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  New Worlds Science Fiction

  Part One

  August 1954

  Volume 9, No. 26

  Part Two

  September 1954

  Volume 9, No. 27

  Conclusion

  October 1954

  Volume 9, No. 28

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  Jerry eBooks

  May 2016

  NEW WORLDS PROFILES

  Wilson Tucker

  Illinois, U.S.A.

  I am forty years old, the eldest son of poor, but not necessarily honest parents, and I think the present generation is going to hell in a bucket. My grandmother said the same thing of my generation but she was opinionated. I was born in and brought up in Illinois ; the last log cabin having been tom down shortly before I was born, my chances of becoming President were lost,

  I have wanted to write ever since I was a child—ever since the day in fact that I discovered writers made Big Money and wallowed in Prestige. I have been writing now for fourteen years and I am still waiting for my share of both. My first fiction sale was to a science fiction magazine in 1941 and for the following five years I sold short stories at a glorious rate—one a year. I then turned to mystery writing to produce a detective novel. People were kind enough to say polite things about it, so I wrote a second. People soon realised their initial error but it was too late; to date, I have published nine books, five of which are mysteries and the remaining four science fiction.

  I think we will have visitors from space long before we are able to visit them. I also think the military machine will put a rocket on the Moon in the near future, if they haven’t already Beyond that my opinions are practically worthless.

  I.

  1953

  The microphones were dead, had been disconnected for many days. No one cared any more. No one bothered to keep up the pretense. She had angrily broken all the connections, but no punishment had come. The hard decision had been made downstairs, and there was no turning back from that decision—so there would be no retaliation no matter what she did. The sham had been abandoned.

  She spoke aloud, keenly enjoying the novelty of being able to speak without fear of the listening microphones. They couldn’t listen any more; she had smashed the things. She asked a question aloud but didn’t really expect an answer.

  “They intend to kill you? Now? Today—tomorrow?”

  She was a pale, tensed woman who stood beside the window and stared down at the immaculate green lawn three stories below. Figures moved about down there, manlike figures who carefully avoided looking up at the third-floor windows. Strolling puppets, and the other puppets who spied on the puppets. The unnatural whiteness of the young woman’s face, the nervously playing fingers clasped behind her back—these were the only outward indications of her anxiety. She stood erect, tautly waiting and watching at the window, waiting for anything at all to happen.

  “Paul . . .?” He hadn’t heard, wasn’t listening. He was reading again.

  Her resentful gaze followed the puppets on the lawn, judging them, measuring them. An occasional figure in trim military uniform strolled across the well-kept lawn and across her line of vision; sometimes the military figures were accompanied by still other men in civilian clothes. She knew those other men. She knew which of them were security agents and which were staff members of the house, although they strove to intermingle and thus hide their numbers and their identities. She knew who were the clerks who earned on the routine things and who were the government agents watching over the clerks; she knew the cable and wireless operators, the decoding experts, the maids and butlers and cooks and houseboys, the bodyguards. She knew the men who had only recently given up their earphones when she disconnected the listening ears. All of them, all the puppets were like an open book—once the cover was turned they could not hide their secret identities from her. Nor from him, from Paul.

  Without turning from the window she spoke again, raising her voice to carry through his absorbed attention. “Paul—this decision to kill. Is it definite?”

  “Yes.” The man answered absently, his thoughts away. He was immersed in a heavy book.

  “Which one? Who is to do it?” Her quick gaze darted over the strolling men. “Do you know which one?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “I think it may be that new one, they call him Colonel Johns. But I’m not sure.” The woman lifted her eyes from the tended lawn and the trim uniforms to seek the horizon, to seek the high stone wall and the heavy growth of timber that was their enforced horizon. The timber was old and tall and beautiful against the blue Maryland sky, but the wall was new and rough, its top strewn with broken glass and alarm wires. She could see the late afternoon rim of the low-lying sun above the graceful trees, the roseate clouds formed in gentle ridges above the sun and flapping birds blackly silhouetted against the clouds, but her concentrated stare could not penetrate the stone wall. Something else was needed. The wall was new and had been built only a few years before, a disgrace in its picturesque setting. Her eyes could see nothing beyond the wall, nothing in or among the trees although she knew what moved there.

  She knew men were there, just over that wall and scattered among the trees, men who watched and guarded those inside without ever knowing whom they guarded. The snipers crouched in concealing branches, stiff in their long-unmoving positions while below them the machine gunners patrolled the ground in pairs. Wild life was unwelcome, the small game and birds had fled with the coming of the soldiers. Their abrupt, ringed horizon was scarcely a mile from the big house.

  “Colonel Johns,” she mused, her voice now low and emotionless. “He is army, I think. And the others?”

  “A friend of Slater, a hand-picked friend for this job. He’s army—yes.” Paul moved slightly in the chair, the better to catch the light on the book he held. “The rest of them are keeping hands off. Somewhat afraid, I suppose, and not sure it’s the right thing to do. Outwardly they agree with my sentence, but they personally refuse to carry it out.”

  “Colonel Johns came in from Washington a few hours ago.”

  Paul nodded. “Slater was with him.”

  “Here? He’s here in the house now? That is unusual.”

  He nodded over the book. “They brought the decision. I’m sure of that.”

  “From Washington?” she questioned. “From how high up?”

  “No higher than Slater. He made it.” Paul glanced up from the page. “Not what you are thinking—not the top. Top man will be told that I met with an accident, a very common but believable accident. Everyone will express keen regret at my unfortunate demise, crying the tremendous loss to the nation.” He smiled briefly and dryly. “Top man is not an unduly suspicious man. He believes in those he trusts and he’s had no reason to distrust Slater.” His eyes were locked with hers, calm and warm, revealing his affection for her.

  “Paul!” She quickly left the window and crossed the room to him, pushing the book from his hands. Softly and tenderly she raked his cheek with the diamond in her engagement ring. “How can you read . . .?”

  Paul retrieved the book from where it had fallen, awkwardly open. He closed it and put it down on the table beside his chair, to reach out and pull her into his lap.

  “I hadn’t read Robinson before,” he told her, tapping the volume with a finger. “I wanted to finish it.”

  She relaxed in his lap and laid her head on his shoulder, burying her lips on the soft skin just above his collar. “Paul, what if . . .?”

  “Don’t,” he cauti
oned, and glanced by habit at the corners of the ceiling. “Let’s not discuss that.”

  Her answer was muffled against him. “All right.” The lips moved on his neck. “But how can you read!” She put her arm around his head, drawing him closer.

  “Too bad old Robinson isn’t here to witness the answer,” he told her and wrapped his arms about her waist. “He would have enjoyed it, in a way. Someone decided to solve his Situation Thirty.”

  She moved her head. “I don’t know that.”

  “Robinson was a classroom strategist of the military school. He posed problems and the students had to solve them. Among those problems was a classic, one seemingly without an answer, and then he pointed to a solution if anyone dared take it. The student was expected to solve the solution as part of the problem, I gather.

  “Robinson’s problem was a simple one. It consisted of two fighting ships, enemies, who chanced upon one another suddenly in the darkness and then uneasily stood off, watching each other. Neither could attack the other with hope of victory because they were absolute equals; neither could turn and run for port, for such a move would reveal the direction and perhaps the location of that port. All that apparently could be done was to stand and watch until eternity, always waiting for the other to move first.

  “Robinson then advanced to the next step. The men of one ship, in plain view of the other, threw overboard a mysterious hollow sphere which in time drifted across to the second vessel. It was not a mine, obviously, so the second ship took it abroad. The war of nerves then set in, which was the real intention behind the launching of the sphere. The commander of the second ship was afraid to open the sphere for fear such tampering might cause an explosion. Similarly, he was afraid not to open it, for the thing might prove to be a time bomb. And finally, he could not afford to simply throw it back into the water, for it occurred to him that a second contact with the sea might be just the trigger to set it off—if it was a mine. The explosion would take place against the side of his ship. The problem devolves upon man’s imagination and fear of the unknown. The ship’s commander would eventually destroy himself with his own uncertainty, and that collapse might bring about the bloodless victory the first ship awaited.”

  “So he must retaliate,” she offered.

  “He must; he sends back a sphere of his own, and the stalemate is as before. Robinson pointed to the only solution. One commander must set a blowtorch to the sphere and open it, prove it harmless. Either it explodes and sinks him, or it doesn’t and he is free to plan something else. The question is—what else?” Paul hugged her to him. “Downstairs, or in Washington, they’ve at last decided to solve Robinson’s problem. Colonel Johns has probably been chosen as the blowtorch.”

  “How will he do it?” she asked quietly.

  “They don’t know—yet.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight, I think. But before sunrise tomorrow, surely.” She jerked up. “So quick? So soon?”

  Paul echoed her words. “So quick, so soon. While they still have the nerve up.”

  Despite her rigid self-control she found herself shivering. “I can’t help it, Paul. I’m frightened, inside.”

  “Don’t be, angel, don’t be.” He drew her back to him for warmth, to stop her quivering, and pulled her head down on his shoulder. Beyond her the afternoon light was fading from the window.

  As though knowing he was looking out, she said, “It’s a lovely Maryland sunset.”

  “I’ve seen Maryland sunsets. Many of them.”

  “Aren’t you afraid?”

  “Of them? Or what they will do? No. I only regret it, all of it.”

  “Paul, Paul, how did you ever get into all this, why did you ever get mixed up in it?”

  His gaze remained on the sky beyond the window, on the tips of the trees moving slowly against the sky. “A little boy got me into it, a young fellow on the streets of Chicago named Paul Breen. A little boy who knew too much, but not enough to keep his mouth shut, and who wanted to play G-man.”

  “And finished here,” she said bitterly.

  He nodded silent agreement. “And finished here.”

  A little boy who grew up, and finished here in a large old Maryland mansion which resembled nothing so much as an army staff headquarters perpetually on the eve of a major campaign. The uniformed officers constantly parading the well-kept lawn, entering or leaving the house on mysterious errands of their own, or strolling with no apparent purpose. While in and out among them wove a formless pattern of civilians, a clerk, a butler, a radioman or a secret service agent, pretending to be something else. And none of those with knowledge would glance directly at the third-floor windows.

  Beyond the beautiful lawns, beyond the ugly wall were the far woods and more men paraded there, watching the wall and that part of the house that could be seen above the wall; watching the fields in the opposite direction. Nothing moved through the woods in either direction, nothing passed the lines of picketing soldiers. Nothing alive, or lacking a pass. The Maryland mansion represented the tightest security stronghold since the days of the old Manhattan District, more than a decade before. More guarded than Fort Knox, than Oak Ridge or Hanford, than the White House.

  All because a young boy named Paul Breen discovered a wild talent and knew too much and too little.

  Paul broke the silence between them. “I once had a very good friend who guessed this might come. He called me a name and called himself another.”

  “Slater stopped that,” she responded bitterly.

  “Slater stopped them all, one way or another. One by one he robbed me of my friends and—removed them. I owe him something for that.”

  The distant sun sank behind the trees, trees thick with men and guns, giving warning of the coming twilight. The house was fairly quiet with only the subdued talk of many men gathering for a meal, coming in from the outside. Paul spanked the girl lightly, fondly.

  “Dinner should be ready. See about it, will you?”

  She hugged him the tighter, refusing to move. “Oh, Paul!”

  “Now stop that!” he warned. “Don’t lose your head, don’t be panicky. You aren’t included in the decision, so you will have to take care of yourself. Watch for the breaks and use them.”

  “I wish they had included me!”

  “No you don’t.” He touched the ring on her finger. “You aren’t dangerous to them; they know very little of you. They know nothing important. And they used that to keep you here, to keep you quiet.” He moved the ring with the tip of his finger. “Take advantage of it. This will be awfully rough, so take care of yourself.”

  “I don’t care if it is rough. I can take that. I can stand it. I’m not afraid of them.”

  His hand closed around hers, encompassing the ring. “The important thing to remember is that you don’t know anything. The less you know, the longer you will live. You aren’t supposed to know anything about me, about what I’ve been doing here; you know nothing of what is to happen. You’ve never heard of Colonel Johns and what he’s going to do to me. Remember that!”

  “All right, Paul.” She kissed him tenderly. “I’ll remember. And afterward . . .?”

  “Afterward, do just as you planned to do. Watch for a break. When it comes, run for it and don’t stop running. If they catch you . . . well.”

  “They’ll never catch me, Paul. I promise you that.”

  He moved forward in his chair and pushed the girl toward the edge of his lap. “I’m hungry. Please see what’s holding up dinner.”

  She struggled to retain her seat, tried to kiss him once more but he stood up, laughing. “Move! I’m starving.”

  She gained her footing, winked a secret thought to him and crossed over to the apartment door. Her outstretched hand hesitated on the knob and she looked over her shoulder for a quick, fond glance. “I’m glad you love me, Paul.” And opened the door.

  She remained there for long frozen seconds with the door half open, staring into the corridor outside, s
taring at someone beyond his line of vision. Her hand flew to her mouth to shut off a scream and when she turned to him her face was flushed and frightened.

  “Be careful!” he shot at her. “Know nothing!”

  “Paul . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “It has been very lovely knowing you, darling,” she whispered. “Good-bye.”

  And she was gone from the doorway, roughly shoved aside by a tall, ponderous man who seemed every inch the suave man of distinction. The newcomer was not in uniform, but he could not discard his military bearing. He stepped quickly into the room and shut the door behind him with a forceful, positive action.

  Paul did not move from the chair. “Colonel Johns?”

  “Since you know my name already—yes.”

  “Please come in.”

  “I am in.” Briskly.

  “Thank you. I’ve sent down for dinner. Will you join us?”

  “No. And it will not come.”

  “Oh?” Paul relaxed in the chair with one hand resting lightly on the volume of Robinson. “Now . . .?”

  “Now,” the colonel echoed bluntly. He remained at the door, braced against it. “And I shall dispense with the formalities.” He pulled a service automatic from under his coat. “There will be none of this nonsense with last meals and last words. If you know my name, you also must know I have the same regard for you as I do for a snake. I hate snakes.” He raised the gun to eye level, taking careful sight on Paul.

  Paul Breen still did not move from the chair. “There is nothing I can say?” he asked quietly.

  “Nothing. It is decided.” The finger tightened on the trigger.

  “Then I am sorry for you. Good-bye, Colonel Johns.”

  The barrel of the gun flipped in a quick arc and exploded into flame. The walls were soundproofed. Not even the deadened microphones carried the sound of the booming shot.

  II.

  1934

  Paul Breen was thirteen years old, he had seven dollars and fifty cents tightly wrapped in a handkerchief stuffed down in his pocket, and he was going to the Fair. No wealthier, happier human existed on the planet. Chicago was a hundred and thirty miles away and the bus fare was quoted at more than two dollars. That was too much. Paul waited in the railroad yards for the freight train that passed through every morning just before noon.