
stirred in his mind. With the alert instincts of one not altogether at
home in the normal pattern of existence, he realized that the fugitive
motes of light carried a special message just for him -- but what could
it be?
Willy watched until near dawn, crouched in the freezing darkness of the
little attic, then he closed the window and went to bed.
When he woke up and came down for lunch the grocery store at the front
of the house was crowded. His two older sisters, Ada and Emily, were too
busy to come back and prepare a meal for him so Willy made sandwiches
with mashed banana thickly spread with marmalade.
As he munched in silent abstraction he hardly saw the pages of the book
he was leafing through, or heard the sliding rumble of potatoes being
weighed in the store. For, just as in the Bible, it had come to him in
his sleep -- the awful, heart-stilling significance of the falling stars.
He felt uplifted at having been chosen as the instrument whereby the
message would be spread throughout the world, but there was also a vast
responsibility. Willy had never in his life carried even the smallest
shred of responsibility, and he was uncertain about his own capabilities
-- especially in a matter of such importance. He drifted around the dark,
shabby house all day, trying to think of a way to discharge his God-given
obligations, but was unable to decide on any worthwhile plan.
At dusk, his brother Joe came home from his job in the town's gas plant,
and was angry because Willy had not whitewashed the yard. Willy paid
little attention to him, accepting the furious words meekly, while his
mind sought dimly for a way in which to honor God's trust.
That night the meteor display was even more brilliant than before, and
Willy began to feel an unaccustomed sense of urgency, almost a feeling
of guilt that he had done nothing about spreading the Word. He began to
worry, and when Willy was absentminded it effectively reduced him to
a state of imbecility. Once while mooning around the store he knocked
over a basket of tomatoes, and another time dropped a crate of empty
Coca-Cola bottles on the tiled floor.
Another night of teeming brilliance had passed before the idea came to him.
It was a miserable little idea, he realized -- achieving some degree of
objectivity -- but no doubt God understood the limitations of His chosen
instrument better than did Willy himself.
Once he understood what he had to do, Willy became impatient to get on
with his work. Instead of drifting off to sleep after his nightly vigil,
be hurried downstairs and out to the back yard in search of woodworking
tools. Joe was standing at the stove, already dressed in stained brown
overalls, gulping tea. He looked up at Willy with his usual expression
of dismayed hatred.
"Willy," he said tersely. "If you don't get the whitewashing done today,
I'll do the job myself, and you'll be the brush."
"Yes, Joe."
"I'm warning you for the last time, Willy. We're all sick of you not
even lifting a finger to pay for your keep."
"Yes, Joe."
"You lie in bed all night and half the day too."
"Yes, Joe."
Willy stared down into his brother's square, competent face and was
tempted to reveal just how fortunate it had been for Joe, Ada, Emily
and everyone else in the world that he had
not
been lying in bed all
night. Thanks to his vigilance they had all gained a little time. But
he decided against saying anything too soon, and went on out to the yard.
The work proved more difficult than Willy had anticipated, one of the
first snags being the scarcity of suitable materials. He wasted some time
pawing through the heap of rain-blackened lumber at the end of the yard,
hurting his fingers on its slippery solidity, covering his clothes with
mossy green smears and flecks of orange-red fungus. Finally he realized
there was nothing for him in the pile, and went into the outhouse which
Ada and Emily used as a storeroom.