Galaxy's Edge Magazine: Issue 3, July 2013 (11 page)

Underhill thought of many things to say. These new mechanicals promised to multiply his troubles. It was foolish to take in an invalid vagrant, who could have free care at the city hospital. Aurora’s tenants always tried to pay their rent with promises, and generally wrecked the apartment and looted the neighborhood before they left.

But he said none of those things. He had learned to compromise. Silently, he found two fives in his thin pocketbook, and put them in her hand. She smiled, and kissed him impulsively—he barely remembered to hold his breath in time.

Her figure was still good, by dint of periodic dieting. He was proud of her shining red hair. A sudden surge of affection brought tears to his eyes, and he wondered what would happen to her and the children if the agency failed.

“Thank you, dear!” she whispered. “I’ll have him come for dinner, if he feels able, and you can meet him then. I hope you don’t mind dinner being late.”

He didn’t mind, tonight. Moved by a sudden impulse of domesticity, he got hammer and nails from his workshop in the basement, and repaired the sagging screen on the kitchen door with a diagonal brace.

He enjoyed working with his hands. His boyhood dream had been to be a builder of fission power plants. He had even studied engineering—before he married Aurora, and had to take over the ailing mechanicals agency from her indolent and alcoholic father. He was whistling happily by the time the little task was done.

When he went back through the kitchen to put up his tools, he found the household android busily clearing the untouched dinner away from the table—the androids were good enough at strictly routine tasks, but they could never learn to cope with human unpredictability.

“Stop, stop!” Slowly repeated, in the proper pitch and rhythm, his command made it halt, and then he said carefully, “Set—table; set—table.”

Obediently, the gigantic thing came shuffling back with the stack of plates. He was suddenly struck with the difference between it and those new humanoids. He sighed wearily. Things looked black for the agency.

Aurora brought her new lodger in through the kitchen door. Underhill nodded to himself. This gaunt stranger, with his dark shaggy hair, emaciated face, and threadbare garb, looked to be just the sort of colorful, dramatic vagabond that always touched Aurora’s heart. She introduced them, and they sat down to wait in the front room while she went to call the children.

The old rogue didn’t look very sick, to Underhill. Perhaps his wide shoulders had a tired stoop, but his spare, tall figure was still commanding. The skin was seamed and pale, over his rawboned, cragged face, but his deep-set eyes still had a burning vitality.

His hands held Underhill’s attention. Immense hands, they hung a little forward when he stood, swung on long bony arms in perpetual readiness. Gnarled and scarred, darkly tanned, with the small hairs on the back bleached to a golden color, they told their own epic of varied adventure, of battle perhaps, and possibly even of toil. They had been very useful hands.

“I’m very grateful to your wife, Mr. Underhill.” His voice was a deep-throated rumble, and he had a wistful smile, oddly boyish for a man so evidently old. “She rescued me from an unpleasant predicament, and I’ll see that she is well paid.”

Just another vivid vagabond, Underhill decided, talking his way through life with plausible inventions. He had a little private game he played with Aurora’s tenants—just remembering what they said and counting one point for every impossibility. Mr. Sledge, he thought, would give him an excellent score.

“Where are you from?” he asked conversationally.

Sledge hesitated for an instant before he answered, and that was unusual—most of Aurora’s tenants had been exceedingly glib.

“Wing IV.” The gaunt old man spoke with a solemn reluctance, as if he should have liked to say something else. “All my early life was spent there, but I left the planet nearly fifty years ago. I’ve been traveling ever since.”

Startled, Underhill peered at him sharply. Wing IV, he remembered, was the home planet of those sleek new mechanicals, but this old vagabond looked too seedy and impecunious to be connected with the Humanoid Institute. His brief suspicion faded. Frowning, he said casually:

“Wing IV must be rather distant.”

The old rogue hesitated again, and then said gravely:

“One hundred and nine light-years, Mr. Underhill.”

That made the first point, but Underhill concealed his satisfaction. The new space liners were pretty fast, but the velocity of light was still an absolute limit. Casually, he played for another point:

“My wife says you’re a scientist, Mr. Sledge?”

“Yes.”

The old rascal’s reticence was unusual. Most of Aurora’s tenants required very little prompting. Underhill tried again, in a breezy conversational tone:

“Used to be an engineer myself, until I dropped it to go into mechanicals.” The old vagabond straightened, and Underhill paused hopefully. But he said nothing, and Underhill went on: “Fission plant design and operation. What’s your specialty, Mr. Sledge?”

The old man gave him a long, troubled look, with those brooding, hollowed eyes, and then said slowly: “Your wife has been kind to me, Mr. Underhill, when I was in desperate need. I think you are entitled to the truth, but I must ask you to keep it to yourself. I am engaged on a very important research problem, which must be finished secretly.”

“I’m sorry.” Suddenly ashamed of his cynical little game, Underhill spoke apologetically. “Forget it.” But the old man said deliberately: “My field is rhodomagnetics.”

“Eh?” Underhill didn’t like to confess ignorance, but he had never heard of that. “I’ve been out of the game for fifteen years,” he explained. “I’m afraid I haven’t kept up.”

The old man smiled again, faintly.

“The science was unknown here until I arrived, a few days ago,” he said. “I was able to apply for basic patents. As soon as the royalties start coming in, I’ll be wealthy again.”

Underhill had heard that before. The old rogue’s solemn reluctance had been very impressive, but he remembered that most of Aurora’s tenants had been very plausible gentry.

“So?” Underhill was staring again, somehow fascinated by those gnarled and scarred and strangely able hands. “What, exactly, is rhodomagnetics?”

He listened to the old man’s careful, deliberate answer, and started his little game again. Most of Aurora’s tenants had told some pretty wild tales, but he had never heard anything to top this.

“A universal force,” the weary, stooped old vagabond said solemnly. “As fundamental as ferromagnetism or gravitation, though the effects are less obvious. It is keyed to the second triad of the periodic table, rhodium and ruthenium and palladium, in very much the same way that ferromagnetism is keyed to the first triad, iron and nickel and cobalt.”

Underhill remembered enough of his engineering courses to see the basic fallacy of that. Palladium was used for watch springs, he recalled, because it was completely non-magnetic. But kept his face straight. He had no malice in his heart, and he played the little game just for his own amusement. It was secret, even from Aurora, and he always penalized himself for any show of doubt.

He said merely, “I thought the universal forces were already pretty well known.”

“The effects of rhodomagnetism are masked by nature,” the patient, rusty voice explained. “And, besides, they are somewhat paradoxical, so that ordinary laboratory methods defeat themselves.”

“Paradoxical?” Underhill prompted.

“In a few days I can show you copies of my patents, and reprints of papers describing demonstration experiments,” the old man promised gravely. “The velocity of propagation is infinite. The effects vary inversely with the first power of the distance, not with the square of the distance. And ordinary matter, except for the elements of the rhodium triad, is generally transparent to rhodomagnetic radiations.”

That made four more points for the game. Underhill felt a little glow of gratitude to Aurora, for discovering so remarkable a specimen.

“Rhodomagnetism was first discovered through a mathematical investigation of the atom,” the old romancer went serenely on, suspecting nothing. “A rhodomagnetic component was proved essential to maintain the delicate equilibrium of the nuclear forces. Consequently, rhodomagnetic waves tuned to atomic frequencies may be used to upset that equilibrium and produce nuclear instability. Thus most heavy atoms—generally those above palladium, 46 in atomic number—can be subjected to artificial fission.”

Underhill scored himself another point, and tried to keep his eyebrows from lifting. He said, conversationally: “Patents on such a discovery ought to be very profitable.”

The old scoundrel nodded his gaunt, dramatic head.

“You can see the obvious applications. My basic patents cover most of them. Devices for instantaneous interplanetary and interstellar communication. Long-range wireless power transmission. A rhodomagnetic inflexion-drive, which makes possible apparent speeds many times that of light—by means of a rhodomagnetic deformation of the continuum. And, of course, revolutionary types of fission power plants, using any heavy element for fuel.”

Preposterous! Underhill tried hard to keep his face straight, but everybody knew that the velocity of light was a physical limit. On the human side, the owner of any such remarkable patents would hardly be begging for shelter in a shabby garage apartment. He noticed a pale circle around the old vagabond’s gaunt and hairy wrist; no man owning such priceless secrets would have to pawn his watch.

Triumphantly, Underhill allowed himself four more points, but then he had to penalize himself. He must have let doubt show on his face, because the old man asked suddenly:

“Do you want to see the basic tensors?” He reached in his pocket for pencil and notebook. I’ll jot them down for you.”

“Never mind,” Underhill protested. “I’m afraid my math is a little rusty.”

“But you think it strange that the holder of such revolutionary patents should find himself need?”

Underhill nodded, and penalized himself another point. The old man might be a monumental liar but he was shrewd enough.

“You see, I’m a sort of refugee,” he explained apologetically. “I arrived on this planet only a few days ago, and I have to travel light. I was forced to deposit everything I had with a law firm, to arrange for the publication and protection of my patents. I expect to be receiving the first royalties soon.

“In the meantime,” he added plausibly, “I came to Two Rivers because it is quiet and secluded, far from the spaceports. I’m working on another project, which must be finished secretly. Now, will you please respect my confidence, Mr. Underhill?”

Underhill had to say he would. Aurora came back with the freshly scrubbed children, and they went in to dinner. The android came lurching in with a steaming tureen. The old stranger seemed to shrink from the mechanical, uneasily. As she took the dish and served the soup, Aurora inquired lightly:

“Why doesn’t your company bring out a better mechanical, dear? One smart enough to be a really perfect waiter, warranted not to splash the soup. Wouldn’t that be splendid?”

Her question cast Underhill into moody silence. He sat scowling at his plate, thinking of those remarkable new mechanicals which claimed to be perfect, and what they might do to the agency. It was the shaggy old rover who answered soberly:

“The perfect mechanicals already exist, Mrs. Underhill.” His deep, rusty voice had a solemn undertone. “And they are not so splendid, really. I’ve been a refugee from them, for nearly fifty years.”

Underhill looked up from his plate, astonished.

“Those black humanoids, you mean?”

“Humanoids?” That great voice seemed suddenly faint, frightened. The deep-sunken eyes turned dark with shock. “What do you know of them?”

“They’ve just opened a new agency in Two Rivers,” Underhill told him. “No salesmen about, if you can imagine that. They claim—”

His voice trailed off, because the gaunt old man was suddenly stricken. Gnarled hands clutched at his throat, and a spoon clattered to the floor. His haggard face turned an ominous blue, and his breath was a terrible shallow gasping.

He fumbled in his pocket for medicine, and Aurora helped him take something in a glass of water. In a few moments he could breathe again, and the color of life came back to his face.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Underhill,” he whispered apologetically. “It was just the shock—I came here get away from them.” He stared at the huge, motionless android, with a terror in his sunken eyes. “I wanted to finish my work before they came,” he whispered. “Now there is very little time.”

When he felt able to walk, Underhill went out with him to see him safely up the stairs to the garage apartment. The tiny kitchenette, he noticed, had already been converted into some kind of workshop. The old tramp seemed to have no extra clothing, but he had unpacked neat, bright gadgets of metal and plastic from his battered luggage, and spread them out on the small kitchen table.

The gaunt old man himself was tattered and patched and hungry-looking, but the parts of his curious equipment were exquisitely machined, and Underhill recognized the silver-white luster of rare palladium. Suddenly he suspected that he had scored too many points in his little private game.