Produced by Greg Weeks, Barbara Tozier and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe, September 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
_John Victor Peterson lives in Jackson Heights, almost a stone's throw from La Guardia Airfield. But he doesn't just stand and watch the big planes roar past overhead. He has the kind of brilliant technical know-how which makes what goes on inside of a plane of paramount interest to him. He's interested, too, in the future superduper gadgetry, as this hilarious yarn attests._
POLITICAL APPLICATION
_by ... John Victor Peterson_
If matter transference really works--neanderthalers can pop up anywhere. And that's very hard on politicians!
Some say scientists should keep their noses out of politics. Bensonsays it's to prevent damage to their olfactory senses. Benson's aphysicist.
I've known Allan Benson for a long time. In fact I've bodyguarded himfor years and think I understand him better than he does himself. Andwhen he shook security at White Sands, my boss didn't hesitate to tellme that knowing Benson as I do I certainly shouldn't have let him skipoff. Or crisp words to that effect.
The pressure was on. Benson was seeking a new fuel--or a way ofcompressing a known fuel--to carry a torchship to Mars. His loss couldmean a delay of decades. We knew he'd been close, but not _how_ close.
My nickname's Monk. I've fought it, certainly, but what can you dowhen a well-wishing mother names you after a wealthy uncle and yourbirth certificate says Neander Thalberg? As early as high school somebright pundit noted the name's similarity to that of a certainprehistoric man. Unfortunately the similarity is not in name alone:I'm muscular, stooped, and, I must admit, not handsome hero modelmaterial.
Well, maybe the nickname's justified, but still, Al Benson didn't haveto give the crowning insult. And yet, if he hadn't, there probablywouldn't be a torchship stern-ending on Mars just about now.
C. I. (Central Intelligence, that is) at the Sands figured Bensonwould head for New York. Which is why the boss sent me here. Iregistered in a hotel in the 50's and, figuring that whatever Bensonintended to do would have spectacular results, I kept the stereo onNews.
Benson's wife hadn't yielded much info. Sure she described the clotheshe was wearing and said he'd taken nothing else except an artist'scase. What was in that was anybody's guess; his private lab is such ajumble nobody could tell what, if anything, was missing.
C. I. knew his political feelings. Seems he'd been talking wild aboutthe upcoming presidential election and had sworn he'd nip thedraft-Cadigan movement in the bud. Cadigan's Mayor of New York City.He's anti-space. In fact, Cadigan's anti just about everything inscience except intercontinental missiles. Strictly for defense, ofcourse. Cadigan says.
* * * * *
A weathercaster was making rash promises on the stereo when the potraydinged. The potray? I certainly wasn't expecting mail. Only C. I. knewwhere I was and they'd have closed-circuited me on visio if theywanted contact.
The potray dinged and there was a package in it.
Now matter transference I knew. It put mailmen out of business.There's a potray in every domicile and you can put things in it, dialthe destination and they come out there. They come out the same sizeand weight and in the same condition as they went in, provided theydidn't go in alive. Life loses, as many a shade of a hopeful guineapig could relate.
So the potray dinged and here was this package. At first glance itlooked like one of those cereal samples manufacturers have beeneverlastingly sending through since postal rates dropped after cost ofthe potrays had been amortized. But cereal samples don't come throughat midday; they're night traffic stuff.
The package was light, its wrapping curiously smooth. There was anenvelope attached with my correct name and potray number. Whoever hadmailed it must be in C. I. or must know someone in C. I. who knewwhere I was.
The postmark was blurred but I could make out that it had been castfrom Grand Central. Time didn't matter. It couldn't have been castmore than a microsecond earlier.
The envelope contained a card upon which was typed:
"Caution! Site on cylinder of 2 ft. radius and 6 ft. height. Unwrap atarmslength."
Now what? A practical joke? If so, it must be Benson's work. He'splayed plenty, from pumping hydrogen sulphide (that's rotten egg gas,as you know) into the air-conditioning system at high school tocalling a gynecologist to the launching stage at the Sands to sever anumbilical cord which he neglected to say was on a Viking rocket.
I followed the instructions. As I bent back the first fold of thestrange wrapping it came alive, unfolding itself with incredibleswiftness.
Something burst forth like a freed djinn--almost instantaneouslylengthening, spreading--a thing with beetling brows, low, broadforehead, prognathous jaw, and a hunched, brutally muscular body, witha great club over its swollen shoulder.
I went precipitously backward over a coffee table.
It stabilized, a dead mockery, replica of a Neanderthal.
A placard hung on its chest. I read this:
"Even some of the early huntsmen weren't successful. Abandon thechase, Monk. I've things to do and this--your blood brother, nodoubt--couldn't catch me any more than you can!"
Which positively infuriated me.
Do you blame me?
A few cussing, cussed minutes later I realized what Al Benson hadapparently done: solved the torchship's fuel problem.
Oh, I'd seen Klein bottles and Mobius strips and other things thattwist in on themselves and into other dimensions, twisting intomicrocosms and macrocosms--into elsewhere, in any event. And here Ihad visual evidence that Benson had had something nearly six feet talland certainly two feet in breadth enclosed in a nearly weightlesscarton less than eight inches on the side!
Sufficient fuel for a Marstrip? Just wrap it up!
The stereo's audio was saying: "... from the Museum of NaturalHistory. Curators are compiling a list of the missing exhibits whichwe will reveal to you on this channel as soon as it's available. Nowwe switch to Dick Joy at City Hall with news of the latest exhibitfound. Come in, Dick!"
On the steps of City Hall was a full size replica of a mastodon overwhose massive back was draped a banner bearing the slogan: "TheUniversal Party is for you! Don't return to prehistory with Cadigan!Re-elect President Ollie James and go to the stars!"
And there was a closeup of Mayor Cadigan standing pompous andwrathful--and looking very diminutive--behind the emblem of hisopposition party.
Dick Joy was saying, "Eyewitnesses claim that this replica--obviouslyone of the items stolen from the Museum of Natural History--suddenlymaterialized here. Immediately prior to the alleged materialization aman--whose photograph we show now--ostensibly bent down to tie ashoelace, setting a shoebox beside him. He left the box, walking offinto the gathering crowd, and this mastodon _seemed_ to spring intobeing where the shoebox had been.
"The mastodon replica has been examined. A report just handed me saysit is definitely that from the Museum and that it could notconceivably have been contained in a shoebox. It's obviously a case ofmass hypnotism. The replica must have been trucked here. There's noother possible explanation. Excuse me!"
Dick Joy turned away, then back.
"I have just been handed a notice that Mayor Cadigan wishes to say afew words and I hereby introduce him, His Honor the Mayor, Joseph F.Cadigan!"
His balding, fragmentarily curly-haired Honor glared.
"Friends," he said chokingly, "whatever madman is responsible for thisoutrageous act will not go unpunished. I
call upon the City's Finestto track him down and bring him to justice.
"I am for justice, for equality and peace. I--"
His Honor was apparently determined to use all the time he could.Being a newscast, it was for free.
I killed the stereo. And the visio rang. It was Phil Pollini, the C.I. Chief.
"Monk," he said, "guess you've seen the stereo. Al's out to fix theMayor's wagon."
"Say that again," I said, having a brainstorm.
"Now, look--" he started.
"Maybe you've got something there, Chief," I cut in. "Cadigan's gotthe superduper of all wagons--a seven passenger luxury limousine withbulletproof glass, stereo, a bar, venetian blinds and heaven knowswhat else. Hot and cold running androids, maybe. He prowls theelevated highways with an 'In Conference' sign flashing over thewindshield. So's he can't be wire-tapped or miked, I guess. It'd be anatch for Al Benson to go for."
Pollini grinned.
"So if you were Benson what'd you do to fix the Mayor's wagon?"
"Hitch it to a star," I said, "and the closest spot to a star would bethe observation platform of the Greater Empire State."
"You're probably right," the Chief said. "Get going!"
I got.
Ten minutes later I walked out onto the observation platform on the150th floor of the Greater Empire State Building--and found anincredulous crowd gathered around the mayor's limousine. I felt good.I'd predicted.
I asked a guard, "How'd it get here?"
His eyebrows were threatening a back somersault.
"Don't know," he said. "I was looking over the side; then turnedaround and here it was! You have any ideas?"
Which is when I spotted Al Benson.
I settled for shoving Benson toward the elevator, being careful sincehe had a box under each arm. We made the elevator and went down and itstopped on the 120th floor and the operator said, "Change here for alllower floors and the street--"
As we waited on the 120th for the down elevator, the P. A. systembarked:
"Attention all building occupants. By order of the Mayor no one willbe permitted to leave the building until further notice. Please remainwhere you are. We will try not to inconvenience you for any greattime."
There was no one close to us.
"Al," I said, "look, stinker, you've had your fun but this is it. Idon't know what you've got in those boxes but you've got to turn themover--and yourself--to the next copper who shows. This is a civilmatter, strictly local, and not C. I."
Benson grinned. "Got to make a delivery first, Monk. Look, there's apotray over there. Can I use it?"
His grin was infectious. "So what are you going to send where?" Iasked as sternly as I could.
"The Mayor's personal files," he said. "I managed to carry them out ofCity Hall--once they'd been suitably wrapped, of course! I'm sendingthem to the Senate Investigation Committee. Don't worry, Monk, HisHonor won't be President this or any year!"
I helped him dial the SIC number.
"What about the other package?" I asked him then.
"Insurance," he said. "Come out on the setback."
He placed the last package on the mosaic tile of the terrace, untiedits string, flipped open the edge of the Benson wrapping and jumpedback.
It was an NYC police helicopter.
We potrayed it back from the Sands. Suitably wrapped, of course.
That was a month ago. Most of it never came out in the papers. Nothingof Benson's invention. C. I. thought it should be squelched, at leastuntil Benson and the boys get back from Mars.
Which would be the end except for the packages. Yes, Benson left agross of them with me and I've been mailing them one a day to theleaders of the opposition party. I don't truly know what's in them, ofcourse. But it's very curious that the day before the torchship leftexactly one hundred and forty-four cylinders of hydrogen sulphide weremissing from quartermaster stores. Coincidentally one of my C. I.friends tells me Benson had him rig up a gross of automatic releasesfor gas cylinders.
Adding it up, it could be a good lesson for politicians to keep theirnoses out of science.