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<h1>THE VARIABLE MAN</h1>

<p id="author">BY PHILIP K. DICK</p>

<p id="illustrator">ILLUSTRATED BY EBEL</p>


<p id="synopsis">He fixed things—clocks, refrigerators, vidsenders
and destinies. But he had no business in the future,
where the calculators could not handle him.
He was Earth’s only hope—and its sure failure!</p>


<!-- <a class="pagenum" id="page7" title="7">&nbsp;</a> Right side of Title illustration was here -->

<p><a class="pagenum" id="page8" title="8"> </a>Security Commissioner Reinhart
rapidly climbed the front
steps and entered the Council
building. Council guards stepped
quickly aside and he entered the
familiar place of great whirring
machines. His thin face rapt,
eyes alight with emotion, Reinhart
gazed intently up at the
central SRB computer, studying
its reading.</p>

<p>“Straight gain for the last
quarter,” observed Kaplan, the
lab organizer. He grinned proudly,
as if personally responsible.
“Not bad, Commissioner.”</p>

<p>“We’re catching up to them,”
Reinhart retorted. “But too
damn slowly. We must finally
go over—and soon.”</p>

<p>Kaplan was in a talkative
mood. “We design new offensive
weapons, they counter with improved
defenses. And nothing is
actually made! Continual improvement,
but neither we nor
Centaurus can stop designing
long enough to stabilize for production.”</p>

<p>“It will end,” Reinhart stated
coldly, “as soon as Terra turns
out a weapon for which Centaurus
can build no defense.”</p>

<p>“Every weapon has a defense.
Design and discord. Immediate
obsolescence. Nothing lasts long
enough to—”</p>

<p>“What we count on is the <em>lag</em>,”
Reinhart broke in, annoyed. His
hard gray eyes bored into the
lab organizer and Kaplan slunk
back. “The time lag between our
offensive design and their
counter development. The lag
varies.” He waved impatiently
toward the massed banks of SRB
machines. “As you well know.”</p>

<p>At this moment, 9:30 AM,
May 7, 2136, the statistical ratio
on the SRB machines stood at
21-17 on the Centauran side of
the ledger. All facts considered,
the odds favored a successful
repulsion by Proxima Centaurus
of a Terran military attack. The
ratio was based on the total information
known to the SRB
machines, on a gestalt of the
vast flow of data that poured in
endlessly from all sectors of
the Sol and Centaurus systems.</p>

<p>21-17 on the Centauran side.
But a month ago it had been
24-18 in the enemy’s favor.
Things were improving, slowly
but steadily. Centaurus, older
and less virile than Terra, was
unable to match Terra’s rate of
technocratic advance. Terra was
pulling ahead.</p>

<p>“If we went to war now,”
Reinhart said thoughtfully, “we
would lose. We’re not far enough
along to risk an overt attack.”
A harsh, ruthless glow twisted
across his handsome features,
distorting them into a stern
mask. “But the odds are moving
in our favor. Our offensive designs
<a class="pagenum" id="page9" title="9"> </a>are gradually gaining on
their defenses.”</p>

<p>“Let’s hope the war comes
soon,” Kaplan agreed. “We’re all
on edge. This damn waiting….”</p>

<p>The war would come soon.
Reinhart knew it intuitively. The
air was full of tension, the <em>elan</em>.
He left the SRB rooms and hurried
down the corridor to his
own elaborately guarded office
in the Security wing. It wouldn’t
be long. He could practically
feel the hot breath of destiny on
his neck—for him a pleasant
feeling. His thin lips set in a
humorless smile, showing an
even line of white teeth against
his tanned skin. It made him
feel good, all right. He’d been
working at it a long time.</p>

<p>First contact, a hundred years
earlier, had ignited instant conflict
between Proxima Centauran
outposts and exploring Terran
raiders. Flash fights, sudden
eruptions of fire and energy
beams.</p>

<p>And then the long, dreary
years of inaction between enemies
where contact required
years of travel, even at nearly
the speed of light. The two
systems were evenly matched.
Screen against screen. Warship
against power station. The Centauran
Empire surrounded
Terra, an iron ring that couldn’t
be broken, rusty and corroded
as it was. Radical new weapons
had to be conceived, if Terra
was to break out.</p>

<p>Through the windows of his
office, Reinhart could see endless
buildings and streets, Terrans
hurrying back and forth. Bright
specks that were commute ships,
little eggs that carried businessmen
and white-collar workers
around. The huge transport
tubes that shot masses of workmen
to factories and labor camps
from their housing units. All
these people, waiting to break
out. Waiting for the day.</p>

<p>Reinhart snapped on his vidscreen,
the confidential channel.
“Give me Military Designs,” he
ordered sharply.</p>

<hr class="thoughtbreak" />

<p class="post_thoughtbreak">He sat tense, his wiry body
taut, as the vidscreen warmed
into life. Abruptly he was facing
the hulking image of Peter
Sherikov, director of the vast
network of labs under the Ural
Mountains.</p>

<p>Sherikov’s great bearded features
hardened as he recognized
Reinhart. His bushy black eyebrows
pulled up in a sullen line.
“What do you want? You know
I’m busy. We have too much
work to do, as it is. Without
being bothered by—politicians.”</p>

<p>“I’m dropping over your
way,” Reinhart answered lazily.
He adjusted the cuff of his immaculate
gray cloak. “I want a
full description of your work
<a class="pagenum" id="page10" title="10"> </a>and whatever progress you’ve
made.”</p>

<p>“You’ll find a regular departmental
report plate filed in the
usual way, around your office
someplace. If you’ll refer to that
you’ll know exactly what we—”</p>

<p>“I’m not interested in that. I
want to <em>see</em> what you’re doing.
And I expect you to be prepared
to describe your work fully. I’ll
be there shortly. Half an hour.”</p>

<hr class="thoughtbreak" />

<p class="post_thoughtbreak">Reinhart cut the circuit.
Sherikov’s heavy features
dwindled and faded. Reinhart
relaxed, letting his breath out.
Too bad he had to work with
Sherikov. He had never liked
the man. The big Polish scientist
was an individualist, refusing to
integrate himself with society.
Independent, atomistic in outlook.
He held concepts of the
individual as an end, diametrically
contrary to the accepted organic
state Weltansicht.</p>

<p>But Sherikov was the leading
research scientist, in charge of
the Military Designs Department.
And on Designs the whole
future of Terra depended.
Victory over Centaurus—or
more waiting, bottled up in the
Sol System, surrounded by a
rotting, hostile Empire, now
sinking into ruin and decay, yet
still strong.</p>

<p>Reinhart got quickly to his
feet and left the office. He hurried
down the hall and out of the
Council building.</p>

<p>A few minutes later he was
heading across the mid-morning
sky in his highspeed cruiser,
toward the Asiatic land-mass,
the vast Ural mountain range.
Toward the Military Designs
labs.</p>

<p>Sherikov met him at the entrance.
“Look here, Reinhart.
Don’t think you’re going to
order me around. I’m not going
to—”</p>

<p>“Take it easy.” Reinhart fell
into step beside the bigger man.
They passed through the check
and into the auxiliary labs. “No
immediate coercion will be exerted
over you or your staff.
You’re free to continue your
work as you see fit—for the
present. Let’s get this straight.
My concern is to integrate your
work with our total social needs.
As long as your work is sufficiently
productive—”</p>

<p>Reinhart stopped in his tracks.</p>

<p>“Pretty, isn’t he?” Sherikov
said ironically.</p>

<p>“What the hell is it?</p>

<p>“Icarus, we call him. Remember
the Greek myth? The legend
of Icarus. Icarus flew…. This
Icarus is going to fly, one of
these days.” Sherikov shrugged.
“You can examine him, if you
want. I suppose this is what you
came here to see.”</p>

<p>Reinhart advanced slowly.
<a class="pagenum" id="page11" title="11"> </a>“This is the weapon you’ve been
working on?”</p>

<p>“How does he look?”</p>

<p>Rising up in the center of the
chamber was a squat metal
cylinder, a great ugly cone of
dark gray. Technicians circled
around it, wiring up the exposed
relay banks. Reinhart caught a
glimpse of endless tubes and
filaments, a maze of wires and
terminals and parts criss-crossing
each other, layer on layer.</p>

<p>“What is it?” Reinhart perched
on the edge of a workbench,
leaning his big shoulders against
the wall. “An idea of Jamison
Hedge—the same man who developed
our instantaneous interstellar
vidcasts forty years ago.
He was trying to find a method
of faster than light travel when
he was killed, destroyed along
with most of his work. After
that ftl research was abandoned.
It looked as if there were no
future in it.”</p>

<p>“Wasn’t it shown that nothing
could travel faster than light?”</p>

<p>“The interstellar vidcasts do!
No, Hedge developed a valid ftl
drive. He managed to propel an
object at fifty times the speed
of light. But as the object
gained speed, its length began
to diminish and its mass increased.
This was in line with
familiar twentieth-century concepts
of mass-energy transformation.
We conjectured that as
Hedge’s object gained velocity
it would continue to lose length
and gain mass until its length
became nil and its mass infinite.
Nobody can imagine such an object.”</p>

<p>“Go on.”</p>

<p>“But what actually occurred
is this. Hedge’s object continued
to lose length and gain
mass until it reached the
theoretical limit of velocity, the
speed of light. At that point the
object, still gaining speed,
simply ceased to exist. Having
no length, it ceased to occupy
space. It disappeared. However,
the object had not been <em>destroyed</em>.
It continued on its way,
gaining momentum each moment,
moving in an arc across
the galaxy, away from the Sol
system. Hedge’s object entered
some other realm of being, beyond
our powers of conception.
The next phase of Hedge’s experiment
consisted in a search
for some way to slow the ftl object
down, back to a sub-ftl
speed, hence back into our universe.
This counterprinciple was
eventually worked out.”</p>

<p>“With what result?”</p>

<p>“The death of Hedge and destruction
of most of his equipment.
His experimental object,
in re-entering the space-time
universe, came into being in
space already occupied by matter.
Possessing an incredible
<a class="pagenum" id="page12" title="12"> </a>mass, just below infinity level,
Hedge’s object exploded in a titanic
cataclysm. It was obvious
that no space travel was possible
with such a drive. Virtually all
space contains <em>some</em> matter. To
re-enter space would bring automatic
destruction. Hedge had
found his ftl drive and his counterprinciple,
but no one before
this has been able to put them
to any use.”</p>

<p>Reinhart walked over toward
the great metal cylinder. Sherikov
jumped down and followed
him. “I don’t get it,” Reinhart
said. “You said the principle is
no good for space travel.”</p>

<p>“That’s right.”</p>

<p>“What’s this for, then? If the
ship explodes as soon as it returns
to our universe—”</p>

<p>“This is not a ship.” Sherikov
grinned slyly. “Icarus is the
first practical application of
Hedge’s principles. Icarus is a
bomb.”</p>

<p>“So this is our weapon,” Reinhart
said. “A bomb. An immense
bomb.”</p>

<p>“A bomb, moving at a velocity
greater than light. A bomb
which will not exist in our universe.
The Centaurans won’t be
able to detect or stop it. How
could they? As soon as it passes
the speed of light it will cease
to exist—beyond all detection.”</p>

<p>“But—”</p>

<p>“Icarus will be launched outside
the lab, on the surface. He
will align himself with Proxima
Centaurus, gaining speed rapidly.
By the time he reaches his
destination he will be traveling
at ftl-100. Icarus will be
brought back to this universe
within Centaurus itself. The explosion
should destroy the star
and wash away most of its planets—including
their central
hub-planet, Armun. There is no
way they can halt Icarus, once
he has been launched. No defense
is possible. Nothing can
stop him. It is a real fact.”</p>

<p>“When will he be ready?”</p>

<p>Sherikov’s eyes flickered.
“Soon.”</p>

<p>“Exactly how soon?”</p>

<p>The big Pole hesitated. “As a
matter of fact, there’s only one
thing holding us back.”</p>

<p>Sherikov led Reinhart around
to the other side of the lab. He
pushed a lab guard out of the
way.</p>

<p>“See this?” He tapped a
round globe, open at one end,
the size of a grapefruit. “This
is holding us up.”</p>

<p>“What is it?”</p>

<p>“The central control turret.
This thing brings Icarus back
to sub-ftl flight at the correct
moment. It must be absolutely
accurate. Icarus will be within
the star only a matter of a microsecond.
If the turret does not
function exactly, Icarus will pass
<a class="pagenum" id="page13" title="13"> </a>out the other side and shoot beyond
the Centauran system.”</p>

<p>“How near completed is this
turret?”</p>

<p>Sherikov hedged uncertainly,
spreading out his big hands.
“Who can say? It must be wired
with infinitely minute equipment—microscope
grapples and
wires invisible to the naked
eye.”</p>

<p>“Can you name any completion
date?”</p>

<p>Sherikov reached into his coat
and brought out a manila folder.
“I’ve drawn up the data for the
SRB machines, giving a date of
completion. You can go ahead
and feed it. I entered ten days
as the maximum period. The machines
can work from that.”</p>

<p>Reinhart accepted the folder
cautiously. “You’re sure about
the date? I’m not convinced I
can trust you, Sherikov.”</p>

<p>Sherikov’s features darkened.
“You’ll have to take a chance,
Commissioner. I don’t trust you
any more than you trust me. I
know how much you’d like an
excuse to get me out of here
and one of your puppets in.”</p>

<p>Reinhart studied the huge
scientist thoughtfully. Sherikov
was going to be a hard nut to
crack. Designs was responsible
to Security, not the Council.
Sherikov was losing ground—but
he was still a potential danger.
Stubborn, individualistic,
refusing to subordinate his welfare
to the general good.</p>

<p>“All right.” Reinhart put the
folder slowly away in his coat.
“I’ll feed it. But you better be
able to come through. There
can’t be any slip-ups. Too much
hangs on the next few days.”</p>

<p>“If the odds change in our
favor are you going to give the
mobilization order?”</p>

<p>“Yes,” Reinhart stated. “I’ll
give the order the moment I see
the odds change.”</p>

<hr class="thoughtbreak" />

<p class="post_thoughtbreak">Standing in front of the machines,
Reinhart waited nervously
for the results. It was two
o’clock in the afternoon. The
day was warm, a pleasant May
afternoon. Outside the building
the daily life of the planet went
on as usual.</p>

<p>As usual? Not exactly. The
feeling was in the air, an expanding
excitement growing
every day. Terra had waited a
long time. The attack on Proxima
Centaurus had to come—and
the sooner the better. The
ancient Centauran Empire
hemmed in Terra, bottled the
human race up in its one system.
A vast, suffocating net
draped across the heavens, cutting
Terra off from the bright
diamonds beyond…. And it had
to end.</p>

<p>The SRB machines whirred,
the visible combination disappearing.
<a class="pagenum" id="page14" title="14"> </a>For a time no ratio
showed. Reinhart tensed, his
body rigid. He waited.</p>

<p>The new ratio appeared.</p>

<p>Reinhart gasped. 7-6. Toward
Terra!</p>

<p>Within five minutes the
emergency mobilization alert
had been flashed to all Government
departments. The Council
and President Duffe had been
called to immediate session.
Everything was happening fast.</p>

<p>But there was no doubt. 7-6.
In Terra’s favor. Reinhart hurried
frantically to get his papers
in order, in time for the Council
session.</p>

<p>At histo-research the message
plate was quickly pulled
from the confidential slot and
rushed across the central lab to
the chief official.</p>

<p>“Look at this!” Fredman
dropped the plate on his superior’s
desk. “Look at it!”</p>

<p>Harper picked up the plate,
scanning it rapidly. “Sounds
like the real thing. I didn’t
think we’d live to see it.”</p>

<p>Fredman left the room, hurrying
down the hall. He entered
the time bubble office. “Where’s
the bubble?” he demanded,
looking around.</p>

<p>One of the technicians looked
slowly up. “Back about two
hundred years. We’re coming
up with interesting data on the
War of 1914. According to
material the bubble has already
brought up—”</p>

<p>“Cut it. We’re through with
routine work. Get the bubble
back to the present. From now
on all equipment has to be free
for Military work.”</p>

<p>“But—the bubble is regulated
automatically.”</p>

<p>“You can bring it back
manually.”</p>

<p>“It’s risky.” The technician
hedged. “If the emergency requires
it, I suppose we could
take a chance and cut the automatic.”</p>

<p>“The emergency requires
<em>everything</em>,” Fredman said feelingly.</p>

<p>“But the odds might change
back,” Margaret Duffe, President
of the Council, said nervously.
“Any minute they can revert.”</p>

<p>“This is our chance!” Reinhart
snapped, his temper rising.
“What the hell’s the matter with
you? We’ve waited years for
this.”</p>

<p>The Council buzzed with excitement.
Margaret Duffe hesitated
uncertainly, her blue eyes
clouded with worry. “I realize
the opportunity is here. At least,
statistically. But the new odds
have just appeared. How do we
know they’ll last? They stand on
the basis of a single weapon.”</p>

<p>“You’re wrong. You don’t
grasp the situation.” Reinhart
<a class="pagenum" id="page15" title="15"> </a>held himself in check with
great effort. “Sherikov’s weapon
tipped the ratio in our
favor. But the odds have been
moving in our direction for
months. It was only a question
of time. The new balance was
inevitable, sooner or later. It’s
not just Sherikov. He’s only one
factor in this. It’s all nine
planets of the Sol System—not
a single man.”</p>

<p>One of the Councilmen stood
up. “The President must be
aware the entire planet is eager
to end this waiting. All our activities
for the past eighty years
have been directed toward—”</p>

<p>Reinhart moved close to the
slender President of the Council.
“If you don’t approve the
war, there probably will be
mass rioting. Public reaction
will be strong. Damn strong.
And you know it.”</p>

<p>Margaret Duffe shot him a
cold glance. “You sent out the
emergency order to force my
hand. You were fully aware of
what you were doing. You knew
once the order was out there’d
be no stopping things.”</p>

<p>A murmur rushed through
the Council, gaining volume.
“We have to approve the
war!… We’re committed!…
It’s too late to turn back!”</p>

<p>Shouts, angry voices, insistent
waves of sound lapped around
Margaret Duffe. “I’m as much
for the war as anybody,” she
said sharply. “I’m only urging
moderation. An inter-system
war is a big thing. We’re going
to war because a machine says
we have a statistical chance of
winning.”</p>

<p>“There’s no use starting the
war unless we can win it,” Reinhart
said. “The SRB machines
tell us whether we can win.”</p>

<p>“They tell us our <em>chance</em> of
winning. They don’t guarantee
anything.”</p>

<p>“What more can we ask, beside
a good chance of winning?”</p>

<p>Margaret Duffe clamped her
jaw together tightly. “All right.
I hear all the clamor. I won’t
stand in the way of Council approval.
The vote can go ahead.”
Her cold, alert eyes appraised
Reinhart. “Especially since the
emergency order has already
been sent out to all Government
departments.”</p>

<p>“Good.” Reinhart stepped
away with relief. “Then it’s settled.
We can finally go ahead
with full mobilization.”</p>

<p>Mobilization proceeded rapidly.
The next forty-eight hours
were alive with activity.</p>

<p>Reinhart attended a policy-level
Military briefing in the
Council rooms, conducted by
Fleet Commander Carleton.</p>

<p>“You can see our strategy,”
Carleton said. He traced a diagram
on the blackboard with a
<a class="pagenum" id="page16" title="16"> </a>wave of his hand. “Sherikov
states it’ll take eight more days
to complete the ftl bomb. During
that time the fleet we have near
the Centauran system will take
up positions. As the bomb goes
off the fleet will begin operations
against the remaining
Centauran ships. Many will no
doubt survive the blast, but
with Armun gone we should be
able to handle them.”</p>

<p>Reinhart took Commander
Carleton’s place. “I can report
on the economic situation. Every
factory on Terra is converted
to arms production. With Armun
out of the way we should be able
to promote mass insurrection
among the Centauran colonies.
An inter-system Empire is hard
to maintain, even with ships
that approach light speed. Local
war-lords should pop up all over
the place. We want to have
weapons available for them and
ships starting <em>now</em> to reach
them in time. Eventually we
hope to provide a unifying principle
around which the colonies
can all collect. Our interest is
more economic than political.
They can have any kind of government
they want, as long as
they act as supply areas for us.
As our eight system planets act
now.”</p>

<p>Carleton resumed his report.
“Once the Centauran fleet has
been scattered we can begin the
crucial stage of the war. The
landing of men and supplies
from the ships we have waiting
in all key areas throughout the
Centauran system. In this
stage—”</p>

<p>Reinhart moved away. It was
hard to believe only two days
had passed since the mobilization
order had been sent out.
The whole system was alive,
functioning with feverish activity.
Countless problems were being solved—but
much remained.</p>

<p>He entered the lift and ascended
to the SRB room, curious
to see if there had been any
change in the machines’ reading.
He found it the same. So
far so good. Did the Centaurans
know about Icarus? No doubt;
but there wasn’t anything they
could do about it. At least, not
in eight days.</p>

<p>Kaplan came over to Reinhart,
sorting a new batch of data that
had come in. The lab organizer
searched through his data. “An
amusing item came in. It might
interest you.” He handed a
message plate to Reinhart.</p>

<p>It was from histo-research:</p>

<blockquote class="letter">
	<p class="dateline">May 9, 2136</p>

	<p>This is to report that in
	bringing the research time
	bubble up to the present the
	manual return was used for
	the first time. Therefore a
	<a class="pagenum" id="page17" title="17"> </a>clean break was not made,
	and a quantity of material
	from the past was brought
	forward. This material included
	an individual from the
	early twentieth century who
	escaped from the lab immediately.
	He has not yet been
	taken into protective custody.
	Histo-research regrets this
	incident, but attributes it to
	the emergency.</p>

	<p class="signature">E. Fredman</p>
</blockquote>

<p>Reinhart handed the plate
back to Kaplan. “Interesting. A
man from the past—hauled into
the middle of the biggest war
the universe has seen.”</p>

<p>“Strange things happen. I
wonder what the machines will
think.”</p>

<p>“Hard to say. Probably nothing.”
Reinhart left the room and
hurried along the corridor to his
own office.</p>

<p>As soon as he was inside he
called Sherikov on the vidscreen,
using the confidential line.</p>

<p>The Pole’s heavy features appeared.
“Good day, Commissioner.
How’s the war effort?”</p>

<p>“Fine. How’s the turret wiring
proceeding?”</p>

<p>A faint frown flickered across
Sherikov’s face. “As a matter of
fact, Commissioner—”</p>

<p>“What’s the matter?” Reinhart
said sharply.</p>

<p>Sherikov floundered. “You
know how these things are. I’ve
taken my crew off it and tried
robot workers. They have greater
dexterity, but they can’t make
decisions. This calls for more
than mere dexterity. This calls
for—” He searched for the word.
“—for an <em>artist</em>.”</p>

<p>Reinhart’s face hardened.
“Listen, Sherikov. You have
eight days left to complete the
bomb. The data given to the
SRB machines contained that information.
The 7-6 ratio is based
on that estimate. If you don’t
come through—”</p>

<p>Sherikov twisted in embarrassment.
“Don’t get excited,
Commissioner. We’ll complete
it.”</p>

<p>“I hope so. Call me as soon as
it’s done.” Reinhart snapped off
the connection. If Sherikov let
them down he’d have him taken
out and shot. The whole war depended
on the ftl bomb.</p>

<p>The vidscreen glowed again.
Reinhart snapped it on. Kaplan’s
face formed on it. The lab organizer’s
face was pale and
frozen. “Commissioner, you better
come up to the SRB office.
Something’s happened.”</p>

<p>“What is it?”</p>

<p>“I’ll show you.”</p>

<p>Alarmed, Reinhart hurried
out of his office and down the
corridor. He found Kaplan
standing in front of the SRB
machines. “What’s the story?”
<a class="pagenum" id="page18" title="18"> </a>Reinhart demanded. He glanced
down at the reading. It was unchanged.</p>

<p>Kaplan held up a message
plate nervously. “A moment ago
I fed this into the machines.
After I saw the results I quickly
removed it. It’s that item I
showed you. From histo-research.
About the man from the
past.”</p>

<p>“What happened when you
fed it?”</p>

<p>Kaplan swallowed unhappily.
“I’ll show you. I’ll do it again.
Exactly as before.” He fed the
plate into a moving intake belt.
“Watch the visible figures,”
Kaplan muttered.</p>

<p>Reinhart watched, tense and
rigid. For a moment nothing
happened. 7-6 continued to show.
Then—</p>

<p>The figures disappeared. The
machines faltered. New figures
showed briefly. 4-24 for Centaurus.
Reinhart gasped, suddenly
sick with apprehension. But the
figures vanished. New figures
appeared. 16-38 for Centaurus.
Then 48-86. 79-15 in Terra’s
favor. Then nothing. The machines
whirred, but nothing
happened.</p>

<p>Nothing at all. No figures.
Only a blank.</p>

<p>“What’s it mean?” Reinhart
muttered, dazed.</p>

<p>“It’s fantastic. We didn’t
think this could—”</p>

<p>“<em>What’s happened?</em>”</p>

<p>“The machines aren’t able to
handle the item. No reading can
come. It’s data they can’t integrate.
They can’t use it for prediction
material, and it throws
off all their other figures.”</p>

<p>“Why?”</p>

<p>“It’s—it’s a variable.” Kaplan
was shaking, white-lipped and
pale. “Something from which no
inference can be made. The man
from the past. The machines
can’t deal with him. The variable
man!”</p>

<h2>II</h2>

<p>Thomas Cole was sharpening
a knife with his whetstone when
the tornado hit.</p>

<p>The knife belonged to the lady
in the big green house. Every
time Cole came by with his Fixit
cart the lady had something to
be sharpened. Once in awhile she
gave him a cup of coffee, hot
black coffee from an old bent
pot. He liked that fine; he enjoyed
good coffee.</p>

<p>The day was drizzly and overcast.
Business had been bad. An
automobile had scared his two
horses. On bad days less people
were outside and he had to get
down from the cart and go to
ring doorbells.</p>

<p>But the man in the yellow
house had given him a dollar for
fixing his electric refrigerator.
Nobody else had been able to fix
<a class="pagenum" id="page19" title="19"> </a>it, not even the factory man. The
dollar would go a long way. A
dollar was a lot.</p>

<p>He knew it was a tornado
even before it hit him. Everything
was silent. He was bent
over his whetstone, the reins between
his knees, absorbed in his
work.</p>

<p>He had done a good job
on the knife; he was almost finished.
He spat on the blade and
was holding it up to see—and
then the tornado came.</p>

<p>All at once it was there, completely
around him. Nothing but
grayness. He and the cart and
horses seemed to be in a calm
spot in the center of the tornado.
They were moving in a great
silence, gray mist everywhere.</p>

<p>And while he was wondering
what to do, and how to get the
lady’s knife back to her, all at
once there was a bump and the
tornado tipped him over,
sprawled out on the ground.
The horses screamed in fear,
struggling to pick themselves
up. Cole got quickly to his feet.</p>

<p><em>Where was he?</em></p>

<p>The grayness was gone. White
walls stuck up on all sides. A
deep light gleamed down, not
daylight but something like it.
The team was pulling the cart
on its side, dragging it along,
tools and equipment falling out.
Cole righted the cart, leaping up
onto the seat.</p>

<p>And for the first time saw the
people.</p>

<p>Men, with astonished white
faces, in some sort of uniforms.
Shouts, noise and confusion.
And a feeling of danger!</p>

<p>Cole headed the team toward
the door. Hoofs thundered steel
against steel as they pounded
through the doorway, scattering
the astonished men in all directions.
He was out in a wide hall.
A building, like a hospital.</p>

<p>The hall divided. More men
were coming, spilling from all
sides.</p>

<p>Shouting and milling in
excitement, like white ants.
Something cut past him, a beam
of dark violet. It seared off a
corner of the cart, leaving the
wood smoking.</p>

<p>Cole felt fear. He kicked at
the terrified horses. They reached
a big door, crashing wildly
against it. The door gave—and
they were outside, bright sunlight
blinking down on them.
For a sickening second the cart
tilted, almost turning over.
Then the horses gained speed,
racing across an open field, toward
a distant line of green,
Cole holding tightly to the reins.</p>

<p>Behind him the little white-faced
men had come out and
were standing in a group, gesturing
frantically. He could hear
their faint shrill shouts.</p>

<p>But he had got away. He was
<a class="pagenum" id="page20" title="20"> </a>safe. He slowed the horses down
and began to breathe again.</p>

<p>The woods were artificial.
Some kind of park. But the park
was wild and overgrown. A
dense jungle of twisted plants.
Everything growing in confusion.</p>

<p>The park was empty. No one
was there. By the position of the
sun he could tell it was either
early morning or late afternoon.
The smell of the flowers and
grass, the dampness of the
leaves, indicated morning. It had
been late afternoon when the
tornado had picked him up. And
the sky had been overcast and
cloudy.</p>

<p>Cole considered. Clearly, he
had been carried a long way.
The hospital, the men with
white faces, the odd lighting, the
accented words he had caught—everything
indicated he was no
longer in Nebraska—maybe not
even in the United States.</p>

<p>Some of his tools had fallen
out and gotten lost along the
way. Cole collected everything
that remained, sorting them,
running his fingers over each
tool with affection. Some of the
little chisels and wood gouges
were gone. The bit box had
opened, and most of the smaller
bits had been lost. He gathered
up those that remained and replaced
them tenderly in the box.
He took a key-hole saw down,
and with an oil rag wiped it
carefully and replaced it.</p>

<p>Above the cart the sun rose
slowly in the sky. Cole peered
up, his horny hand over his eyes.
A big man, stoop-shouldered, his
chin gray and stubbled. His
clothes wrinkled and dirty. But
his eyes were clear, a pale blue,
and his hands were finely made.</p>

<p>He could not stay in the park.
They had seen him ride that
way; they would be looking for
him.</p>

<p>Far above something shot
rapidly across the sky. A tiny
black dot moving with incredible haste.
A second dot followed.
The two dots were gone
almost before he saw them. They
were utterly silent.</p>

<p>Cole frowned, perturbed. The
dots made him uneasy. He would
have to keep moving—and looking
for food. His stomach was
already beginning to rumble and
groan.</p>

<p>Work. There was plenty he
could do: gardening, sharpening,
grinding, repair work on machines
and clocks, fixing all kinds
of household things. Even painting
and odd jobs and carpentry
and chores.</p>

<p>He could do anything. Anything
people wanted done. For a
meal and pocket money.</p>

<p>Thomas Cole urged the team
into life, moving forward. He
sat hunched over in the seat,
<a class="pagenum" id="page21" title="21"> </a>watching intently, as the Fixit
cart rolled slowly across the tangled
grass, through the jungle
of trees and flowers.</p>

<hr class="thoughtbreak" />

<p class="post_thoughtbreak">Reinhart hurried, racing his
cruiser at top speed, followed by
a second ship, a military escort.
The ground sped by below him,
a blur of gray and green.</p>

<p>The remains of New York lay
spread out, a twisted, blunted
ruin overgrown with weeds and
grass. The great atomic wars of
the twentieth century had turned
virtually the whole seaboard
area into an endless waste of
slag.</p>

<p>Slag and weeds below him.
And then the sudden tangle that
had been Central Park.</p>

<p>Histo-research came into
sight. Reinhart swooped down,
bringing his cruiser to rest at
the small supply field behind the
main buildings.</p>

<p>Harper, the chief official of
the department, came quickly
over as soon as Reinhart’s ship
landed.</p>

<p>“Frankly, we don’t understand
why you consider this
matter important,” Harper said
uneasily.</p>

<p>Reinhart shot him a cold
glance. “I’ll be the judge of
what’s important. Are you the
one who gave the order to bring
the bubble back manually?”</p>

<p>“Fredman gave the actual order.
In line with your directive
to have all facilities ready
for—”</p>

<p>Reinhart headed toward the
entrance of the research building.
“Where is Fredman?”</p>

<p>“Inside.”</p>

<p>“I want to see him. Let’s go.”</p>

<p>Fredman met them inside. He
greeted Reinhart calmly, showing
no emotion. “Sorry to cause
you trouble, Commissioner. We
were trying to get the station in
order for the war. We wanted
the bubble back as quickly as
possible.” He eyed Reinhart
curiously. “No doubt the man
and his cart will soon be picked
up by your police.”</p>

<p>“I want to know everything
that happened, in exact detail.”</p>

<p>Fredman shifted uncomfortably.
“There’s not much to tell.
I gave the order to have the
automatic setting canceled and
the bubble brought back manually.
At the moment the signal
reached it, the bubble was passing
through the spring of 1913.
As it broke loose, it tore off a
piece of ground on which this
person and his cart were located.
The person naturally was
brought up to the present, inside
the bubble.”</p>

<p>“Didn’t any of your instruments
tell you the bubble was
loaded?”</p>

<p>“We were too excited to take
any readings. Half an hour after
<a class="pagenum" id="page22" title="22"> </a>the manual control was thrown,
the bubble materialized in the
observation room. It was de-energized
before anyone noticed
what was inside. We tried to
stop him but he drove the cart
out into the hall, bowling us out
of the way. The horses were in
a panic.”</p>

<p>“What kind of cart was it?”</p>

<p>“There was some kind of sign
on it. Painted in black letters
on both sides. No one saw what
it was.”</p>

<p>“Go ahead. What happened
then?”</p>

<p>“Somebody fired a Slem-ray
after him, but it missed. The
horses carried him out of the
building and onto the grounds.
By the time we reached the exit
the cart was half way to the
park.”</p>

<p>Reinhart reflected. “If he’s
still in the park we should have
him shortly. But we must be
careful.” He was already starting
back toward his ship, leaving
Fredman behind. Harper
fell in beside him.</p>

<p>Reinhart halted by his ship.
He beckoned some Government
guards over. “Put the executive
staff of this department under
arrest. I’ll have them tried on
a treason count, later on.” He
smiled ironically as Harper’s
face blanched sickly pale.
“There’s a war going on. You’ll
be lucky if you get off alive.”</p>

<p>Reinhart entered his ship and
left the surface, rising rapidly
into the sky. A second ship followed
after him, a military escort.
Reinhart flew high above
the sea of gray slag, the unrecovered
waste area. He passed
over a sudden square of green
set in the ocean of gray. Reinhart
gazed back at it until it was
gone.</p>

<p>Central Park. He could see
police ships racing through the
sky, ships and transports loaded
with troops, heading toward the
square of green. On the ground
some heavy guns and surface
cars rumbled along, lines of
black approaching the park from
all sides.</p>

<p>They would have the man
soon. But meanwhile, the SRB
machines were blank. And on
the SRB machines’ readings the
whole war depended.</p>

<p>About noon the cart reached
the edge of the park. Cole rested
for a moment, allowing the
horses time to crop at the thick
grass. The silent expanse of slag
amazed him. What had happened?
Nothing stirred. No
buildings, no sign of life. Grass
and weeds poked up occasionally
through it, breaking the flat
surface here and there, but even
so, the sight gave him an uneasy
chill.</p>

<p>Cole drove the cart slowly out
onto the slag, studying the sky
<a class="pagenum" id="page23" title="23"> </a>above him. There was nothing
to hide him, now that he was
out of the park. The slag was
bare and uniform, like the ocean.
If he were spotted—</p>

<p>A horde of tiny black dots
raced across the sky, coming
rapidly closer. Presently they
veered to the right and disappeared.
More planes, wingless
metal planes. He watched them
go, driving slowly on.</p>

<p>Half an hour later something
appeared ahead. Cole slowed the
cart down, peering to see. The
slag came to an end. He had
reached its limits. Ground appeared,
dark soil and grass.
Weeds grew everywhere. Ahead
of him, beyond the end of the
slag, was a line of buildings,
houses of some sort. Or sheds.</p>

<p>Houses, probably. But not
like any he had ever seen.</p>

<p>The houses were uniform, all
exactly the same. Like little
green shells, rows of them, several
hundred. There was a little
lawn in front of each. Lawn, a
path, a front porch, bushes in a
meager row around each house.
But the houses were all alike
and very small.</p>

<p>Little green shells in precise,
even rows. He urged the cart
cautiously forward, toward the
houses.</p>

<p>No one seemed to be around.
He entered a street between two
rows of houses, the hoofs of his
two horses sounding loudly in
the silence. He was in some kind
of town. But there were no dogs
or children. Everything was
neat and silent. Like a model.
An exhibit. It made him uncomfortable.</p>

<p>A young man walking along
the pavement gaped at him in
wonder. An oddly-dressed youth,
in a toga-like cloak that hung
down to his knees. A single
piece of fabric. And sandals.</p>

<p>Or what looked like sandals.
Both the cloak and the sandals
were of some strange half-luminous
material. It glowed faintly
in the sunlight. Metallic, rather
than cloth.</p>

<p>A woman was watering flowers
at the edge of a lawn. She
straightened up as his team of
horses came near. Her eyes
widened in astonishment—and
then fear. Her mouth fell open
in a soundless <em>O</em> and her sprinkling
can slipped from her fingers
and rolled silently onto the
lawn.</p>

<p>Cole blushed and turned his
head quickly away. The woman
was scarcely dressed! He flicked
the reins and urged the horses
to hurry.</p>

<p>Behind him, the woman still
stood. He stole a brief, hasty
look back—and then shouted
hoarsely to his team, ears scarlet.
He had seen right. She wore
only a pair of translucent
<a class="pagenum" id="page24" title="24"> </a>shorts. Nothing else. A mere
fragment of the same half-luminous
material that glowed and
sparkled. The rest of her small
body was utterly naked.</p>

<p>He slowed the team down. She
had been pretty. Brown hair and
eyes, deep red lips. Quite a good
figure. Slender waist, downy
legs, bare and supple, full
breasts—. He clamped the
thought furiously off. He had
to get to work. Business.</p>

<p>Cole halted the Fixit cart and
leaped down onto the pavement.
He selected a house at random
and approached it cautiously.
The house was attractive. It had
a certain simple beauty. But it
looked frail—and exactly like
the others.</p>

<p>He stepped up on the porch.
There was no bell. He searched
for it, running his hand uneasily
over the surface of the door.
All at once there was a click, a
sharp snap on a level with his
eyes. Cole glanced up, startled.
A lens was vanishing as the door
section slid over it. He had been
photographed.</p>

<p>While he was wondering what
it meant, the door swung suddenly
open. A man filled up the
entrance, a big man in a tan
uniform, blocking the way
ominously.</p>

<p>“What do you want?” the man
demanded.</p>

<p>“I’m looking for work,” Cole
murmured. “Any kind of work.
I can do anything, fix any kind
of thing. I repair broken objects.
Things that need mending.”
His voice trailed off uncertainly.
“Anything at all.”</p>

<p>“Apply to the Placement Department
of the Federal Activities
Control Board,” the man
said crisply. “You know all occupational
therapy is handled
through them.” He eyed Cole
curiously. “Why have you got
on those ancient clothes?”</p>

<p>“Ancient? Why, I—”</p>

<p>The man gazed past him at
the Fixit cart and the two dozing
horses. “What’s that? What
are those two animals?
<em>Horses?</em>” The man rubbed his
jaw, studying Cole intently.
“That’s strange,” he said.</p>

<p>“Strange?” Cole murmured
uneasily. “Why?”</p>

<p>“There haven’t been any
horses for over a century. All
the horses were wiped out during
the Fifth Atomic War.
That’s why it’s strange.”</p>

<p>Cole tensed, suddenly alert.
There was something in the
man’s eyes, a hardness, a piercing
look. Cole moved back off
the porch, onto the path. He had
to be careful. Something was
wrong.</p>

<p>“I’ll be going,” he murmured.</p>

<p>“There haven’t been any
horses for over a hundred
years.” The man came toward
<a class="pagenum" id="page25" title="25"> </a>Cole. “Who are you? Why are
you dressed up like that? Where
did you get that vehicle and pair
of horses?”</p>

<p>“I’ll be going,” Cole repeated,
moving away.</p>

<p>The man whipped something
from his belt, a thin metal tube.
He stuck it toward Cole.</p>

<p>It was a rolled-up paper, a
thin sheet of metal in the form
of a tube. Words, some kind of
script. He could not make any
of them out. The man’s picture,
rows of numbers, figures—</p>

<p>“I’m Director Winslow,” the
man said. “Federal Stockpile
Conservation. You better talk
fast, or there’ll be a Security
car here in five minutes.”</p>

<p>Cole moved—fast. He raced,
head down, back along the path
to the cart, toward the street.</p>

<p>Something hit him. A wall of
force, throwing him down on his
face. He sprawled in a heap,
numb and dazed. His body ached,
vibrating wildly, out of control.
Waves of shock rolled over him,
gradually diminishing.</p>

<p>He got shakily to his feet. His
head spun. He was weak, shattered,
trembling violently. The
man was coming down the walk
after him. Cole pulled himself
onto the cart, gasping and
retching. The horses jumped
into life. Cole rolled over against
the seat, sick with the motion
of the swaying cart.</p>

<p>He caught hold of the reins
and managed to drag himself
up in a sitting position. The
cart gained speed, turning a
corner. Houses flew past. Cole
urged the team weakly, drawing
great shuddering breaths.
Houses and streets, a blur of
motion, as the cart flew faster
and faster along.</p>

<p>Then he was leaving the
town, leaving the neat little
houses behind. He was on some
sort of highway. Big buildings,
factories, on both sides of the
highway. Figures, men watching
in astonishment.</p>

<p>After awhile the factories
fell behind. Cole slowed the team
down. What had the man meant?
Fifth Atomic War. Horses destroyed.
It didn’t make sense.
And they had things he knew
nothing about. Force fields.
Planes without wings—soundless.</p>

<p>Cole reached around in his
pockets. He found the identification
tube the man had handed
him. In the excitement he had
carried it off. He unrolled the
tube slowly and began to study
it. The writing was strange to
him.</p>

<p>For a long time he studied the
tube. Then, gradually, he became
aware of something. Something
in the top right-hand corner.</p>

<p>A date. October 6, 2128.</p>

<p><a class="pagenum" id="page26" title="26"> </a>Cole’s vision blurred. Everything
spun and wavered around
him. October, 2128. Could it be?</p>

<p>But he held the paper in his
hand. Thin, metal paper. Like
foil. And it had to be. It said so,
right in the corner, printed on
the paper itself.</p>

<p>Cole rolled the tube up slowly,
numbed with shock. Two
hundred years. It didn’t seem
possible. But things were beginning
to make sense. He was in
the future, two hundred years
in the future.</p>

<p>While he was mulling this
over, the swift black Security
ship appeared overhead, diving
rapidly toward the horse-drawn
cart, as it moved slowly along
the road.</p>

<p>Reinhart’s vidscreen buzzed.
He snapped it quickly on. “Yes?”</p>

<p>“Report from Security.”</p>

<p>“Put it through.” Reinhart
waited tensely as the lines locked
in place. The screen re-lit.</p>

<p>“This is Dixon. Western Regional
Command.” The officer
cleared his throat, shuffling his
message plates. “The man from
the past has been reported,
moving away from the New
York area.”</p>

<p>“Which side of your net?”</p>

<p>“Outside. He evaded the net
around Central Park by entering
one of the small towns at the
rim of the slag area.”</p>

<p>“<em>Evaded?</em>”</p>

<p>“We assumed he would avoid
the towns. Naturally the net
failed to encompass any of the
towns.”</p>

<p>Reinhart’s jaw stiffened. “Go
on.”</p>

<p>“He entered the town of
Petersville a few minutes before
the net closed around the park.
We burned the park level, but
naturally found nothing. He had
already gone. An hour later we
received a report from a resident
in Petersville, an official of
the Stockpile Conservation Department.
The man from the
past had come to his door, looking
for work. Winslow, the official,
engaged him in conversation,
trying to hold onto him,
but he escaped, driving his cart
off. Winslow called Security
right away, but by then it was
too late.”</p>

<p>“Report to me as soon as anything
more comes in. We must
have him—and damn soon.”
Reinhart snapped the screen off.
It died quickly.</p>

<p>He sat back in his chair, waiting.</p>

<p>Cole saw the shadow of the
Security ship. He reacted at
once. A second after the shadow
passed over him, Cole was out
of the cart, running and falling.
He rolled, twisting and turning,
pulling his body as far away
from the cart as possible.</p>

<p>There was a blinding roar and
<a class="pagenum" id="page27" title="27"> </a>flash of white light. A hot wind
rolled over Cole, picking him up
and tossing him like a leaf. He
shut his eyes, letting his body
relax. He bounced, falling and
striking the ground. Gravel and
stones tore into his face, his
knees, the palms of his hands.</p>

<p>Cole cried out, shrieking in
pain. His body was on fire. He
was being consumed, incinerated
by the blinding white orb of
fire. The orb expanded, growing
in size, swelling like some
monstrous sun, twisted and
bloated. The end had come.
There was no hope. He gritted
his teeth—</p>

<p>The greedy orb faded, dying
down. It sputtered and winked
out, blackening into ash. The
air reeked, a bitter acrid smell.
His clothes were burning and
smoking. The ground under him
was hot, baked dry, seared by
the blast. But he was alive. At
least, for awhile.</p>

<p>Cole opened his eyes slowly.
The cart was gone. A great hole
gaped where it had been, a
shattered sore in the center of
the highway. An ugly cloud hung
above the hole, black and ominous.
Far above, the wingless
plane circled, watching for any
signs of life.</p>

<p>Cole lay, breathing shallowly,
slowly. Time passed. The sun
moved across the sky with
agonizing slowness. It was perhaps
four in the afternoon. Cole
calculated mentally. In three
hours it would be dark. If he
could stay alive until then—</p>

<p>Had the plane seen him leap
from the cart?</p>

<p>He lay without moving. The
late afternoon sun beat down
on him. He felt sick, nauseated
and feverish. His mouth was
dry.</p>

<p>Some ants ran over his
outstretched hand. Gradually,
the immense black cloud was
beginning to drift away, dispersing
into a formless blob.</p>

<p>The cart was gone. The
thought lashed against him,
pounding at his brain, mixing
with his labored pulse-beat.
<em>Gone.</em> Destroyed. Nothing but
ashes and debris remained. The
realization dazed him.</p>

<p>Finally the plane finished its
circling, winging its way toward
the horizon. At last it
vanished. The sky was clear.</p>

<p>Cole got unsteadily to his feet.
He wiped his face shakily. His
body ached and trembled. He
spat a couple times, trying to
clear his mouth. The plane
would probably send in a report.
People would be coming to look
for him. Where could he go?</p>

<p>To his right a line of hills
rose up, a distant green mass.
Maybe he could reach them. He
began to walk slowly. He had to
be very careful. They were looking
<a class="pagenum" id="page28" title="28"> </a>for him—and they had
weapons. Incredible weapons.</p>

<p>He would be lucky to still be
alive when the sun set. His team
and Fixit cart were gone—and
all his tools. Cole reached into
his pockets, searching through
them hopefully. He brought out
some small screwdrivers, a little
pair of cutting pliers, some wire,
some solder, the whetstone, and
finally the lady’s knife.</p>

<p>Only a few small tools remained.
He had lost everything
else. But without the cart he
was safer, harder to spot. They
would have more trouble finding
him, on foot.</p>

<p>Cole hurried along, crossing
the level fields toward the distant
range of hills.</p>

<p>The call came through to
Reinhart almost at once. Dixon’s
features formed on the vidscreen.
“I have a further report,
Commissioner.” Dixon scanned
the plate. “Good news. The man
from the past was sighted moving
away from Petersville, along
highway 13, at about ten miles
an hour, on his horse-drawn
cart. Our ship bombed him immediately.”</p>

<p>“Did—did you get him?”</p>

<p>“The pilot reports no sign of
life after the blast.”</p>

<p>Reinhart’s pulse almost stopped.
He sank back in his chair.
“Then he’s dead!”</p>

<p>“Actually, we won’t know for
certain until we can examine the
debris. A surface car is speeding
toward the spot. We should
have the complete report in a
short time. We’ll notify you as
soon as the information comes
in.”</p>

<p>Reinhart reached out and cut
the screen. It faded into darkness.
Had they got the man from
the past? Or had he escaped
again? Weren’t they ever going
to get him? Couldn’t he be captured?
And meanwhile, the SRB
machines were silent, showing
nothing at all.</p>

<p>Reinhart sat brooding, waiting
impatiently for the report of
the surface car to come in.</p>

<hr class="thoughtbreak" />

<p class="post_thoughtbreak">It was evening.</p>

<p>“Come on!” Steven shouted,
running frantically after his
brother. “Come on back!”</p>

<p>“Catch me.” Earl ran and ran,
down the side of the hill, over
behind a military storage depot,
along a neotex fence, jumping
finally down into Mrs. Norris’
back yard.</p>

<p>Steven hurried after his
brother, sobbing for breath,
shouting and gasping as he ran.
“Come back! You come back
with that!”</p>

<p>“What’s he got?” Sally Tate
demanded, stepping out suddenly
to block Steven’s way.</p>

<div id="illo2" class="illo"><a class="pagenum" id="page29" title="29"> </a>
	<img src="https://brian.carnell.com/wiki/_media/etext:p:philip-k-dick-the-variable-man-illo2-small.jpg" width="323" height="482" alt="A man crouches. His back is aflame and there are flying saucers over him." /></a>
</div>

<p>Steven halted, his chest rising
and falling. “He’s got my intersystem
<!-- Original location of Illo 2 -->
<a class="pagenum" id="page30" title="30"> </a>vidsender.” His small
face twisted with rage and
misery. “He better give it
back!”</p>

<p>Earl came circling around
from the right. In the warm
gloom of evening he was almost
invisible. “Here I am,” he announced.
“What you going to
do?”</p>

<p>Steven glared at him hotly.
His eyes made out the square
box in Earl’s hands. “You give
that back! Or—or I’ll tell Dad.”</p>

<p>Earl laughed. “Make me.”</p>

<p>“Dad’ll make you.”</p>

<p>“You better give it to him,”
Sally said.</p>

<p>“Catch me.” Earl started off.
Steven pushed Sally out of the
way, lashing wildly at his
brother. He collided with him,
throwing him sprawling. The
box fell from Earl’s hands. It
skidded to the pavement, crashing
into the side of a guide-light
post.</p>

<p>Earl and Steven picked themselves
up slowly. They gazed
down at the broken box.</p>

<p>“See?” Steven shrilled, tears
filling his eyes. “See what you
did?”</p>

<p>“You did it. You pushed into
me.”</p>

<p>“You did it!”’ Steven bent
down and picked up the box.
He carried it over to the guide-light,
sitting down on the curb
to examine it.</p>

<p>Earl came slowly over. “If
you hadn’t pushed me it wouldn’t
have got broken.”</p>

<p>Night was descending rapidly.
The line of hills rising above the
town were already lost in darkness.
A few lights had come on
here and there. The evening was
warm. A surface car slammed
its doors, some place off in the
distance. In the sky ships droned
back and forth, weary commuters
coming home from work
in the big underground factory
units.</p>

<p>Thomas Cole came slowly toward
the three children grouped
around the guide-light. He
moved with difficulty, his body
sore and bent with fatigue.
Night had come, but he was not
safe yet.</p>

<p>He was tired, exhausted
and hungry. He had walked a
long way. And he had to have
something to eat—soon.</p>

<p>A few feet from the children
Cole stopped. They were all intent
and absorbed by the box
on Steven’s knees. Suddenly a
hush fell over the children.
Earl looked up slowly.</p>

<p>In the dim light the big
stooped figure of Thomas Cole
seemed extra menacing. His long
arms hung down loosely at his
sides. His face was lost in
shadow. His body was shapeless,
indistinct. A big unformed
statue, standing silently a few
<a class="pagenum" id="page31" title="31"> </a>feet away, unmoving in the half-darkness.</p>

<p>“Who are you?” Earl demanded,
his voice low.</p>

<p>“What do you want?” Sally
said. The children edged away
nervously. “Get away.”</p>

<p>Cole came toward them. He
bent down a little. The beam
from the guide-light crossed his
features. Lean, prominent nose,
beak-like, faded blue eyes—</p>

<p>Steven scrambled to his feet,
clutching the vidsender box.
“You get out of here!”</p>

<p>“Wait.” Cole smiled crookedly
at them. His voice was dry and
raspy. “What do you have
there?” He pointed with his
long, slender fingers. “The box
you’re holding.”</p>

<p>The children were silent.
Finally Steven stirred. “It’s my
inter-system vidsender.”</p>

<p>“Only it doesn’t work,” Sally
said.</p>

<p>“Earl broke it.” Steven glared
at his brother bitterly. “Earl
threw it down and broke it.”</p>

<p>Cole smiled a little. He sank
down wearily on the edge of the
curb, sighing with relief. He
had been walking too long. His
body ached with fatigue. He was
hungry, and tired. For a long
time he sat, wiping perspiration
from his neck and face, too
exhausted to speak.</p>

<p>“Who are you?” Sally demanded,
at last. “Why do you
have on those funny clothes?
Where did you come from?”</p>

<p>“Where?” Cole looked around
at the children. “From a long
way off. A long way.” He shook
his head slowly from side to
side, trying to clear it.</p>

<p>“What’s your therapy?” Earl
said.</p>

<p>“My therapy?”</p>

<p>“What do you do? Where do
you work?”</p>

<p>Cole took a deep breath and
let it out again slowly. “I fix
things. All kinds of things. Any
kind.”</p>

<p>Earl sneered. “Nobody fixes
things. When they break you
throw them away.”</p>

<p>Cole didn’t hear him. Sudden
need had roused him, getting
him suddenly to his feet. “You
know any work I can find?” he
demanded. “Things I could do?
I can fix anything. Clocks, type-writers,
refrigerators, pots and
pans. Leaks in the roof. I can
fix anything there is.”</p>

<p>Steven held out his inter-system
vidsender. “Fix this.”</p>

<p>There was silence. Slowly,
Cole’s eyes focussed on the box.
“That?”</p>

<p>“My sender. Earl broke it.”</p>

<p>Cole took the box slowly. He
turned it over, holding it up to
the light. He frowned, concentrating
on it. His long, slender
fingers moved carefully over the
surface, exploring it.</p>

<p><a class="pagenum" id="page32" title="32"> </a>“He’ll steal it!” Earl said suddenly.</p>

<p>“No.” Cole shook his head
vaguely. “I’m reliable.” His
sensitive fingers found the studs
that held the box together. He
depressed the studs, pushing
them expertly in. The box opened,
revealing its complex interior.</p>

<p>“He got it open,” Sally whispered.</p>

<p>“Give it back!” Steven demanded,
a little frightened. He
held out his hand. “I want it
back.”</p>

<p>The three children watched
Cole apprehensively. Cole fumbled
in his pocket. Slowly he
brought out his tiny screwdrivers
and pliers. He laid them
in a row beside him. He made
no move to return the box.</p>

<p>“I want it back,” Steven said
feebly.</p>

<p>Cole looked up. His faded blue
eyes took in the sight of the
three children standing before
him in the gloom. “I’ll fix it
for you. You said you wanted
it fixed.”</p>

<p>“I want it back.” Steven
stood on one foot, then the other,
torn by doubt and indecision.
“Can you really fix it? Can you
make it work again?”</p>

<p>“Yes.”</p>

<p>“All right. Fix it for me,
then.”</p>

<p>A sly smile flickered across
Cole’s tired face. “Now, wait a
minute. If I fix it, will you
bring me something to eat? I’m
not fixing it for nothing.”</p>

<p>“Something to eat?”</p>

<p>“Food. I need hot food. Maybe
some coffee.”</p>

<p>Steven nodded. “Yes. I’ll get it
for you.”</p>

<p>Cole relaxed. “Fine. That’s
fine.” He turned his attention
back to the box resting between
his knees. “Then I’ll fix it for
you. I’ll fix it for you good.”</p>

<p>His fingers flew, working and
twisting, tracing down wires and
relays, exploring and examining.
Finding out about the inter-system
vidsender. Discovering
how it worked.</p>

<p>Steven slipped into the house
through the emergency door. He
made his way to the kitchen with
great care, walking on tip-toe.
He punched the kitchen controls
at random, his heart beating
excitedly. The stove began to
whirr, purring into life. Meter
readings came on, crossing toward
the completion marks.</p>

<p>Presently the stove opened,
sliding out a tray of steaming
dishes. The mechanism clicked
off, dying into silence. Steven
grabbed up the contents of the
tray, filling his arms. He carried
everything down the hall, out
the emergency door and into the
yard. The yard was dark. Steven
felt his way carefully along.</p>

<p><a class="pagenum" id="page33" title="33"> </a>He managed to reach the
guide-light without dropping
anything at all.</p>

<p>Thomas Cole got slowly to his
feet as Steven came into view.
“Here,” Steven said. He dumped
the food onto the curb, gasping
for breath. “Here’s the food. Is
it finished?”</p>

<p>Cole held out the inter-system
vidsender. “It’s finished. It was
pretty badly smashed.”</p>

<p>Earl and Sally gazed up, wide-eyed.
“Does it work?” Sally
asked.</p>

<p>“Of course not,” Earl stated.
“How could it work? He
couldn’t—”</p>

<p>“Turn it on!” Sally nudged
Steven eagerly. “See if it works.”</p>

<p>Steven was holding the box
under the light, examining the
switches. He clicked the main
switch on. The indicator light
gleamed. “It lights up,” Steven
said.</p>

<p>“Say something into it.”</p>

<p>Steven spoke into the box.
“Hello! Hello! This is operator
6-Z75 calling. Can you hear me?
This is operator 6-Z75. Can you
hear me?”</p>

<p>In the darkness, away from
the beam of the guide-light,
Thomas Cole sat crouched over
the food. He ate gratefully,
silently. It was good food, well
cooked and seasoned. He drank
a container of orange juice and
then a sweet drink he didn’t
recognize. Most of the food was
strange to him, but he didn’t
care. He had walked a long way
and he was plenty hungry. And
he still had a long way to go,
before morning. He had to be
deep in the hills before the sun
came up. Instinct told him that
he would be safe among the
trees and tangled growth—at
least, as safe as he could hope
for.</p>

<p>He ate rapidly, intent on the
food. He did not look up until he
was finished. Then he got slowly
to his feet, wiping his mouth
with the back of his hand.</p>

<p>The three children were standing
around in a circle, operating
the inter-system vidsender. He
watched them for a few minutes.
None of them looked up from
the small box. They were intent,
absorbed in what they were
doing.</p>

<p>“Well?” Cole said, at last.
“Does it work all right?”</p>

<p>After a moment Steven looked
up at him. There was a strange
expression on his face. He
nodded slowly. “Yes. Yes, it
works. It works fine.”</p>

<p>Cole grunted. “All right.” He
turned and moved away from the
light. “That’s fine.”</p>

<p>The children watched silently
until the figure of Thomas Cole
had completely disappeared.
Slowly, they turned and looked
at each other. Then down at the
<a class="pagenum" id="page34" title="34"> </a>box in Steven’s hands. They
gazed at the box in growing awe.
Awe mixed with dawning fear.</p>

<p>Steven turned and edged toward
his house. “I’ve got to
show it to my Dad,” he murmured,
dazed. “He’s got to
know. <em>Somebody’s</em> got to know!”</p>

<h2>III</h2>

<p>Eric Reinhart examined the
vidsender box carefully, turning
it around and around.</p>

<p>“Then he did escape from the
blast,” Dixon admitted reluctantly.
“He must have leaped from
the cart just before the concussion.”</p>

<p>Reinhart nodded. “He escaped.
He got away from you—twice.”
He pushed the vidsender box
away and leaned abruptly toward
the man standing uneasily in
front of his desk. “What’s your
name again?”</p>

<p>“Elliot. Richard Elliot.”</p>

<p>“And your son’s name?”</p>

<p>“Steven.”</p>

<p>“It was last night this happened?”</p>

<p>“About eight o’clock.”</p>

<p>“Go on.”</p>

<p>“Steven came into the house.
He acted queerly. He was carrying
his inter-system vidsender.”
Elliot pointed at the box on
Reinhart’s desk. “That. He was
nervous and excited. I asked
what was wrong. For awhile
he couldn’t tell me. He was quite
upset. Then he showed me the
vidsender.” Elliot took a deep,
shaky breath. “I could see right
away it was different. You see
I’m an electrical engineer. I had
opened it once before, to put
in a new battery. I had a fairly
good idea how it should look.”
Elliot hesitated. “Commissioner,
it had been <em>changed</em>. A lot of
the wiring was different. Moved
around. Relays connected differently.
Some parts were missing.
New parts had been jury
rigged out of old. Then I discovered
the thing that made me
call Security. The vidsender—it
really <em>worked</em>.”</p>

<p>“Worked?”</p>

<p>“You see, it never was anything
more than a toy. With a
range of a few city blocks. So
the kids could call back and
forth from their rooms. Like a
sort of portable vidscreen. Commissioner,
I tried out the vidsender,
pushing the call button
and speaking into the microphone.
I—I got a ship of the
line. A battleship, operating beyond
Proxima Centaurus—over
eight light years away. As far
out as the actual vidsenders
operate. Then I called Security.
Right away.”</p>

<p>For a time Reinhart was
silent. Finally he tapped the box
lying on the desk. “You got a
ship of the line—with <em>this?</em>”</p>

<p><a class="pagenum" id="page35" title="35"> </a>“That’s right.”</p>

<p>“How big are the regular
vidsenders?”</p>

<p>Dixon supplied the information.
“As big as a twenty-ton
safe.”</p>

<p>“That’s what I thought.”
Reinhart waved his hand impatiently.
“All right, Elliot.
Thanks for turning the information
over to us. That’s all.”</p>

<p>Security police led Elliot outside
the office.</p>

<p>Reinhart and Dixon looked at
each other. “This is bad,” Reinhart
said harshly. “He has some
ability, some kind of mechanical
ability. Genius, perhaps, to do
a thing like this. Look at the
period he came from, Dixon. The
early part of the twentieth century.
Before the wars began.
That was a unique period. There
was a certain vitality, a certain
ability. It was a period of incredible
growth and discovery.
Edison. Pasteur. Burbank. The
Wright brothers. Inventions and
machines. People had an uncanny
ability with machines. A
kind of intuition about machines—which
we don’t have.”</p>

<p>“You mean—”</p>

<p>“I mean a person like this
coming into our own time is
bad in itself, war or no war.
He’s too different. He’s oriented
along different lines. He has
abilities we lack. This fixing
skill of his. It throws us off,
out of kilter. And with the
war….</p>

<p>“Now I’m beginning to understand
why the SRB machines
couldn’t factor him. It’s impossible
for us to understand
this kind of person. Winslow
says he asked for work, any kind
of work. The man said he could
do anything, fix anything. Do
you understand what that
means?”</p>

<p>“No,” Dixon said. “What does
it mean?”</p>

<p>“Can any of us fix anything?
No. None of us can do that.
We’re specialized. Each of us
has his own line, his own work.
I understand my work, you understand
yours. The tendency in
evolution is toward greater and
greater specialization. Man’s
society is an ecology that forces
adaptation to it. Continual complexity
makes it impossible for
any of us to know anything outside
our own personal field—I
can’t follow the work of the
man sitting at the next desk
over from me. Too much knowledge
has piled up in each field.
And there’s too many fields.</p>

<p>“This man is different. He can
fix anything, do anything. He
doesn’t work with knowledge,
with science—the classified accumulation
of facts. He <em>knows</em>
nothing. It’s not in his head, a
form of learning. He works by
intuition—his power is in his
<a class="pagenum" id="page36" title="36"> </a>hands, not his head. Jack-of-all-trades.
His hands! Like a
painter, an artist. In his hands—and
he cuts across our lives like
a knife-blade.”</p>

<p>“And the other problem?”</p>

<p>“The other problem is that
this man, this variable man, has
escaped into the Albertine
Mountain range. Now we’ll have
one hell of a time finding him.
He’s clever—in a strange kind
of way. Like some sort of animal.
He’s going to be hard to catch.”</p>

<p>Reinhart sent Dixon out. After
a moment he gathered up the
handful of reports on his desk
and carried them up to the SRB
room. The SRB room was closed
up, sealed off by a ring of armed
Security police. Standing angrily
before the ring of police was
Peter Sherikov, his beard waggling
angrily, his immense hands
on his hips.</p>

<p>“What’s going on?” Sherikov
demanded. “Why can’t I go in
and peep at the odds?”</p>

<p>“Sorry.” Reinhart cleared the
police aside. “Come inside with
me. I’ll explain.” The doors opened
for them and they entered.
Behind them the doors shut and
the ring of police formed outside.
“What brings you away
from your lab?” Reinhart asked.</p>

<p>Sherikov shrugged. “Several
things. I wanted to see you. I
called you on the vidphone and
they said you weren’t available.
I thought maybe something had
happened. What’s up?”</p>

<p>“I’ll tell you in a few minutes.”
Reinhart called Kaplan over.
“Here are some new items. Feed
them in right away. I want to
see if the machines can total
them.”</p>

<p>“Certainly, Commissioner.”
Kaplan took the message plates
and placed them on an intake
belt. The machines hummed into
life.</p>

<p>“We’ll know soon,” Reinhart
said, half aloud.</p>

<p>Sherikov shot him a keen
glance. “We’ll know what? Let
me in on it. What’s taking
place?”</p>

<p>“We’re in trouble. For twenty-four
hours the machines haven’t
given any reading at all. Nothing
but a blank. A total blank.”</p>

<p>Sherikov’s features registered
disbelief. “But that isn’t possible.
<em>Some</em> odds exist at all
times.”</p>

<p>“The odds exist, but the machines
aren’t able to calculate
them.”</p>

<p>“Why not?”</p>

<p>“Because a variable factor has
been introduced. A factor which
the machines can’t handle. They
can’t make any predictions from
it.”</p>

<p>“Can’t they reject it?”
Sherikov said slyly. “Can’t they
just—just <em>ignore</em> it?”</p>

<p>“No. It exists, as real data.
<a class="pagenum" id="page37" title="37"> </a>Therefore it affects the balance
of the material, the sum total of
all other available data. To reject
it would be to give a false
reading. The machines can’t reject
any data that’s known to
be true.”</p>

<p>Sherikov pulled moodily at his
black beard. “I would be interested
in knowing what sort of
factor the machines can’t handle.
I thought they could take in
all data pertaining to contemporary
reality.”</p>

<p>“They can. This factor has
nothing to do with contemporary
reality. That’s the trouble. Histo-research
in bringing its time
bubble back from the past got
overzealous and cut the circuit
too quickly. The bubble came
back loaded—with a man from
the twentieth century. A man
from the past.”</p>

<p>“I see. A man from two centuries
ago.” The big Pole
frowned. “And with a radically
different Weltanschauung. No
connection with our present
society. Not integrated along our
lines at all. Therefore the SRB
machines are perplexed.”</p>

<p>Reinhart grinned. “Perplexed?
I suppose so. In any case, they
can’t do anything with the data
about this man. The variable
man. No statistics at all have
been thrown up—no predictions
have been made. And it knocks
everything else out of phase.
We’re dependent on the constant
showing of these odds. The whole
war effort is geared around
them.”</p>

<p>“The horse-shoe nail. Remember
the old poem? ‘For want of a
nail the shoe was lost. For want
of the shoe the horse was lost.
For want of the horse the rider
was lost. For want—’”</p>

<p>“Exactly. A single factor coming
along like this, one single
individual, can throw everything
off. It doesn’t seem possible that
one person could knock an entire
society out of balance—but apparently
it is.”</p>

<p>“What are you doing about
this man?”</p>

<p>“The Security police are organized
in a mass search for
him.”</p>

<p>“Results?”</p>

<p>“He escaped into the Albertine
Mountain Range last night. It’ll
be hard to find him. We must
expect him to be loose for another
forty-eight hours. It’ll
take that long for us to arrange
the annihilation of the range
area. Perhaps a trifle longer.
And meanwhile—”</p>

<p>“Ready, Commissioner,” Kaplan
interrupted. “The new
totals.”</p>

<p>The SRB machines had finished
factoring the new data. Reinhart
and Sherikov hurried to
take their places before the view
windows.</p>

<p><a class="pagenum" id="page38" title="38"> </a>For a moment nothing happened.
Then odds were put up,
locking in place.</p>

<p>Sherikov gasped. 99-2. In
favor of Terra. “That’s wonderful!
Now we—”</p>

<p>The odds vanished. New odds
took their places. 97-4. In favor
of Centaurus. Sherikov groaned
in astonished dismay. “Wait,”
Reinhart said to him. “I don’t
think they’ll last.”</p>

<p>The odds vanished. A rapid
series of odds shot across the
screen, a violent stream of numbers,
changing almost instantly.
At last the machines became
silent.</p>

<p>Nothing showed. No odds. No
totals at all. The view windows
were blank.</p>

<p>“You see?” Reinhart murmured.
“The same damn thing!”</p>

<p>Sherikov pondered. “Reinhart,
you’re too Anglo-Saxon, too impulsive.
Be more Slavic. This
man will be captured and destroyed
within two days. You
said so yourself. Meanwhile,
we’re all working night and day
on the war effort. The warfleet
is waiting near Proxima, taking
up positions for the attack on
the Centaurans. All our war
plants are going full blast. By
the time the attack date comes
we’ll have a full-sized invasion
army ready to take off for the
long trip to the Centauran
colonies. The whole Terran population
has been mobilized. The
eight supply planets are pouring
in material. All this is going on
day and night, even without odds
showing. Long before the attack
comes this man will certainly
be dead, and the machines will
be able to show odds again.”</p>

<p>Reinhart considered. “But it
worries me, a man like that out
in the open. Loose. A man who
can’t be predicted. It goes
against science. We’ve been making
statistical reports on society
for two centuries. We have immense
files of data. The machines
are able to predict what each
person and group will do at a
given time, in a given situation.
But this man is beyond all prediction.
He’s a variable. It’s contrary
to science.”</p>

<p>“The indeterminate particle.”</p>

<p>“What’s that?”</p>

<p>“The particle that moves in
such a way that we can’t predict
what position it will occupy at
a given second. Random. The
random particle.”</p>

<p>“Exactly. It’s—it’s <em>unnatural</em>.”</p>

<p>Sherikov laughed sarcastically.
“Don’t worry about it, Commissioner.
The man will be
captured and things will return
to their natural state. You’ll be
able to predict people again, like
laboratory rats in a maze. By
the way—why is this room
guarded?”</p>

<p><a class="pagenum" id="page39" title="39"> </a>“I don’t want anyone to know
the machines show no totals.
It’s dangerous to the war effort.”</p>

<p>“Margaret Duffe, for example?”</p>

<p>Reinhart nodded reluctantly.
“They’re too timid, these parliamentarians.
If they discover we
have no SRB odds they’ll want
to shut down the war planning
and go back to waiting.”</p>

<p>“Too slow for you, Commissioner?
Laws, debates, council
meetings, discussions…. Saves
a lot of time if one man has
all the power. One man to tell
people what to do, think for
them, lead them around.”</p>

<p>Reinhart eyed the big Pole
critically. “That reminds me.
How is Icarus coming? Have
you continued to make progress
on the control turret?”</p>

<p>A scowl crossed Sherikov’s
broad features. “The control turret?”
He waved his big hand
vaguely. “I would say it’s coming
along all right. We’ll catch
up in time.”</p>

<p>Instantly Reinhart became
alert. “Catch up? You mean
you’re still behind?”</p>

<p>“Somewhat. A little. But we’ll
catch up.” Sherikov retreated
toward the door. “Let’s go down
to the cafeteria and have a cup
of coffee. You worry too much,
Commissioner. Take things more
in your stride.”</p>

<p>“I suppose you’re right.” The
two men walked out into the hall.
“I’m on edge. This variable man.
I can’t get him out of my mind.”</p>

<p>“Has he done anything yet?”</p>

<p>“Nothing important. Rewired
a child’s toy. A toy vidsender.”</p>

<p>“Oh?” Sherikov showed interest.
“What do you mean? What
did he do?”</p>

<p>“I’ll show you.” Reinhart led
Sherikov down the hall to his
office. They entered and Reinhart
locked the door. He handed
Sherikov the toy and roughed in
what Cole had done. A strange
look crossed Sherikov’s face. He
found the studs on the box and
depressed them. The box opened.
The big Pole sat down at the
desk and began to study the
interior of the box. “You’re sure
it was the man from the past
who rewired this?”</p>

<p>“Of course. On the spot. The
boy damaged it playing. The
variable man came along and the
boy asked him to fix it. He fixed
it, all right.”</p>

<p>“Incredible.” Sherikov’s eyes
were only an inch from the wiring.
“Such tiny relays. How
could he—”</p>

<p>“What?”</p>

<p>“Nothing.” Sherikov got abruptly
to his feet, closing the
box carefully. “Can I take this
along? To my lab? I’d like to
analyze it more fully.”</p>

<p>“Of course. But why?”</p>

<p>“No special reason. Let’s go
<a class="pagenum" id="page40" title="40"> </a>get our coffee.” Sherikov headed
toward the door. “You say you
expect to capture this man in a
day or so?”</p>

<p>“<em>Kill</em> him, not capture him.
We’ve got to eliminate him as a
piece of data. We’re assembling
the attack formations right now.
No slip-ups, this time. We’re in
the process of setting up a
cross-bombing pattern to level
the entire Albertine range. He
must be destroyed, within the
next forty-eight hours.”</p>

<p>Sherikov nodded absently. “Of
course,” he murmured. A preoccupied
expression still remained
on his broad features. “I
understand perfectly.”</p>

<hr class="thoughtbreak" />

<p class="post_thoughtbreak">Thomas Cole crouched over
the fire he had built, warming
his hands. It was almost morning.
The sky was turning violet
gray. The mountain air was
crisp and chill. Cole shivered and
pulled himself closer to the fire.</p>

<p>The heat felt good against his
hands. <em>His hands.</em> He gazed
down at them, glowing yellow-red
in the firelight. The nails
were black and chipped. Warts
and endless calluses on each
finger, and the palms. But they
were good hands; the fingers
were long and tapered. He respected
them, although in some
ways he didn’t understand them.</p>

<p>Cole was deep in thought,
meditating over his situation.
He had been in the mountains
two nights and a day. The first
night had been the worst. Stumbling
and falling, making his
way uncertainly up the steep
slopes, through the tangled
brush and undergrowth—</p>

<p>But when the sun came up he
was safe, deep in the mountains,
between two great peaks. And
by the time the sun had set
again he had fixed himself up
a shelter and a means of making
a fire. Now he had a neat little
box trap, operated by a plaited
grass rope and pit, a notched
stake. One rabbit already hung
by his hind legs and the trap
was waiting for another.</p>

<p>The sky turned from violet
gray to a deep cold gray, a
metallic color. The mountains
were silent and empty. Far off
some place a bird sang, its voice
echoing across the vast slopes
and ravines. Other birds began
to sing. Off to his right something
crashed through the brush,
an animal pushing its way along.</p>

<p>Day was coming. His second
day. Cole got to his feet and
began to unfasten the rabbit.
Time to eat. And then? After
that he had no plans. He knew
instinctively that he could keep
himself alive indefinitely with
the tools he had retained, and
the genius of his hands. He
could kill game and skin it.
Eventually he could build himself
<a class="pagenum" id="page41" title="41"> </a>a permanent shelter, even
make clothes but of hides. In
winter—</p>

<p>But he was not thinking that
far ahead. Cole stood by the fire,
staring up at the sky, his hands
on his hips. He squinted, suddenly
tense. Something was moving.
Something in the sky,
drifting slowly through the
grayness. A black dot.</p>

<p>He stamped out the fire quickly.
What was it? He strained,
trying to see. A bird?</p>

<p>A second dot joined the first.
Two dots. Then three. Four.
Five. A fleet of them, moving
rapidly across the early morning
sky. Toward the mountains.</p>

<p>Toward him.</p>

<p>Cole hurried away from the
fire. He snatched up the rabbit
and carried it along with him,
into the tangled shelter he had
built. He was invisible, inside
the shelter. No one could find
him. But if they had seen the
fire—</p>

<p>He crouched in the shelter,
watching the dots grow larger.
They were planes, all right.
Black wingless planes, coming
closer each moment. Now he
could hear them, a faint dull
buzz, increasing until the ground
shook under him.</p>

<p>The first plane dived. It dropped
like a stone, swelling into
a great black shape. Cole gasped,
sinking down. The plane roared
in an arc, swooping low over
the ground. Suddenly bundles
tumbled out, white bundles falling
and scattering like seeds.</p>

<p>The bundles drifted rapidly to
the ground. They landed. They
were men. Men in uniform.</p>

<p>Now the second plane was
diving. It roared overhead, releasing
its load. More bundles
tumbled out, filling the sky. The
third plane dived, then the
fourth. The air was thick with
drifting bundles of white, a
blanket of descending weed
spores, settling to earth.</p>

<p>On the ground the soldiers
were forming into groups. Their
shouts carried to Cole, crouched
in his shelter. Fear leaped
through him. They were landing
on all sides of him. He was cut
off. The last two planes had
dropped men behind him.</p>

<p>He got to his feet, pushing
out of the shelter. Some of the
soldiers had found the fire, the
ashes and coals. One dropped
down, feeling the coals with his
hand. He waved to the others.
They were circling all around,
shouting and gesturing. One of
them began to set up some kind
of gun. Others were unrolling
coils of tubing, locking a collection
of strange pipes and machinery
in place.</p>

<p>Cole ran. He rolled down a
slope, sliding and falling. At the
bottom he leaped to his feet and
<a class="pagenum" id="page42" title="42"> </a>plunged into the brush. Vines
and leaves tore at his face, slashing
and cutting him. He fell
again, tangled in a mass of
twisted shrubbery. He fought
desperately, trying to free himself.
If he could reach the knife
in his pocket—</p>

<p>Voices. Footsteps. Men were
behind him, running down the
slope. Cole struggled frantically,
gasping and twisting, trying to
pull loose. He strained, breaking
the vines, clawing at them with
his hands.</p>

<p>A soldier dropped to his knee,
leveling his gun. More soldiers
arrived, bringing up their rifles
and aiming.</p>

<p>Cole cried out. He closed his
eyes, his body suddenly limp. He
waited, his teeth locked together,
sweat dripping down his neck,
into his shirt, sagging against
the mesh of vines and branches
coiled around him.</p>

<p>Silence.</p>

<p>Cole opened his eyes slowly.
The soldiers had regrouped. A
huge man was striding down the
slope toward them, barking
orders as he came.</p>

<p>Two soldiers stepped into the
brush. One of them grabbed Cole
by the shoulder.</p>

<p>“Don’t let go of him.” The
huge man came over, his black
beard jutting out. “Hold on.”</p>

<p>Cole gasped for breath. He
was caught. There was nothing
he could do. More soldiers were
pouring down into the gulley,
surrounding him on all sides.
They studied him curiously,
murmuring together. Cole shook
his head wearily and said nothing.</p>

<p>The huge man with the beard
stood directly in front of him,
his hands on his hips, looking
him up and down. “Don’t try to
get away,” the man said. “You
can’t get away. Do you understand?”</p>

<p>Cole nodded.</p>

<p>“All right. Good.” The man
waved. Soldiers clamped metal
bands around Cole’s arms and
wrists. The metal dug into his
flesh, making him gasp with
pain. More clamps locked around
his legs. “Those stay there until
we’re out of here. A long way
out.”</p>

<p>“Where—where are you taking
me?”</p>

<p>Peter Sherikov studied the
variable man for a moment before
he answered. “Where? I’m
taking you to my labs. Under the
Urals.” He glanced suddenly up
at the sky. “We better hurry.
The Security police will be starting
their demolition attack in
a few hours. We want to be a
long way from here when that
begins.”</p>

<hr class="thoughtbreak" />

<p class="post_thoughtbreak">Sherikov settled down in his
comfortable reinforced chair
<a class="pagenum" id="page43" title="43"> </a>with a sigh. “It’s good to be
back.” He signalled to one of
his guards. “All right. You can
unfasten him.”</p>

<p>The metal clamps were removed
from Cole’s arms and legs.
He sagged, sinking down in a
heap. Sherikov watched him
silently.</p>

<p>Cole sat on the floor, rubbing
his wrists and legs, saying nothing.</p>

<p>“What do you want?” Sherikov
demanded. “Food? Are you
hungry?”</p>

<p>“No.”</p>

<p>“Medicine? Are you sick? Injured?”</p>

<p>“No.”</p>

<p>Sherikov wrinkled his nose. “A
bath wouldn’t hurt you any. We’ll
arrange that later.” He lit a
cigar, blowing a cloud of gray
smoke around him. At the door
of the room two lab guards
stood with guns ready. No one
else was in the room beside
Sherikov and Cole.</p>

<p>Thomas Cole sat huddled in a
heap on the floor, his head sunk
down against his chest. He did
not stir. His bent body seemed
more elongated and stooped
than ever, his hair tousled and
unkempt, his chin and jowls a
rough stubbled gray. His clothes
were dirty and torn from crawling
through the brush. His skin
was cut and scratched; open
sores dotted his neck and cheeks
and forehead. He said nothing.
His chest rose and fell. His
faded blue eyes were almost
closed. He looked quite old, a
withered, dried-up old man.</p>

<p>Sherikov waved one of the
guards over. “Have a doctor
brought up here. I want this
man checked over. He may need
intravenous injections. He may
not have had anything to eat for
awhile.”</p>

<p>The guard departed.</p>

<p>“I don’t want anything to happen
to you,” Sherikov said. “Before
we go on I’ll have you
checked over. And deloused at
the same time.”</p>

<p>Cole said nothing.</p>

<p>Sherikov laughed. “Buck up!
You have no reason to feel bad.”
He leaned toward Cole, jabbing
an immense finger at him. “Another
two hours and you’d have
been dead, out there in the
mountains. You know that?”</p>

<p>Cole nodded.</p>

<p>“You don’t believe me. Look.”
Sherikov leaned over and snapped
on the vidscreen mounted in
the wall. “Watch, this. The operation
should still be going on.”</p>

<p>The screen lit up. A scene
gained form.</p>

<p>“This is a confidential Security
channel. I had it tapped several
years ago—for my own protection.
What we’re seeing now is
being piped in to Eric Reinhart.”
Sherikov grinned. “Reinhart arranged
<a class="pagenum" id="page44" title="44"> </a>what you’re seeing on the
screen. Pay close attention. You
were there, two hours ago.”</p>

<p>Cole turned toward the screen.
At first he could not make out
what was happening. The screen
showed a vast foaming cloud,
a vortex of motion. From the
speaker came a low rumble, a
deep-throated roar. After a time
the screen shifted, showing a
slightly different view. Suddenly
Cole stiffened.</p>

<p>He was seeing the destruction
of a whole mountain range.</p>

<p>The picture was coming from
a ship, flying above what had
once been the Albertine Mountain
Range. Now there was nothing
but swirling clouds of gray
and columns of particles and
debris, a surging tide of restless
material gradually sweeping off
and dissipating in all directions.</p>

<p>The Albertine Mountains had
been disintegrated. Nothing remained
but these vast clouds of
debris. Below, on the ground, a
ragged plain stretched out, swept
by fire and ruin. Gaping wounds
yawned, immense holes without
bottom, craters side by side as
far as the eye could see. Craters
and debris. Like the blasted,
pitted surface of the moon. Two
hours ago it had been rolling
peaks and gulleys, brush and
green bushes and trees.</p>

<p>Cole turned away.</p>

<p>“You see?” Sherikov snapped
the screen off. “You were down
there, not so long ago. All that
noise and smoke—all for you.
All for you, Mr. Variable Man
from the past. Reinhart arranged
that, to finish you off. I want
you to understand that. It’s very
important that you realize that.”</p>

<p>Cole said nothing.</p>

<p>Sherikov reached into a
drawer of the table before him.
He carefully brought out a small
square box and held it out to
Cole. “You wired this, didn’t
you?”</p>

<p>Cole took the box in his hands
and held it. For a time his tired
mind failed to focus. What did
he have? He concentrated on it.
The box was the children’s toy.
The inter-system vidsender, they
had called it.</p>

<p>“Yes. I fixed this.” He passed
it back to Sherikov. “I repaired
that. It was broken.”</p>

<p>Sherikov gazed down at him
intently, his large eyes bright.
He nodded, his black beard and
cigar rising and falling. “Good.
That’s all I wanted to know.”
He got suddenly to his feet,
pushing his chair back. “I see
the doctor’s here. He’ll fix you
up. Everything you need. Later
on I’ll talk to you again.”</p>

<p>Unprotesting, Cole got to his
feet, allowing the doctor to take
hold of his arm and help him up.</p>

<p>After Cole had been released
by the medical department,
<a class="pagenum" id="page45" title="45"> </a>Sherikov joined him in his
private dining room, a floor
above the actual laboratory.</p>

<p>The Pole gulped down a hasty
meal, talking as he ate. Cole sat
silently across from him, not
eating or speaking. His old clothing
had been taken away and
new clothing given him. He was
shaved and rubbed down. His
sores and cuts were healed, his
body and hair washed. He looked
much healthier and younger,
now. But he was still stooped
and tired, his blue eyes worn
and faded. He listened to Sherikov’s
account of the world of
2136 AD without comment.</p>

<p>“You can see,” Sherikov said
finally, waving a chicken leg,
“that your appearance here has
been very upsetting to our program.
Now that you know more
about us you can see why Commissioner
Reinhart was so interested
in destroying you.”</p>

<p>Cole nodded.</p>

<p>“Reinhart, you realize, believes
that the failure of the
SRB machines is the chief
danger to the war effort. But
that is nothing!” Sherikov pushed
his plate away noisily, draining
his coffee mug. “After all,
wars <em>can</em> be fought without
statistical forecasts. The SRB
machines only describe. They’re
nothing more than mechanical
onlookers. In themselves, they
don’t affect the course of the
war. <em>We</em> make the war. They
only analyze.”</p>

<p>Cole nodded.</p>

<p>“More coffee?” Sherikov asked.
He pushed the plastic container
toward Cole. “Have
some.”</p>

<p>Cole accepted another cupful.
“Thank you.”</p>

<p>“You can see that our real
problem is another thing entirely.
The machines only do
figuring for us in a few minutes
that eventually we could do for
our own selves. They’re our
servants, tools. Not some sort
of gods in a temple which we
go and pray to. Not oracles
who can see into the future for
us. They don’t see into the
future. They only make statistical
predictions—not prophecies.
There’s a big difference there,
but Reinhart doesn’t understand
it. Reinhart and his kind have
made such things as the SRB
machines into gods. But I have
no gods. At least, not any I
can see.”</p>

<p>Cole nodded, sipping his coffee.</p>

<p>“I’m telling you all these
things because you must understand
what we’re up against.
Terra is hemmed in on all sides
by the ancient Centauran Empire.
It’s been out there for centuries,
thousands of years. No
one knows how long. It’s old—crumbling
and rotting. Corrupt
<a class="pagenum" id="page46" title="46"> </a>and venal. But it holds most of
the galaxy around us, and we
can’t break out of the Sol system.
I told you about Icarus, and
Hedge’s work in ftl flight. We
must win the war against Centaurus.
We’ve waited and worked
a long time for this, the moment
when we can break out and
get room among the stars for
ourselves. Icarus is the deciding
weapon. The data on Icarus
tipped the SRB odds in our
favor—for the first time in history.
Success in the war against
Centaurus will depend on Icarus,
not on the SRB machines.
You see?”</p>

<p>Cole nodded.</p>

<p>“However, there is a problem.
The data on Icarus which I
turned over to the machines
specified that Icarus would be
completed in ten days. More
than half that time has already
passed. Yet, we are no closer to
wiring up the control turret
than we were then. The turret
baffles us.” Sherikov grinned
ironically. “Even <em>I</em> have tried
my hand at the wiring, but with
no success. It’s intricate—and
small. Too many technical bugs
not worked out. We are building
only one, you understand. If we
had many experimental models
worked out before—”</p>

<p>“But this is the experimental
model,” Cole said.</p>

<p>“And built from the designs
of a man dead four years—who
isn’t here to correct us. We’ve
made Icarus with our own
hands, down here in the labs.
And he’s giving us plenty of
trouble.” All at once Sherikov
got to his feet. “Let’s go down
to the lab and look at him.”</p>

<p>They descended to the floor
below, Sherikov leading the way.
Cole stopped short at the lab
door.</p>

<p>“Quite a sight,” Sherikov
agreed. “We keep him down here
at the bottom for safety’s sake.
He’s well protected. Come on in.
We have work to do.”</p>

<p>In the center of the lab Icarus
rose up, the gray squat cylinder
that someday would flash
through space at a speed of
thousands of times that of light,
toward the heart of Proxima
Centaurus, over four light years
away. Around the cylinder
groups of men in uniform were
laboring feverishly to finish the
remaining work.</p>

<p>“Over here. The turret.”
Sherikov led Cole over to one
side of the room. “It’s guarded.
Centauran spies are swarming
everywhere on Terra. They see
into everything. But so do we.
That’s how we get information
for the SRB machines. Spies in
both systems.”</p>

<p>The translucent globe that
was the control turret reposed
in the center of a metal stand,
<a class="pagenum" id="page47" title="47"> </a>an armed guard standing at
each side. They lowered their
guns as Sherikov approached.</p>

<p>“We don’t want anything to
happen to this,” Sherikov said.
“Everything depends on it.” He
put out his hand for the globe.
Half way to it his hand stopped,
striking against an invisible
presence in the air.</p>

<p>Sherikov laughed. “The wall.
Shut it off. It’s still on.”</p>

<p>One of the guards pressed a
stud at his wrist. Around the
globe the air shimmered and
faded.</p>

<p>“Now.” Sherikov’s hand
closed over the globe. He lifted
it carefully from its mount and
brought it out for Cole to see.
“This is the control turret for
our enormous friend here. This
is what will slow him down
when he’s inside Centaurus. He
slows down and re-enters this
universe. Right in the heart of
the star. Then—no more Centaurus.”
Sherikov beamed. “And
no more Armun.”</p>

<p>But Cole was not listening.
He had taken the globe from
Sherikov and was turning it
over and over, running his hands
over it, his face close to its
surface. He peered down into its
interior, his face rapt and intent.</p>

<p>“You can’t see the wiring.
Not without lenses.” Sherikov
signalled for a pair of micro-lenses
to be brought. He fitted
them on Cole’s nose, hooking
them behind his ears. “Now try
it. You can control the magnification.
It’s set for 1000X right
now. You can increase or decrease
it.”</p>

<p>Cole gasped, swaying back
and forth. Sherikov caught hold
of him. Cole gazed down into
the globe, moving his head
slightly, focussing the glasses.</p>

<p>“It takes practice. But you can
do a lot with them. Permits you
to do microscopic wiring. There
are tools to go along, you understand.”
Sherikov paused,
licking his lip. “We can’t get it
done correctly. Only a few men
can wire circuits using the
micro-lenses and the little tools.
We’ve tried robots, but there
are too many decisions to be
made. Robots can’t make decisions.
They just react.”</p>

<p>Cole said nothing. He continued
to gaze into the interior
of the globe, his lips tight, his
body taut and rigid. It made
Sherikov feel strangely uneasy.</p>

<p>“You look like one of those
old fortune tellers,” Sherikov
said jokingly, but a cold shiver
crawled up his spine. “Better
hand it back to me.” He held
out his hand.</p>

<p>Slowly, Cole returned the
globe. After a time he removed
the micro-lenses, still deep in
thought.</p>

<p><a class="pagenum" id="page48" title="48"> </a>“Well?” Sherikov demanded.
“You know what I want. I want
you to wire this damn thing up.”
Sherikov came close to Cole, his
big face hard. “You can do it, I
think. I could tell by the way
you held it—and the job you did
on the children’s toy, of course.
You could wire it up right, and
in five days. Nobody else can.
And if it’s not wired up Centaurus
will keep on running the
galaxy and Terra will have to
sweat it out here in the Sol system.
One tiny mediocre sun, one
dust mote out of a whole galaxy.”</p>

<p>Cole did not answer.</p>

<p>Sherikov became impatient.
“Well? What do you say?”</p>

<p>“What happens if I don’t wire
this control for you? I mean,
what happens to <em>me?</em>”</p>

<p>“Then I turn you over to Reinhart.
Reinhart will kill you instantly.
He thinks you’re dead,
killed when the Albertine Range
was annihilated. If he had any
idea I had saved you—”</p>

<p>“I see.”</p>

<p>“I brought you down here for
one thing. If you wire it up I’ll
have you sent back to your own
time continuum. If you don’t—”</p>

<p>Cole considered, his face dark
and brooding.</p>

<p>“What do you have to lose?
You’d already be dead, if we
hadn’t pulled you out of those
hills.”</p>

<p>“Can you really return me to
my own time?”</p>

<p>“Of course!”</p>

<p>“Reinhart won’t interfere?”</p>

<p>Sherikov laughed. “What can
he do? How can he stop me? I
have my own men. You saw
them. They landed all around
you. You’ll be returned.”</p>

<p>“Yes. I saw your men.”</p>

<p>“Then you agree?”</p>

<p>“I agree,” Thomas Cole said.
“I’ll wire it for you. I’ll complete
the control turret—within the
next five days.”</p>

<h2>IV</h2>

<p>Three days later Joseph Dixon
slid a closed-circuit message
plate across the desk to his boss.</p>

<p>“Here. You might be interested
in this.”</p>

<p>Reinhart picked the plate up
slowly. “What is it? You came
all the way here to show me
this?”</p>

<p>“That’s right.”</p>

<p>“Why didn’t you vidscreen
it?”</p>

<p>Dixon smiled grimly. “You’ll
understand when you decode it.
It’s from Proxima Centaurus.”</p>

<p>“Centaurus!”</p>

<p>“Our counter-intelligence service.
They sent it direct to me.
Here, I’ll decode it for you. Save
you the trouble.”</p>

<p>Dixon came around behind
Reinhart’s desk. He leaned over
<a class="pagenum" id="page49" title="49"> </a>the Commissioner’s shoulder,
taking hold of the plate and
breaking the seal with his thumb
nail.</p>

<p>“Hang on,” Dixon said. “This
is going to hit you hard. According
to our agents on Armun, the
Centauran High Council has
called an emergency session to
deal with the problem of Terra’s
impending attack. Centauran
relay couriers have reported to
the High Council that the Terran
bomb Icarus is virtually
complete. Work on the bomb has
been rushed through final stages
in the underground laboratories
under the Ural Range, directed
by the Terran physicist Peter
Sherikov.”</p>

<p>“So I understand from Sherikov
himself. Are you surprised
the Centaurans know about the
bomb? They have spies swarming
over Terra. That’s no news.”</p>

<p>“There’s more.” Dixon traced
the message plate grimly, with
an unsteady finger. “The Centauran
relay couriers reported
that Peter Sherikov brought an
expert mechanic out of a previous
time continuum to complete
the wiring of the turret!”</p>

<p>Reinhart staggered, holding
on tight to the desk. He closed
his eyes, gasping.</p>

<p>“The variable man is still
alive,” Dixon murmured. “I
don’t know how. Or why.
There’s nothing left of the Albertines.
And how the hell did
the man get half way around
the world?”</p>

<p>Reinhart opened his eyes
slowly, his face twisting. “Sherikov!
He must have removed him
before the attack. I told Sherikov
the attack was forthcoming.
I gave him the exact hour. He
had to get help—from the variable
man. He couldn’t meet his
promise otherwise.”</p>

<p>Reinhart leaped up and began
to pace back and forth. “I’ve already
informed the SRB machines
that the variable man has
been destroyed. The machines
now show the original 7-6 ratio
in our favor. But the ratio is
based on false information.”</p>

<p>“Then you’ll have to withdraw
the false data and restore the
original situation.”</p>

<p>“No.” Reinhart shook his
head. “I can’t do that. The machines
must be kept functioning.
We can’t allow them to jam
again. It’s too dangerous. If
Duffe should become aware
that—”</p>

<p>“What are you going to do,
then?” Dixon picked up the
message plate. “You can’t leave
the machines with false data.
That’s treason.”</p>

<p>“The data can’t be withdrawn!
Not unless equivalent
data exists to take its place.”
Reinhart paced angrily back and
forth. “Damn it, I was <em>certain</em>
<a class="pagenum" id="page50" title="50"> </a>the man was dead. This is an incredible
situation. He must be
eliminated—at any cost.”</p>

<p>Suddenly Reinhart stopped
pacing. “The turret. It’s probably
finished by this time. Correct?”</p>

<p>Dixon nodded slowly in agreement.
“With the variable man
helping, Sherikov has undoubtedly
completed work well ahead
of schedule.”</p>

<p>Reinhart’s gray eyes flickered.
“Then he’s no longer of any use—even
to Sherikov. We could
take a chance…. Even if there
were active opposition….”</p>

<p>“What’s this?” Dixon demanded.
“What are you thinking
about?”</p>

<p>“How many units are ready
for immediate action? How
large a force can we raise without
notice?”</p>

<p>“Because of the war we’re
mobilized on a twenty-four hour
basis. There are seventy air
units and about two hundred
surface units. The balance of the
Security forces have been transferred
to the line, under military
control.”</p>

<p>“Men?”</p>

<p>“We have about five thousand
men ready to go, still on Terra.
Most of them in the process of
being transferred to military
transports. I can hold it up at
any time.”</p>

<p>“Missiles?”</p>

<p>“Fortunately, the launching
tubes have not yet been disassembled.
They’re still here on
Terra. In another few days
they’ll be moving out for the
Colonial fracas.”</p>

<p>“Then they’re available for
immediate use?”</p>

<p>“Yes.”</p>

<p>“Good.” Reinhart locked his
hands, knotting his fingers
harshly together in sudden decision.
“That will do exactly.
Unless I am completely wrong,
Sherikov has only a half-dozen
air units and no surface cars.
And only about two hundred
men. Some defense shields, of
course—”</p>

<p>“What are you planning?”</p>

<p>Reinhart’s face was gray and
hard, like stone. “Send out orders
for all available Security
units to be unified under your
immediate command. Have them
ready to move by four o’clock
this afternoon. We’re going to
pay a visit,” Reinhart stated
grimly. “A surprise visit. On
Peter Sherikov.”</p>

<hr class="thoughtbreak" />

<p class="post_thoughtbreak">“Stop here,” Reinhart ordered.</p>

<p>The surface car slowed to a
halt. Reinhart peered cautiously
out, studying the horizon ahead.</p>

<p>On all sides a desert of scrub
grass and sand stretched out.
Nothing moved or stirred. To
the right the grass and sand
<a class="pagenum" id="page51" title="51"> </a>rose up to form immense peaks,
a range of mountains without
end, disappearing finally into the
distance. The Urals.</p>

<p>“Over there,” Reinhart said to
Dixon, pointing. “See?”</p>

<p>“No.”</p>

<p>“Look hard. It’s difficult to
spot unless you know what to
look for. Vertical pipes. Some
kind of vent. Or periscopes.”</p>

<p>Dixon saw them finally. “I
would have driven past without
noticing.”</p>

<p>“It’s well concealed. The
main labs are a mile down. Under
the range itself. It’s virtually
impregnable. Sherikov had it
built years ago, to withstand
any attack. From the air, by
surface cars, bombs, missiles—”</p>

<p>“He must feel safe down
there.”</p>

<p>“No doubt.” Reinhart gazed
up at the sky. A few faint black
dots could be seen, moving lazily
about, in broad circles.
“Those aren’t ours, are they? I
gave orders—”</p>

<p>“No. They’re not ours. All our
units are out of sight. Those belong
to Sherikov. His patrol.”</p>

<p>Reinhart relaxed. “Good.” He
reached over and flicked on the
vidscreen over the board of the
car. “This screen is shielded? It
can’t be traced?”</p>

<p>“There’s no way they can spot
it back to us. It’s non-directional.”</p>

<p>The screen glowed into life.
Reinhart punched the combination
keys and sat back to wait.</p>

<p>After a time an image formed
on the screen. A heavy face,
bushy black beard and large
eyes.</p>

<p>Peter Sherikov gazed at
Reinhart with surprised curiosity.
“Commissioner! Where are
you calling from? What—”</p>

<p>“How’s the work progressing?”
Reinhart broke in coldly.
“Is Icarus almost complete?”</p>

<p>Sherikov beamed with expansive
pride. “He’s done, Commissioner.
Two days ahead of time.
Icarus is ready to be launched
into space. I tried to call your
office, but they told me—”</p>

<p>“I’m not at my office.” Reinhart
leaned toward the screen.
“Open your entrance tunnel at
the surface. You’re about to receive
visitors.”</p>

<p>Sherikov blinked. “Visitors?”</p>

<p>“I’m coming down to see you.
About Icarus. Have the tunnel
opened for me at once.”</p>

<p>“Exactly where are you, Commissioner?”</p>

<p>“On the surface.”</p>

<p>Sherikov’s eyes flickered.
“Oh? But—”</p>

<p>“Open up!” Reinhart snapped.
He glanced at his wristwatch.
“I’ll be at the entrance in five
minutes. I expect to find it ready
for me.”</p>

<p>“Of course.” Sherikov nodded
<a class="pagenum" id="page52" title="52"> </a>in bewilderment. “I’m always
glad to see you, Commissioner.
But I—”</p>

<p>“Five minutes, then.” Reinhart
cut the circuit. The screen
died. He turned quickly to
Dixon. “You stay up here, as we
arranged. I’ll go down with one
company of police. You understand
the necessity of exact timing
on this?”</p>

<p>“We won’t slip up. Everything’s
ready. All units are in
their places.”</p>

<p>“Good.” Reinhart pushed the
door open for him. “You join
your directional staff. I’ll proceed
toward the tunnel entrance.”</p>

<p>“Good luck.” Dixon leaped out
of the car, onto the sandy
ground. A gust of dry air swirled
into the car around Reinhart.
“I’ll see you later.”</p>

<p>Reinhart slammed the door.
He turned to the group of police
crouched in the rear of the
car, their guns held tightly.
“Here we go,” Reinhart murmured.
“Hold on.”</p>

<p>The car raced across the
sandy ground, toward the tunnel
entrance to Sherikov’s underground
fortress.</p>

<p>Sherikov met Reinhart at the
bottom end of the tunnel,
where the tunnel opened up onto
the main floor of the lab.</p>

<p>The big Pole approached, his
hand out, beaming with pride
and satisfaction. “It’s a pleasure
to see you, Commissioner.
This is an historic moment.”</p>

<p>Reinhart got out of the car,
with his group of armed Security
police. “Calls for a celebration,
doesn’t it?” he said.</p>

<p>“That’s a good idea! We’re
two days ahead, Commissioner.
The SRB machines will be interested.
The odds should change
abruptly at the news.”</p>

<p>“Let’s go down to the lab. I
want to see the control turret
myself.”</p>

<p>A shadow crossed Sherikov’s
face. “I’d rather not bother the
workmen right now, Commissioner.
They’ve been under a
great load, trying to complete
the turret in time. I believe
they’re putting a few last finishes
on it at this moment.”</p>

<p>“We can view them by vidscreen.
I’m curious to see them
at work. It must be difficult to
wire such minute relays.”</p>

<p>Sherikov shook his head.
“Sorry, Commissioner. No vidscreen
on them. I won’t allow
it. This is too important. Our
whole future depends on it.”</p>

<p>Reinhart snapped a signal to
his company of police. “Put this
man under arrest.”</p>

<p>Sherikov blanched. His mouth
fell open. The police moved
quickly around him, their gun tubes
up, jabbing into him. He
was searched rapidly, efficiently.
<a class="pagenum" id="page53" title="53"> </a>His gun belt and concealed
energy screen were yanked off.</p>

<p>“What’s going on?” Sherikov
demanded, some color returning
to his face. “What are you doing?”</p>

<p>“You’re under arrest for the
duration of the war. You’re relieved
of all authority. From
now on one of my men will operate
Designs. When the war is
over you’ll be tried before the
Council and President Duffe.”</p>

<p>Sherikov shook his head,
dazed. “I don’t understand.
What’s this all about? Explain
it to me, Commissioner. What’s
happened?”</p>

<p>Reinhart signalled to his police.
“Get ready. We’re going
into the lab. We may have to
shoot our way in. The variable
man should be in the area of the
bomb, working on the control
turret.”</p>

<p>Instantly Sherikov’s face
hardened. His black eyes glittered,
alert and hostile.</p>

<p>Reinhart laughed harshly.
“We received a counter-intelligence
report from Centaurus.
I’m surprised at you, Sherikov.
You know the Centaurans are
everywhere with their relay
couriers. You should have
known—”</p>

<p>Sherikov moved. Fast. All at
once he broke away from the
police, throwing his massive
body against them. They fell,
scattering. Sherikov ran—directly
at the wall. The police
fired wildly. Reinhart fumbled
frantically for his gun tube,
pulling it up.</p>

<p>Sherikov reached the wall,
running head down, energy
beams flashing around him. He
struck against the wall—and
vanished.</p>

<p>“Down!” Reinhart shouted.
He dropped to his hands and
knees. All around him his police
dived for the floor. Reinhart
cursed wildly, dragging himself
quickly toward the door. They
had to get out, and right away.
Sherikov had escaped. A false
wall, an energy barrier set to
respond to his pressure. He had
dashed through it to safety.
He—</p>

<p>From all sides an inferno
burst, a flaming roar of death
surging over them, around them,
on every side. The room was
alive with blazing masses of destruction,
bouncing from wall
to wall. They were caught between
four banks of power, all
of them open to full discharge.
A trap—a death trap.</p>

<hr class="thoughtbreak" />

<p class="post_thoughtbreak">Reinhart reached the hall
gasping for breath. He leaped
to his feet. A few Security police
followed him. Behind them,
in the flaming room, the rest of
the company screamed and
struggled, blasted out of existence
<a class="pagenum" id="page54" title="54"> </a>by the leaping bursts of
power.</p>

<p>Reinhart assembled his remaining
men. Already, Sherikov’s
guards were forming. At
one end of the corridor a snub-barreled
robot gun was maneuvering
into position. A siren
wailed. Guards were running on
all sides, hurrying to battle stations.</p>

<p>The robot gun opened fire.
Part of the corridor exploded,
bursting into fragments. Clouds
of choking debris and particles
swept around them. Reinhart
and his police retreated, moving
back along the corridor.</p>

<p>They reached a junction. A
second robot gun was rumbling
toward them, hurrying to get
within range. Reinhart fired
carefully, aiming at its delicate
control. Abruptly the gun spun
convulsively. It lashed against
the wall, smashing itself into
the unyielding metal. Then it
collapsed in a heap, gears still
whining and spinning.</p>

<p>“Come on.” Reinhart moved
away, crouching and running.
He glanced at his watch. <em>Almost
time.</em> A few more minutes. A
group of lab guards appeared
ahead of them. Reinhart fired.
Behind him his police fired past
him, violet shafts of energy
catching the group of guards as
they entered the corridor. The
guards spilled apart, falling and
twisting. Part of them settled
into dust, drifting down the corridor.
Reinhart made his way
toward the lab, crouching and
leaping, pushing past heaps of
debris and remains, followed by
his men. “Come on! Don’t
stop!”</p>

<hr class="thoughtbreak" />

<p class="post_thoughtbreak">Suddenly from around them
the booming, enlarged voice of
Sherikov thundered, magnified
by rows of wall speakers along
the corridor. Reinhart halted,
glancing around.</p>

<p>“Reinhart! You haven’t got a
chance. You’ll never get back to
the surface. Throw down your
guns and give up. You’re surrounded
on all sides. You’re a
mile, under the surface.”</p>

<p>Reinhart threw himself into
motion, pushing into billowing
clouds of particles drifting
along the corridor. “Are you
sure, Sherikov?” he grunted.</p>

<p>Sherikov laughed, his harsh,
metallic peals rolling in waves
against Reinhart’s eardrums. “I
don’t want to have to kill you,
Commissioner. You’re vital to
the war: I’m sorry you found
out about the variable man. I admit
we overlooked the Centauran
espionage as a factor in this.
But now that you know about
him—”</p>

<p>Suddenly Sherikov’s voice
broke off. A deep rumble had
shaken the floor, a lapping vibration
<a class="pagenum" id="page55" title="55"> </a>that shuddered through
the corridor.</p>

<p>Reinhart sagged with relief.
He peered through the clouds
of debris, making out the figures
on his watch. Right on
time. Not a second late.</p>

<p>The first of the hydrogen
missiles, launched from the
Council buildings on the other
side of the world, were beginning
to arrive. The attack had
begun.</p>

<p>At exactly six o’clock Joseph
Dixon, standing on the surface
four miles from the entrance
tunnel, gave the sign to the waiting
units.</p>

<p>The first job was to break
down Sherikov’s defense
screens. The missiles had to
penetrate without interference.
At Dixon’s signal a fleet of
thirty Security ships dived from
a height of ten miles, swooping
above the mountains, directly
over the underground laboratories.
Within five minutes the
defense screens had been
smashed, and all the tower projectors
leveled flat. Now the
mountains were virtually unprotected.</p>

<p>“So far so good,” Dixon murmured,
as he watched from his
secure position. The fleet of Security
ships roared back, their
work done. Across the face of
the desert the police surface
cars were crawling rapidly toward
the entrance tunnel, snaking
from side to side.</p>

<p>Meanwhile, Sherikov’s counter-attack
had begun to go into
operation.</p>

<p>Guns mounted among the
hills opened fire. Vast columns
of flame burst up in the path of
the advancing cars. The cars
hesitated and retreated, as the
plain was churned up by a
howling vortex, a thundering
chaos of explosions. Here and
there a car vanished in a cloud
of particles. A group of cars
moving away suddenly scattered,
caught up by a giant wind that
lashed across them and swept
them up into the air.</p>

<p>Dixon gave orders to have the
cannon silenced. The police air
arm again swept overhead, a
sullen roar of jets that shook
the ground below. The police
ships divided expertly and
hurtled down on the cannon protecting
the hills.</p>

<p>The cannon forgot the surface
cars and lifted their snouts to
meet the attack. Again and
again the airships came, rocking
the mountains with titanic
blasts.</p>

<p>The guns became silent. Their
echoing boom diminished, died
away reluctantly, as bombs took
critical toll of them.</p>

<p>Dixon watched with satisfaction
as the bombing came to an
end. The airships rose in a thick
<a class="pagenum" id="page56" title="56"> </a>swarm, black gnats shooting up
in triumph from a dead carcass.
They hurried back as emergency
anti-aircraft robot guns swung
into position and saturated the
sky with blazing puffs of energy.</p>

<p>Dixon checked his wristwatch.
The missiles were already
on the way from North America.
Only a few minutes remained.</p>

<p>The surface cars, freed by the
successful bombing, began to regroup
for a new frontal attack.
Again they crawled forward,
across the burning plain, bearing
down cautiously on the battered
wall of mountains, heading
toward the twisted wrecks
that had been the ring of defense
guns. Toward the entrance
tunnel.</p>

<p>An occasional cannon fired
feebly at them. The cars came
grimly on. Now, in the hollows
of the hills, Sherikov’s troops
were hurrying to the surface to
meet the attack. The first car
reached the shadow of the
mountains….</p>

<p>A deafening hail of fire burst
loose. Small robot guns appeared
everywhere, needle barrels
emerging from behind hidden
screens, trees and shrubs, rocks,
stones. The police cars were
caught in a withering cross-fire,
trapped at the base of the hills.</p>

<p>Down the slopes Sherikov’s
guards raced, toward the stalled
cars. Clouds of heat rose up and
boiled across the plain as the
cars fired up at the running
men. A robot gun dropped like
a slug onto the plain and
screamed toward the cars, firing
as it came.</p>

<p>Dixon twisted nervously. Only
a few minutes. Any time, now.
He shaded his eyes and peered
up at the sky. No sign of them
yet. He wondered about Reinhart.
No signal had come up
from below. Clearly, Reinhart
had run into trouble. No doubt
there was desperate fighting going
on in the maze of underground
tunnels, the intricate
web of passages that honeycombed
the earth below the
mountains.</p>

<p>In the air, Sherikov’s few defense
ships were taking on the
police raiders. Outnumbered, the
defense ships darted rapidly,
wildly, putting up a futile fight.</p>

<p>Sherikov’s guards streamed
out onto the plain. Crouching
and running, they advanced toward
the stalled cars. The police
airships screeched down at
them, guns thundering.</p>

<p>Dixon held his breath. When
the missiles arrived—</p>

<p>The first missile struck. A section
of the mountain vanished,
turned to smoke and foaming
gasses. The wave of heat slapped
Dixon across the face, spinning
him around. Quickly he re-entered
his ship and took off,
<a class="pagenum" id="page57" title="57"> </a>shooting rapidly away from the
scene. He glanced back. A second
and third missile had arrived.
Great gaping pits yawned
among the mountains, vast sections
missing like broken teeth.
Now the missiles could penetrate
to the underground laboratories
below.</p>

<p>On the ground, the surface
cars halted beyond the danger
area, waiting for the missile attack
to finish. When the eighth
missile had struck, the cars
again moved forward. No more
missiles fell.</p>

<p>Dixon swung his ship around,
heading back toward the scene.
The laboratory was exposed. The
top sections of it had been ripped
open. The laboratory lay like
a tin can, torn apart by mighty
explosions, its first floors visible
from the air. Men and cars were
pouring down into it, fighting
with the guards swarming to the
surface.</p>

<hr class="thoughtbreak" />

<p class="post_thoughtbreak">Dixon watched intently. Sherikov’s
men were bringing up
heavy guns, big robot artillery.
But the police ships were diving
again. Sherikov’s defensive patrols
had been cleaned from the
sky. The police ships whined
down, arcing over the exposed
laboratory. Small bombs fell,
whistling down, pin-pointing the
artillery rising to the surface on
the remaining lift stages.</p>

<p>Abruptly Dixon’s vidscreen
clicked. Dixon turned toward it.</p>

<p>Reinhart’s features formed.
“Call off the attack.” His uniform
was torn. A deep bloody
gash crossed his cheek. He
grinned sourly at Dixon, pushing
his tangled hair back out of
his face. “Quite a fight.”</p>

<p>“Sherikov—”</p>

<p>“He’s called off his guards.
We’ve agreed to a truce. It’s all
over. No more needed.” Reinhart
gasped for breath, wiping
grime and sweat from his neck.
“Land your ship and come down
here at once.”</p>

<p>“The variable man?”</p>

<p>“That comes next,” Reinhart
said grimly. He adjusted his
gun tube. “I want you down
here, for that part. I want you
to be in on the kill.”</p>

<p>Reinhart turned away from
the vidscreen. In the corner of
the room Sherikov stood silently,
saying nothing. “Well?”
Reinhart barked. “Where is he?
Where will I find him?”</p>

<p>Sherikov licked his lips nervously,
glancing up at Reinhart.
“Commissioner, are you sure—”</p>

<p>“The attack has been called
off. Your labs are safe. So is
your life. Now it’s your turn to
come through.” Reinhart gripped
his gun, moving toward
Sherikov. “<em>Where is he?</em>”</p>

<p>For a moment Sherikov hesitated.
Then slowly his huge body
<a class="pagenum" id="page58" title="58"> </a>sagged, defeated. He shook his
head wearily. “All right. I’ll
show you where he is.” His voice
was hardly audible, a dry whisper.
“Down this way. Come on.”</p>

<p>Reinhart followed Sherikov
out of the room, into the corridor.
Police and guards were
working rapidly, clearing the
debris and ruins away, putting
out the hydrogen fires that
burned everywhere. “No tricks,
Sherikov.”</p>

<p>“No tricks.” Sherikov nodded
resignedly. “Thomas Cole is by
himself. In a wing lab off the
main rooms.”</p>

<p>“Cole?”</p>

<p>“The variable man. That’s
his name.” The Pole turned his
massive head a little. “He has
a name.”</p>

<p>Reinhart waved his gun.
“Hurry up. I don’t want anything
to go wrong. This is the
part I came for.”</p>

<p>“You must remember something,
Commissioner.”</p>

<p>“What is it?”</p>

<p>Sherikov stopped walking.
“Commissioner, nothing must
happen to the globe. The control
turret. Everything depends on
it, the war, our whole—”</p>

<p>“I know. Nothing will happen
to the damn thing. Let’s go.”</p>

<p>“If it should get damaged—”</p>

<p>“I’m not after the globe. I’m
interested only in—in Thomas
Cole.”</p>

<p>They came to the end of the
corridor and stopped before a
metal door. Sherikov nodded at
the door. “In there.”</p>

<p>Reinhart moved back. “Open
the door.”</p>

<p>“Open it yourself. I don’t
want to have anything to do
with it.”</p>

<p>Reinhart shrugged. He stepped
up to the door. Holding his
gun level he raised his hand,
passing it in front of the eye
circuit. Nothing happened.</p>

<p>Reinhart frowned. He pushed
the door with his hand. The
door slid open. Reinhart was
looking into a small laboratory.
He glimpsed a workbench, tools,
heaps of equipment, measuring
devices, and in the center of the
bench the transparent globe, the
control turret.</p>

<p>“Cole?” Reinhart advanced
quickly into the room. He
glanced around him, suddenly
alarmed. “Where—”</p>

<p>The room was empty. Thomas
Cole was gone.</p>

<p>When the first missile struck,
Cole stopped work and sat listening.</p>

<p>Far off, a distant rumble
rolled through the earth, shaking
the floor under him. On the
bench, tools and equipment
danced up and down. A pair of
pliers fell crashing to the floor.
A box of screws tipped over,
spilling its minute contents out.</p>

<p><a class="pagenum" id="page59" title="59"> </a>Cole listened for a time. Presently
he lifted the transparent
globe from the bench. With carefully
controlled hands he held
the globe up, running his fingers
gently over the surface, his
faded blue eyes thoughtful.
Then, after a time, he placed
the globe back on the bench, in
its mount.</p>

<p>The globe was finished. A
faint glow of pride moved
through the variable man. The
globe was the finest job he had
ever done.</p>

<p>The deep rumblings ceased.
Cole became instantly alert. He
jumped down from his stool,
hurrying across the room to the
door. For a moment he stood by
the door listening intently. He
could hear noise on the other
side, shouts, guards rushing
past, dragging heavy equipment,
working frantically.</p>

<p>A rolling crash echoed down
the corridor and lapped against
his door. The concussion spun
him around. Again a tide of
energy shook the walls and floor
and sent him down on his knees.</p>

<p>The lights flickered and
winked out.</p>

<p>Cole fumbled in the dark until
he found a flashlight. Power
failure. He could hear crackling
flames. Abruptly the lights
came on again, an ugly yellow,
then faded back out. Cole bent
down and examined the door
with his flashlight. A magnetic
lock. Dependent on an externally
induced electric flux. He
grabbed a screwdriver and pried
at the door. For a moment it
held. Then it fell open.</p>

<p>Cole stepped warily out into
the corridor. Everything was in
shambles. Guards wandered
everywhere, burned and half-blinded.
Two lay groaning under
a pile of wrecked equipment.
Fused guns, reeking
metal. The air was heavy with
the smell of burning wiring and
plastic. A thick cloud that
choked him and made him bend
double as he advanced.</p>

<p>“Halt,” a guard gasped feebly,
struggling to rise. Cole pushed
past him and down the corridor.
Two small robot guns,
still functioning, glided past
him hurriedly toward the drumming
chaos of battle. He followed.</p>

<p>At a major intersection the
fight was in full swing. Sherikov’s
guards fought Security
police, crouched behind pillars
and barricades, firing wildly,
desperately. Again the whole
structure shuddered as a great
booming blast ignited some
place above. Bombs? Shells?</p>

<p>Cole threw himself down as a
violet beam cut past his ear and
disintegrated the wall behind
him. A Security policeman, wild-eyed,
firing erratically. One of
<a class="pagenum" id="page60" title="60"> </a>Sherikov’s guards winged him
and his gun skidded to the
floor.</p>

<p>A robot cannon turned toward
him as he made his way
past the intersection. He began
to run. The cannon rolled along
behind him, aiming itself uncertainly.
Cole hunched over as
he shambled rapidly along,
gasping for breath. In the flickering
yellow light he saw a
handful of Security police advancing,
firing expertly, intent
on a line of defense Sherikov’s
guards had hastily set up.</p>

<p>The robot cannon altered its
course to take them on, and
Cole escaped around a corner.</p>

<p>He was in the main lab, the
big chamber where Icarus himself
rose, the vast squat column.</p>

<p>Icarus! A solid wall of
guards surrounded him, grim-faced,
hugging guns and protection
shields. But the Security
police were leaving Icarus
alone. Nobody wanted to damage
him. Cole evaded a lone
guard tracking him and reached
the far side of the lab.</p>

<p>It took him only a few seconds
to find the force field generator.
There was no switch. For
a moment that puzzled him—and
then he remembered. The
guard had controlled it from his
wrist.</p>

<p>Too late to worry about that.
With his screwdriver he unfastened
the plate over the generator
and ripped out the wiring
in handfuls. The generator
came loose and he dragged
it away from the wall. The
screen was off, thank God. He
managed to carry the generator
into a side corridor.</p>

<p>Crouched in a heap, Cole bent
over the generator, deft fingers
flying. He pulled the wiring to
him and laid it out on the floor,
tracing the circuits with feverish
haste.</p>

<p>The adaptation was easier
than he had expected. The screen
flowed at right angles to the wiring,
for a distance of six feet.
Each lead was shielded on one
side; the field radiated outward,
leaving a hollow cone in the center.
He ran the wiring through
his belt, down his trouser legs,
under his shirt, all the way to
his wrists and ankles.</p>

<p>He was just snatching up the
heavy generator when two Security
police appeared. They
raised their blasters and fired
point-blank.</p>

<p>Cole clicked on the screen. A
vibration leaped through him
that snapped his jaw and danced
up his body. He staggered away,
half-stupefied by the surging
force that radiated out from
him. The violet rays struck the
field and deflected harmlessly.</p>

<p>He was safe.</p>

<p>He hurried on down the corridor,
<a class="pagenum" id="page61" title="61"> </a>past a ruined gun and
sprawled bodies still clutching
blasters. Great drifting clouds of
radioactive particles billowed
around him. He edged by one
cloud nervously. Guards lay
everywhere, dying and dead,
partly destroyed, eaten and corroded
by the hot metallic salts in
the air. He had to get out—and
fast.</p>

<p>At the end of the corridor a
whole section of the fortress was
in ruins. Towering flames leaped
on all sides. One of the
missiles had penetrated below
ground level.</p>

<p>Cole found a lift that still
functioned. A load of wounded
guards was being raised to the
surface. None of them paid any
attention to him. Flames surged
around the lift, licking at the
wounded. Workmen were desperately
trying to get the lift into
action. Cole leaped onto the lift.
A moment later it began to rise,
leaving the shouts and the flames
behind.</p>

<p>The lift emerged on the surface
and Cole jumped off. A
guard spotted him and gave
chase. Crouching, Cole dodged
into a tangled mass of twisted
metal, still white-hot and smoking.
He ran for a distance, leaping
from the side of a ruined
defense-screen tower, onto the
fused ground and down the side
of a hill. The ground was hot
underfoot. He hurried as fast as
he could, gasping for breath. He
came to a long slope and scrambled
up the side.</p>

<p>The guard who had followed
was gone, lost behind in the
rolling clouds of ash that drifted
from the ruins of Sherikov’s
underground fortress.</p>

<p>Cole reached the top of the
hill. For a brief moment he halted
to get his breath and figure
where he was. It was almost
evening. The sun was beginning
to set. In the darkening sky a
few dots still twisted and rolled,
black specks that abruptly burst
into flame and fused out again.</p>

<p>Cole stood up cautiously, peering
around him. Ruins stretched
out below, on all sides, the furnace
from which he had escaped.
A chaos of incandescent metal
and debris, gutted and wrecked
beyond repair. Miles of tangled
rubbish and half-vaporized
equipment.</p>

<p>He considered. Everyone was
busy putting out the fires and
pulling the wounded to safety.
It would be awhile before he
was missed. But as soon as they
realized he was gone they’d be
after him. Most of the laboratory
had been destroyed. Nothing
lay back that way.</p>

<p>Beyond the ruins lay the great
Ural peaks, the endless mountains,
stretching out as far as
the eye could see.</p>

<p><a class="pagenum" id="page62" title="62"></a>Mountains and green forests.
A wilderness. They’d never find
him there.</p>

<p>Cole started along the side of
the hill, walking slowly and
carefully, his screen generator
under his arm. Probably in the
confusion he could find enough
food and equipment to last him
indefinitely. He could wait until
early morning, then circle back
toward the ruins and load up.
With a few tools and his own
innate skill he would get along
fine. A screwdriver, hammer,
nails, odds and ends—</p>

<p>A great hum sounded in his
ears. It swelled to a deafening
roar. Startled, Cole whirled
around. A vast shape filled the
sky behind him, growing each
moment. Cole stood frozen, utterly
transfixed. The shape thundered
over him, above his head,
as he stood stupidly, rooted to
the spot.</p>

<p>Then, awkwardly, uncertainly,
he began to run. He stumbled
and fell and rolled a short distance
down the side of the hill.
Desperately, he struggled to hold
onto the ground. His hands dug
wildly, futilely, into the soft
soil, trying to keep the generator
under his arm at the same
time.</p>

<p>A flash, and a blinding spark
of light around him.</p>

<p>The spark picked him up and
tossed him like a dry leaf. He
grunted in agony as searing fire
crackled about him, a blazing inferno
that gnawed and ate hungrily
through his screen. He
spun dizzily and fell through the
cloud of fire, down into a pit of
darkness, a vast gulf between
two hills. His wiring ripped off.
The generator tore out of his
grip and was lost behind.
Abruptly, his force field ceased.</p>

<p>Cole lay in the darkness at the
bottom of the hill. His whole
body shrieked in agony as the
unholy fire played over him. He
was a blazing cinder, a half-consumed
ash flaming in a universe
of darkness. The pain made him
twist and crawl like an insect,
trying to burrow into the
ground. He screamed and
shrieked and struggled to
escape, to get away from the
hideous fire. To reach the curtain
of darkness beyond, where
it was cool and silent, where the
flames couldn’t crackle and eat
at him.</p>

<p>He reached imploringly out,
into the darkness, groping feebly
toward it, trying to pull himself
into it. Gradually, the glowing
orb that was his own body
faded. The impenetrable chaos
of night descended. He allowed
the tide to sweep over him, to
extinguish the searing fire.</p>

<p>Dixon landed his ship expertly,
bringing it to a halt in front
of an overturned defense tower.
<a class="pagenum" id="page63" title="63"> </a>He leaped out and hurried across
the smoking ground.</p>

<p>From a lift Reinhart appeared,
surrounded by his Security
police. “He got away from us!
He escaped!”</p>

<p>“He didn’t escape,” Dixon answered.
“I got him myself.”</p>

<p>Reinhart quivered violently.
“What do you mean?”</p>

<p>“Come along with me. Over in
this direction.” He and Reinhart
climbed the side of a demolished
hill, both of them panting
for breath. “I was landing.
I saw a figure emerge from a
lift and run toward the mountains,
like some sort of animal.
When he came out in the open
I dived on him and released a
phosphorus bomb.”</p>

<p>“Then he’s—<em>dead?</em>”</p>

<p>“I don’t see how anyone could
have lived through a phosphorus
bomb.” They reached the top of
the hill. Dixon halted, then
pointed excitedly down into the
pit beyond the hill. “There!”</p>

<p>They descended cautiously.
The ground was singed and
burned clean. Clouds of smoke
hung heavily in the air. Occasional
fires still flickered here
and there. Reinhart coughed and
bent over to see. Dixon flashed
on a pocket flare and set it beside
the body.</p>

<p>The body was charred, half
destroyed by the burning phosphorus.
It lay motionless, one
arm over its face, mouth open,
legs sprawled grotesquely. Like
some abandoned rag doll, tossed
in an incinerator and consumed
almost beyond recognition.</p>

<p>“He’s alive!” Dixon muttered.
He felt around curiously. “Must
have had some kind of protection
screen. Amazing that a man
could—”</p>

<p>“It’s him? It’s really him?”</p>

<p>“Fits the description.” Dixon
tore away a handful of burned
clothing. “This is the variable
man. What’s left of him, at
least.”</p>

<p>Reinhart sagged with relief.
“Then we’ve finally got him. The
data is accurate. He’s no longer
a factor.”</p>

<p>Dixon got out his blaster and
released the safety catch
thoughtfully. “If you want, I
can finish the job right now.”</p>

<p>At that moment Sherikov appeared,
accompanied by two
armed Security police. He strode
grimly down the hillside, black
eyes snapping. “Did Cole—” He
broke off. “Good God.”</p>

<p>“Dixon got him with a
phosphorus bomb,” Reinhart
said noncommittally. “He had
reached the surface and was
trying to get into the mountains.”</p>

<p>Sherikov turned wearily away.
“He was an amazing person.
During the attack he managed
to force the lock on his door
<a class="pagenum" id="page64" title="64"> </a>and escape. The guards fired at
him, but nothing happened. He
had rigged up some kind of
force field around him. Something
he adapted.”</p>

<p>“Anyhow, it’s over with,”
Reinhart answered. “Did you
have SRB plates made up on
him?”</p>

<p>Sherikov reached slowly into
his coat. He drew out a manila
envelope. “Here’s all the information
I collected about him, while
he was with me.”</p>

<p>“Is it complete? Everything
previous has been merely fragmentary.”</p>

<p>“As near complete as I could
make it. It includes photographs
and diagrams of the interior
of the globe. The turret
wiring he did for me. I haven’t
had a chance even to look at
them.” Sherikov fingered the
envelope. “What are you going
to do with Cole?”</p>

<p>“Have him loaded up, taken
back to the city—and officially
put to sleep by the Euthanasia
Ministry.”</p>

<p>“Legal murder?” Sherikov’s
lips twisted. “Why don’t you
simply do it right here and get
it over with?”</p>

<p>Reinhart grabbed the envelope
and stuck it in his pocket.
“I’ll turn this right over to the
machines.” He motioned to
Dixon. “Let’s go. Now we can
notify the fleet to prepare for
the attack on Centaurus.” He
turned briefly back to Sherikov.
“When can Icarus be launched?”</p>

<p>“In an hour or so, I suppose.
They’re locking the control turret
in place. Assuming it functions
correctly, that’s all that’s
needed.”</p>

<p>“Good. I’ll notify Duffe to send
out the signal to the warfleet.”
Reinhart nodded to the police to
take Sherikov to the waiting
Security ship. Sherikov moved
off dully, his face gray and
haggard. Cole’s inert body was
picked up and tossed onto a
freight cart. The cart rumbled
into the hold of the Security
ship and the lock slid shut after
it.</p>

<p>“It’ll be interesting to see how
the machines respond to the
additional data,” Dixon said.</p>

<p>“It should make quite an improvement
in the odds,” Reinhart
agreed. He patted the envelope,
bulging in his inside
pocket. “We’re two days ahead
of time.”</p>

<hr class="thoughtbreak" />

<p class="post_thoughtbreak">Margaret Duffe got up slowly
from her desk. She pushed her
chair automatically back. “Let
me get all this straight. You
mean the bomb is finished?
Ready to go?”</p>

<p>Reinhart nodded impatiently.
“That’s what I said. The Technicians
are checking the turret
locks to make sure it’s properly
<a class="pagenum" id="page65" title="65"> </a>attached. The launching will
take place in half an hour.”</p>

<p>“Thirty minutes! Then—”</p>

<p>“Then the attack can begin
at once. I assume the fleet is
ready for action.”</p>

<p>“Of course. It’s been ready
for several days. But I can’t
believe the bomb is ready so
soon.” Margaret Duffe moved
numbly toward the door of her
office. “This is a great day, Commissioner.
An old era lies behind
us. This time tomorrow
Centaurus will be gone. And
eventually the colonies will be
ours.”</p>

<p>“It’s been a long climb,” Reinhart
murmured.</p>

<p>“One thing. Your charge
against Sherikov. It seems incredible
that a person of his
caliber could ever—”</p>

<p>“We’ll discuss that later,”
Reinhart interrupted coldly. He
pulled the manila envelope from
his coat. “I haven’t had an opportunity
to feed the additional
data to the SRB machines. If
you’ll excuse me, I’ll do that
now.”</p>

<hr class="thoughtbreak" />

<p class="post_thoughtbreak">For a moment Margaret Duffe
stood at the door. The two of
them faced each other silently,
neither speaking, a faint smile
on Reinhart’s thin lips, hostility
in the woman’s blue eyes.</p>

<p>“Reinhart, sometimes I think
perhaps you’ll go too far. And
sometimes I think you’ve <em>already</em>
gone too far….”</p>

<p>“I’ll inform you of any change
in the odds showing.” Reinhart
strode past her, out of the office
and down the hall. He headed
toward the SRB room, an intense
thalamic excitement rising
up inside him.</p>

<p>A few moments later he entered
the SRB room. He made
his way to the machines. The
odds 7-6 showed in the view
windows. Reinhart smiled a
little. 7-6. False odds, based on
incorrect information. Now they
could be removed.</p>

<p>Kaplan hurried over. Reinhart
handed him the envelope, and
moved over to the window, gazing
down at the scene below.
Men and cars scurried frantically
everywhere. Officials coming
and going like ants, hurrying
in all directions.</p>

<p>The war was on. The signal
had been sent out to the warfleet
that had waited so long near
Proxima Centaurus. A feeling
of triumph raced through Reinhart.
He had won. He had destroyed
the man from the past
and broken Peter Sherikov. The
war had begun as planned. Terra
was breaking out. Reinhart
smiled thinly. He had been completely
successful.</p>

<p>“Commissioner.”</p>

<p>Reinhart turned slowly. “All
right.”</p>

<p><a class="pagenum" id="page66" title="66"> </a>Kaplan was standing in front
of the machines, gazing down at
the reading. “Commissioner—”</p>

<p>Sudden alarm plucked at Reinhart.
There was something in
Kaplan’s voice. He hurried
quickly over. “What is it?”</p>

<p>Kaplan looked up at him, his
face white, his eyes wide with
terror. His mouth opened and
closed, but no sound came.</p>

<p>“<em>What is it?</em>” Reinhart demanded,
chilled. He bent toward
the machines, studying the reading.</p>

<p>And sickened with horror.</p>

<p>100-1. <em>Against</em> Terra!</p>

<p>He could not tear his gaze
away from the figures. He was
numb, shocked with disbelief.
100-1. <em>What had happened?</em>
What had gone wrong? The turret
was finished, Icarus was
ready, the fleet had been
notified—</p>

<p>There was a sudden deep buzz
from outside the building.
Shouts drifted up from below.
Reinhart turned his head slowly
toward the window, his heart
frozen with fear.</p>

<p>Across the evening sky a trail
moved, rising each moment. A
thin line of white. Something
climbed, gaining speed each
moment. On the ground, all eyes
were turned toward it, awed
faces peering up.</p>

<p>The object gained speed.
Faster and faster. Then it
vanished. Icarus was on his way.
The attack had begun; it was
too late to stop, now.</p>

<p>And on the machines the odds
read a hundred to one—for
failure.</p>

<p>At eight o’clock in the evening
of May 15, 2136, Icarus was
launched toward the star Centaurus.
A day later, while all
Terra waited, Icarus entered the
star, traveling at thousands of
times the speed of light.</p>

<p>Nothing happened. Icarus disappeared
into the star. There
was no explosion. The bomb
failed to go off.</p>

<p>At the same time the Terran
warfleet engaged the Centauran
outer fleet, sweeping down in a
concentrated attack. Twenty
major ships were seized. A good
part of the Centauran fleet was
destroyed. Many of the captive
systems began to revolt, in the
hope of throwing off the Imperial
bonds.</p>

<p>Two hours later the massed
Centauran warfleet from Armun
abruptly appeared and joined
battle. The great struggle illuminated
half the Centauran
system. Ship after ship flashed
briefly and then faded to ash.
For a whole day the two fleets
fought, strung out over millions
of miles of space. Innumerable
fighting men died—on both sides.</p>

<p>At last the remains of the
battered Terran fleet turned and
<a class="pagenum" id="page67" title="67"> </a>limped toward Armun—defeated.
Little of the once impressive
armada remained. A
few blackened hulks, making
their way uncertainly toward
captivity.</p>

<p>Icarus had not functioned.
Centaurus had not exploded. The
attack was a failure.</p>

<p>The war was over.</p>

<p>“We’ve lost the war,” Margaret
Duffe said in a small
voice, wondering and awed. “It’s
over. Finished.”</p>

<p>The Council members sat in
their places around the conference
table, gray-haired elderly
men, none of them speaking or
moving. All gazed up mutely at
the great stellar maps that
covered two walls of the
chamber.</p>

<p>“I have already empowered
negotiators to arrange a truce,”
Margaret Duffe murmured.
“Orders have been sent out to
Vice-Commander Jessup to give
up the battle. There’s no hope.
Fleet Commander Carleton destroyed
himself and his flagship
a few minutes ago. The Centauran
High Council has agreed to
end the fighting. Their whole
Empire is rotten to the core.
Ready to topple of its own
weight.”</p>

<p>Reinhart was slumped over at
the table, his head in his hands.
“I don’t understand…. <em>Why?</em>
Why didn’t the bomb explode?”
He mopped his forehead shakily.
All his poise was gone. He was
trembling and broken. “<em>What
went wrong?</em>”</p>

<p>Gray-faced, Dixon mumbled
an answer. “The variable man
must have sabotaged the turret.
The SRB machines knew….
They analyzed the data. <em>They
knew!</em> But it was too late.”</p>

<p>Reinhart’s eyes were bleak
with despair as he raised his
head a little. “I knew he’d destroy
us. We’re finished. A century
of work and planning.” His
body knotted in a spasm of
furious agony. “All because of
Sherikov!”</p>

<hr class="thoughtbreak" />

<p class="post_thoughtbreak">Margaret Duffe eyed Reinhart
coldly. “Why because of Sherikov?”</p>

<p>“He kept Cole alive! I wanted
him killed from the start.” Suddenly
Reinhart jumped from his
chair. His hand clutched convulsively
at his gun. “And he’s
<em>still</em> alive! Even if we’ve lost
I’m going to have the pleasure of
putting a blast beam through
Cole’s chest!”</p>

<p>“Sit down!” Margaret Duffe
ordered.</p>

<p>Reinhart was half way to the
door. “He’s still at the Euthanasia
Ministry, waiting for the
official—”</p>

<p>“No, he’s not,” Margaret Duffe
said.</p>

<p>Reinhart froze. He turned
<a class="pagenum" id="page68" title="68"> </a>slowly, as if unable to believe
his senses. “<em>What?</em>”</p>

<p>“Cole isn’t at the Ministry. I
ordered him transferred and
your instructions cancelled.”</p>

<p>“Where—where is he?”</p>

<p>There was unusual hardness
in Margaret Duffe’s voice as she
answered. “With Peter Sherikov.
In the Urals. I had Sherikov’s
full authority restored. I then
had Cole transferred there, put
in Sherikov’s safe keeping. I
want to make sure Cole recovers,
so we can keep our
promise to him—our promise to
return him to his own time.”</p>

<p>Reinhart’s mouth opened and
closed. All the color had drained
from his face. His cheek muscles
twitched spasmodically. At last
he managed to speak. “You’ve
gone insane! The traitor responsible
for Earth’s greatest
defeat—”</p>

<p>“We have lost the war,”
Margaret Duffe stated quietly.
“But this is not a day of defeat.
It is a day of victory. The most
incredible victory Terra has
ever had.”</p>

<p>Reinhart and Dixon were
dumbfounded. “What—” Reinhart
gasped. “What do you—”
The whole room was in an uproar.
All the Council members
were on their feet. Reinhart’s
words were drowned out.</p>

<p>“Sherikov will explain when
he gets here,” Margaret Duffe’s
calm voice came. “He’s the one
who discovered it.” She looked
around the chamber at the incredulous
Council members.
“Everyone stay in his seat. You
are all to remain here until
Sherikov arrives. It’s vital you
hear what he has to say. His
news transforms this whole
situation.”</p>

<hr class="thoughtbreak" />

<p class="post_thoughtbreak">Peter Sherikov accepted the
briefcase of papers from his
armed technician. “Thanks.” He
pushed his chair back and
glanced thoughtfully around the
Council chamber. “Is everybody
ready to hear what I have to
say?”</p>

<p>“We’re ready,” Margaret
Duffe answered. The Council
members sat alertly around
the table. At the far end, Reinhart
and Dixon watched uneasily
as the big Pole removed papers
from his briefcase and carefully
examined them.</p>

<p>“To begin, I recall to you the
original work behind the ftl
bomb. Jamison Hedge was the
first human to propel an object
at a speed greater than light. As
you know, that object diminished
in length and gained in mass as
it moved toward light speed.
When it reached that speed it
vanished. It ceased to exist in
our terms. Having no length it
could not occupy space. It rose
to a different order of existence.</p>

<p><a class="pagenum" id="page69" title="69"> </a>“When Hedge tried to bring
the object back, an explosion occurred.
Hedge was killed, and
all his equipment was destroyed.
The force of the blast was beyond
calculation. Hedge had
placed his observation ship many
millions of miles away. It was
not far enough, however.
Originally, he had hoped his
drive might be used for space
travel. But after his death the
principle was abandoned.</p>

<p>“That is—until Icarus. I saw
the possibilities of a bomb, an
incredibly powerful bomb to destroy
Centaurus and all the
Empire’s forces. The reappearance
of Icarus would mean the
annihilation of their System. As
Hedge had shown, the object
would re-enter space already occupied
by matter, and the cataclysm
would be beyond belief.”</p>

<p>“But Icarus never came back,”
Reinhart cried. “Cole altered the
wiring so the bomb kept on
going. It’s probably still going.”</p>

<p>“Wrong,” Sherikov boomed.
“The bomb <em>did</em> reappear. But it
didn’t explode.”</p>

<p>Reinhart reacted violently.
“You mean—”</p>

<p>“The bomb came back, dropping
below the ftl speed as soon
as it entered the star Proxima.
But it did not explode. There
was no cataclysm. It reappeared
and was absorbed by the sun,
turned into gas at once.”</p>

<p>“Why didn’t it explode?”
Dixon demanded.</p>

<p>“Because Thomas Cole solved
Hedge’s problem. He found a
way to bring the ftl object back
into this universe without collision.
Without an explosion. The
variable man found what Hedge
was after….”</p>

<p>The whole Council was on its
feet. A growing murmur filled
the chamber, a rising pandemonium
breaking out on all
sides.</p>

<p>“I don’t believe it!” Reinhart
gasped. “It isn’t possible. If Cole
solved Hedge’s problem that
would mean—” He broke off,
staggered.</p>

<p>“Faster than light drive can
now be used for space travel,”
Sherikov continued, waving the
noise down. “As Hedge intended.
My men have studied the photographs
of the control turret.
They don’t know <em>how</em> or <em>why</em>,
yet. But we have complete records
of the turret. We can duplicate
the wiring, as soon as
the laboratories have been repaired.”</p>

<p>Comprehension was gradually
beginning to settle over the
room. “Then it’ll be possible to
build ftl ships,” Margaret Duffe
murmured, dazed. “And if we
can do that—”</p>

<p>“When I showed him the control
turret, Cole understood its
purpose. Not <em>my</em> purpose, but
<a class="pagenum" id="page70" title="70"> </a>the original purpose Hedge had
been working toward. Cole realized
Icarus was actually an incomplete
spaceship, not a bomb
at all. He saw what Hedge had
seen, an ftl space drive. He set
out to make Icarus work.”</p>

<p>“We can go <em>beyond</em> Centaurus,”
Dixon muttered. His lips
twisted. “Then the war was
trivial. We can leave the Empire
completely behind. We can go
beyond the galaxy.”</p>

<p>“The whole universe is open
to us,” Sherikov agreed. “Instead
of taking over an
antiquated Empire, we have the
entire cosmos to map and explore,
God’s total creation.”</p>

<p>Margaret Duffe got to her
feet and moved slowly toward
the great stellar maps that
towered above them at the far
end of the chamber. She stood
for a long time, gazing up at the
myriad suns, the legions of
systems, awed by what she saw.</p>

<p>“Do you suppose he realized
all this?” she asked suddenly.
“What we can see, here on these
maps?”</p>

<p>“Thomas Cole is a strange
person,” Sherikov said, half to
himself. “Apparently he has a
kind of intuition about machines,
the way things are supposed to
work. An intuition more in his
hands than in his head. A kind
of genius, such as a painter or
a pianist has. Not a scientist.
He has no verbal knowledge
about things, no semantic references.
He deals with the things
themselves. Directly.</p>

<p>“I doubt very much if Thomas
Cole understood what would
come about. He looked into the
globe, the control turret. He saw
unfinished wiring and relays. He
saw a job half done. An incomplete
machine.”</p>

<p>“Something to be fixed,” Margaret
Duffe put in.</p>

<p>“Something to be fixed. Like
an artist, he saw his work ahead
of him. He was interested in
only one thing: turning out the
best job he could, with the skill
he possessed. For us, that skill
has opened up a whole universe,
endless galaxies and systems to
explore. Worlds without end.
Unlimited, <em>untouched</em> worlds.”</p>

<p>Reinhart got unsteadily to his
feet. “We better get to work.
Start organizing construction
teams. Exploration crews. We’ll
have to reconvert from war
production to ship designing.
Begin the manufacture of mining
and scientific instruments
for survey work.”</p>

<p>“That’s right,” Margaret
Duffe said. She looked reflectively
up at him. “But you’re not
going to have anything to do
with it.”</p>

<p>Reinhart saw the expression
on her face. His hand flew to
his gun and he backed quickly
<a class="pagenum" id="page71" title="71"> </a>toward the door. Dixon leaped
up and joined him. “Get back!”
Reinhart shouted.</p>

<p>Margaret Duffe signalled and
a phalanx of Government troops
closed in around the two men.
Grim-faced, efficient soldiers
with magnetic grapples ready.</p>

<p>Reinhart’s blaster wavered—toward
the Council members sitting
shocked in their seats, and
toward Margaret Duffe, straight
at her blue eyes. Reinhart’s features
were distorted with insane
fear. “Get back! Don’t anybody
come near me or she’ll be the
first to get it!”</p>

<p>Peter Sherikov slid from the
table and with one great stride
swept his immense bulk in front
of Reinhart. His huge black-furred
fist rose in a smashing
arc. Reinhart sailed against the
wall, struck with ringing force
and then slid slowly to the floor.</p>

<p>The Government troops threw
their grapples quickly around
him and jerked him to his feet.
His body was frozen rigid.
Blood dripped from his mouth.
He spat bits of tooth, his eyes
glazed over. Dixon stood dazed,
mouth open, uncomprehending,
as the grapples closed around his
arms and legs.</p>

<p>Reinhart’s gun skidded to the
floor as he was yanked toward
the door. One of the elderly
Council members picked the gun
up and examined it curiously. He
laid it carefully on the table.
“Fully loaded,” he murmured.
“Ready to fire.”</p>

<p>Reinhart’s battered face was
dark with hate. “I should have
killed all of you. <em>All</em> of you!”
An ugly sneer twisted across
his shredded lips. “If I could
get my hands loose—”</p>

<p>“You won’t,” Margaret Duffe
said. “You might as well not
even bother to think about it.”
She signalled to the troops and
they pulled Reinhart and Dixon
roughly out of the room, two
dazed figures, snarling and resentful.</p>

<p>For a moment the room was
silent. Then the Council members
shuffled nervously in their
seats, beginning to breathe
again.</p>

<p>Sherikov came over and
put his big paw on Margaret
Duffe’s shoulder. “Are you all
right, Margaret?”</p>

<p>She smiled faintly. “I’m fine.
Thanks….”</p>

<p>Sherikov touched her soft hair
briefly. Then he broke away and
began to pack up his briefcase
busily. “I have to go. I’ll get in
touch with you later.”</p>

<p>“Where are you going?” she
asked hesitantly. “Can’t you stay
and—”</p>

<p>“I have to get back to the
Urals.” Sherikov grinned at her
over his bushy black beard as
he headed out of the room.
<a class="pagenum" id="page72" title="72"> </a>“Some very important business
to attend to.”</p>

<hr class="thoughtbreak" />

<p class="post_thoughtbreak">Thomas Cole was sitting up
in bed when Sherikov came to
the door. Most of his awkward,
hunched-over body was sealed in
a thin envelope of transparent
airproof plastic. Two robot
attendants whirred ceaselessly
at his side, their leads contacting
his pulse, blood-pressure, respiration,
body temperature.</p>

<p>Cole turned a little as the
huge Pole tossed down his briefcase
and seated himself on the
window ledge.</p>

<p>“How are you feeling?”
Sherikov asked him.</p>

<p>“Better.”</p>

<p>“You see we’ve quite advanced
therapy. Your burns should be
healed in a few months.”</p>

<p>“How is the war coming?”</p>

<p>“The war is over.”</p>

<p>Cole’s lips moved. “Icarus—”</p>

<p>“Icarus went as expected. As
<em>you</em> expected.” Sherikov leaned
toward the bed. “Cole, I promised
you something. I mean to
keep my promise—as soon as
you’re well enough.”</p>

<p>“To return me to my own
time?”</p>

<p>“That’s right. It’s a relatively
simple matter, now that Reinhart
has been removed from
power. You’ll be back home
again, back in your own time,
your own world. We can supply
you with some discs of platinum
or something of the kind to
finance your business. You’ll need
a new Fixit truck. Tools. And
clothes. A few thousand dollars
ought to do it.”</p>

<p>Cole was silent.</p>

<p>“I’ve already contacted histo-research,”
Sherikov continued.
“The time bubble is ready as
soon as you are. We’re somewhat
beholden to you, as you
probably realize. You’ve made it
possible for us to actualize our
greatest dream. The whole planet
is seething with excitement.
We’re changing our economy
over from war to—”</p>

<p>“They don’t resent what happened?
The dud must have made
an awful lot of people feel downright
bad.”</p>

<p>“At first. But they got over
it—as soon as they understood
what was ahead. Too bad you
won’t be here to see it, Cole.
A whole world breaking loose.
Bursting out into the universe.
They want me to have an ftl
ship ready by the end of the
week! Thousands of applications
are already on file, men and
women wanting to get in on the
initial flight.”</p>

<p>Cole smiled a little, “There
won’t be any band, there. No
parade or welcoming committee
waiting for them.”</p>

<p>“Maybe not. Maybe the first
ship will wind up on some dead
<a class="pagenum" id="page73" title="73"> </a>world, nothing but sand and
dried salt. But everybody wants
to go. It’s almost like a holiday.
People running around and
shouting and throwing things in
the streets.</p>

<p>“Afraid I must get back to
the labs. Lots of reconstruction
work being started.” Sherikov
dug into his bulging briefcase.
“By the way…. One little thing.
While you’re recovering here,
you might like to look at these.”
He tossed a handful of schematics
on the bed.</p>

<p>Cole picked them up slowly.
“What’s this?”</p>

<p>“Just a little thing I designed.”
Sherikov arose and
lumbered toward the door.
“We’re realigning our political
structure to eliminate any recurrence
of the Reinhart affair.
This will block any more one-man
power grabs.” He jabbed
a thick finger at the schematics.
“It’ll turn power over to all of
us, not to just a limited number
one person could dominate—the
way Reinhart dominated the
Council.</p>

<p>“This gimmick makes it possible
for citizens to raise and
decide issues directly. They
won’t have to wait for the
Council to verbalize a measure.
Any citizen can transmit his
will with one of these, make his
needs register on a central control
that automatically responds.
When a large enough segment of
the population wants a certain
thing done, these little gadgets
set up an active field that touches
all the others. An issue won’t
have to go through a formal
Council. The citizens can express
their will long before any bunch
of gray-haired old men could
get around to it.”</p>

<hr class="thoughtbreak" />

<p class="post_thoughtbreak">Sherikov broke off, frowning.</p>

<p>“Of course,” he continued
slowly, “there’s one little detail….”</p>

<p>“What’s that?”</p>

<p>“I haven’t been able to get
a model to function. A few bugs….
Such intricate work never
was in my line.” He paused at
the door. “Well, I hope I’ll see
you again before you go. Maybe
if you feel well enough later on
we could get together for one
last talk. Maybe have dinner together
sometime. Eh?”</p>

<p>But Thomas Cole wasn’t
listening. He was bent over the
schematics, an intense frown on
his weathered face. His long
fingers moved restlessly over the
schematics, tracing wiring and
terminals. His lips moved as he
calculated.</p>

<p>Sherikov waited a moment.
Then he stepped out into the
hall and softly closed the door
after him.</p>

<p>He whistled merrily as he
strode off down the corridor.</p>
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