Final Weapon by Everett B. Cole (1955)

Posted on March 2nd, 2008

The beautification program was progressing well. Twenty miles of the old main highway through the valley had been completely cleared and planted. Crews were working on another stretch. The foreman of the wrecking crew down at the point, in Sector Nine, reported that the last bit of scrap had been removed from the old bridge support. Underwater crews had salvaged the cables and almost all of the metal from the fallen bridge itself, and the scrap was on the beach, ready for delivery to the reclamation mills in District One.

Morely smiled sourly. Harwood would have a storage problem on his hands in a day or so. The delay in delivery could be explained and justified. Morely had seen to that. Now, all the material was ready and could be delivered in one lot.

Harwood would have to raise his production quota in his community mills to use up the excess material, and that would slow down the clean-up in District One. The Old Man couldn’t help but notice, and he’d see who was efficient in his region. The district leader pushed the memo sheets aside and placed his hands behind his head.

Slowly, he pivoted his chair, to look at the entertainment screen. He started to energize it, then drew his hand back.

So that crackpot, Graham, had finally come up with something definite. Morely smiled again. It had almost seemed as though the man had been stalling for a while. But the pressure and the veiled threats had been productive—again.

To be sure, the agents covering that project had reported that the device seemed to be merely another fairly good means of communication—nothing of any tremendous importance. But results had been obtained, and a communicator which was reasonably free from interception and which required relatively low power might be of some value to the community. He might be able to get a commendation out of it, at least.

And even if it were unsuitable for defense, there’d be a new product for one of the luxury products plants in the district, and the district would get royalties from the manufacturer. Too, it would keep people busy and make ‘em spend more of their credits.

He grimaced at his vague reflection in the screen before him, and spoke aloud.

“That’s the way to get things done. Make ‘em know who’s in charge. And let ‘em know that no nonsense will be tolerated. Breathe down their necks a little. They’ll produce.” He cleared his throat and spun around, to punch the button on his desk.

The door opened and the clerk stood, respectfully awaiting orders.

“Send in Bond and the people with him.”

The clerk stepped back, turning his head.

“You may go in now, sir.” He disappeared around the door.

Harold Bond stepped through the doorway, followed by two men. Morely looked at them closely. Engineers, he thought.

“What have you got?” he demanded.

One of the men opened a briefcase and removed a large, dully gleaming band. Apparently, it was made of plastic, or some light alloy, for he handled it as though it weighed very little.

As the man laid it on the desk, Morely examined the object closely. It was large enough to go on a man’s head, he saw. It had adjustable straps, which could be used to hold it in place, and there were a few spring-loaded contacts, which apparently were meant to rest against a wearer’s forehead and temples.

A few tiny knobs protruded from one side of the band, and a short wire, terminated by a miniature plug, depended from the other.

The engineer dipped into his brief case again, to produce a small, flat case with a long wire leading from it. He put this by the headband, and connected the plugs.

“The band, sir,” he explained, “is to be worn on the head.” He pointed to the flat case. “To save weight in the band, we built a separate power unit. It can be carried in a pocket. We’ve tested the unit, sir, and it does provide a means of private communication with anyone within sight, or with a group of people. Two people, wearing the headbands, can communicate for considerable distances, regardless of obstacles.”

“I see.” Morely picked up the headband. “Do you have more than one of these?”

“Yes, sir. We made four of the prototypes and tested them thoroughly.” Bond stepped forward. “I sent a report in on them yesterday.”

“Yes, yes. I know.” Morely waved impatiently. He examined the headband again. “And you say it provides communication?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No chance of interception?”

Bond shook his head. “Well,” he admitted, “if two people are in contact, and a third equipped person wishes to contact either one, he can join the conversation.”

“So, it’s easier to tap than a cable circuit, or even a security type radio circuit.” Morely frowned. “Far from a secure means of communication.”

“Well, sir, if anyone cuts in on a communication, both parties know it immediately.”

Morely grunted and shook his head. “Still not secure,” he growled. He looked at the papers on his desk. “Oh, put one on. We’ll see how they work.” He leaned back in his chair.

Bond turned to the man with the brief case, who held out another headband. The sector leader fitted it to his head, plugged in the power supply and looked around the room. Finally, he glanced at his superior. A shadow of uncertainty crossed his face, followed by a quickly suppressed expression of distaste.

Morely watched him. “Well?” he demanded impatiently, “I don’t feel or see anything unusual.”

“Of course not, sir,” explained Bond smoothly. “You haven’t put on the other headband yet.”

“Oh? I thought you could establish communication with only one headset, so long as you were in the same room.”

Bond smiled ingratiatingly. “Only sometimes, sir. Some people are more susceptible than others.”

“I see.” Morely looked again at the headband, then set it on his head. One of the engineers hurried forward to help him with the power pack, and he looked around the room, becoming conscious of slight sensations of outside thought. As he glanced at the engineers, he received faint impressions of anxious interest.

“Can you receive me, sir?”

Morely looked at Bond. The younger man was staring at him with an intense expression on his face. The district leader started to speak, then remembered and simply thought the words.

“Of course I can. Didn’t you expect results?”

“Oh, certainly, sir. Do you want me to go outside for a further test?”

The headband was bothering Morely a little. Unwanted impressions seemed to be hovering about, uncomfortably outside the range of recognition. He took the device off and looked at it again.

“No,” he said aloud. “It won’t be necessary. It’s obvious to me that this thing will never be any good for practical application in any community communications problem. It’s too vague. But it’ll make an interesting toy, I suppose. Some people might like it as a novelty, and it’ll give them some incentive to do extra work in order to own one. That’s what luxury items are for. And the district can use any royalty funds it may generate.”

He laid the headband on his desk. “Go ahead and produce a few samples. Offer the designs to Graham’s employer. He can offer them on the luxury market, if he wishes, and we’ll see what they do. If people want them, it might be profitable, both for the district and for Consolidated.” He shrugged.

“No telling what’ll make people spend their credits.” He started to nod a dismissal, then hesitated.

“Oh, yes. I think I’ll keep this one,” he added. “And you might leave a couple more. The regional director might be amused by them.”

He accepted the two headbands and their power packs, put them in a desk drawer, and sat back to watch the three men leave the office.

After the door closed, he still sat, idly staring at the headband on his desk. He put it on his head again, then sat, looking about the room. There was no unusual effect, and he took the band off again, looked at it sourly, and laid it down.

Somehow, when Bond and those other two had been in the room, he had sensed a vague feeling of expectancy. Those three had seemed to be enthusiastic and hopeful about something, he was sure. But he failed to see what. This headband certainly showed him nothing.

He stared at the band for a while longer, then put it back on and punched the call button on his desk. As his clerk came into sight, he watched the man closely. There was a slight effect. He could sense a vague fear. And a little, gnawing hatred. But nothing was definite, and no details of thought came through. He shrugged.

Of course the man was fearful. He probably was reviewing his recent mistakes, wondering which one he might be called upon to explain. Too bad his mind wasn’t clear enough to read. But what could you expect? Possibly, he could drive Research into improving the device later.

“Anyway,” he told himself, “everyone has something they’re afraid of. It’s natural. And everyone has their pet hates, too.” For an instant, he thought of Harwood.

He focused his mind on a single thought. “Get me the quarters file for Sector Nine.”

There was a definite effect this time. There was a sharp radiation of pained surprise. Then, there was acquiescence. The clerk started to say something, then backed toward the door. The impression of fear intensified. Morely smiled sardonically. The thing was an amusing toy, at that. He might find uses for it.

He sat back, thinking. He could use it as a detector. Coupled with shrewd reasoning, well-directed questions, and his own accurate knowledge of human failings, it could tell him a great deal about his people and their activities.

For instance, a question about some suspicious circumstance would cause a twinge of fear from the erring person. And that could be detected and localized. Further questions would produce alternate feelings of relief and intensified fear. He nodded complacently. Very little had ever gotten by him, he thought. But from now on, no error would remain undiscovered or unpunished.

The clerk returned to place the file drawers convenient to his superior’s desk. He hesitated a moment, his eyes on the headband, then picked up the completed papers from the desk and went out.

Morely riffled through the cards, idly checked a few against his notes, and leaned back again. The file section seemed to be operating smoothly. He looked at his desk. Everything that had to be done immediately was done. And the morning was hardly more than half over.

He rose to his feet. Surely, somewhere in the headquarters, there must be some sort of trouble spot. Somewhere, someone was not producing to the fullest possible. There must be some loose end. And he’d find it. He went out, jerking a thumb back at his office as he passed his clerk’s desk.

“You can pick up those files again, Roberts. And see to it that my office gets cleaned up a little. I won’t be back for a while.”

He went out, to walk down the corridor to the snack bar.

There were a few girls there. He walked by their table, glancing at their badges. Communications people. He nodded to himself, ordered coffee, and chose a table.

As he glanced at the girls’ table, he could detect a current of uneasiness. They’d probably been fooling away more time than they should. Too bad he couldn’t get more definite information from their thoughts. Like to know just how long they had been there. He tilted his wrist, taking a long look at his watch. The current of uneasiness increased. No doubt to it, they’d been more than ten minutes already.

The girls hurriedly finished their coffee and left. Morely sipped at his own cup.

At last, he got up and went out. Might be a good idea to visit the Fixed Communications Section. Looked as though there might be a little laxity there.

As he walked down the corridor, he mentally reviewed the operation of communications. There was Fixed Communications, responsible for communicator service to all the offices and quarters in the district, as well as to the various commercial organizations. There were also Mobile Comm, Warning, Long Lines, and Administrative Radio.

Of these, the largest was Fixed Communications, with its dial equipment, its banks of video amplifiers, the network of cables, and the substation equipment. It would take days to thoroughly check all their activities. But the office was the key to the entire operation. He could check their records, and get a clue to their efficiency. And he could question the section chief.

He took the elevator to the communications level and walked slowly along the hallway, glancing at the heavy steel door leading to Warning as he passed it. That could be checked later, though there would be little point to it.

It had always annoyed him to think of the operators in that section. They simply sat around, doing nothing but watch their screens and keep their few, piddling records. They did nothing productive, but they had to be retained. Actually, he had to admit, they were a necessity under present conditions. War was always a possibility and the enemy was building up his potential. He might strike at any time, and he’d certainly not send advance notification. If he did strike, the warning teams would perform their brief mission, alerting the active, working members of the defense groups. Then, they would be available for defense. And the defense coördinators required warning teams and equipment in prescribed districts. His was one of these.

He grumbled to himself. Even the number of operators and their organization were prescribed. This was a section, right within his own district, where he had little authority. And it was irritating. Drones, that’s what they were.

He continued to the Fixed Communications office. Here, at least, he had authority.

He walked through the door, casting a quick glance at the office as he entered. The section chief got up from his chair, and came forward. Morely felt a little glow of satisfaction as he detected the now familiar aura of uneasiness. Again, he wished this device he wore were more effective. He would like to know the details of this man’s thoughts.

“Good morning, sir.” The Fixed Communication chief saluted.

Morely returned the salute perfunctorily, then examined the man critically.

“Morning,” he acknowledged. “Kirk, I want you to get some new uniforms. You look like a rag bag.”

A little anger was added to the uneasiness. Kirk looked down at his clothing. It wasn’t new, but there was actually little wrong, other than the slight smudge on a trouser leg, and a few, small spots of dullness on his highly polished boots.

“I’ve been inspecting some cable vaults, sir,” he explained. “We had a little trouble, due to ground seepage.”

“It makes no difference,” the district leader snorted, “what you’ve been doing. A man in your position should be properly attired at all times.” He paused, looking Kirk over minutely. “If your cable vaults are in such bad condition, get them cleaned up. When I look your installations over, I shall expect them to be clean. Clean, and in order.”

He looked beyond Kirk. “And get that desk cleared. A competent man works on one thing at a time and keeps his work in order. A place for everything, and everything in its place, you know. You don’t need all that clutter. Is the rest of your office as disorderly as this?”

He looked disparagingly about the small room, then turned toward the door to the main communications office. Kirk moved to open the door.

At one side of the large office was a battery of file cabinets. Four desks were arranged conveniently to them. Morely looked at this arrangement.

“What’s this?”

“Billing and Directory, sir. These are the master files of all fixed communication subscribers. From them, we make up the semiannual directory, its corrective supplements, and the monthly bills.”

Morely frowned at the desks and files, then looked at the clerks, who were bent over their desks. As one of the girls straightened momentarily, he recognized her. He’d seen her earlier, in the snack bar. He looked more closely at her desk. She had reason, he thought for that radiation of uncertain fear he could sense.

“What’s in those files?” he demanded.

“It’s a complete index to all subscribers, sir.” Kirk looked a little surprised. Morely recognized that the man thought the question a little foolish. He cleared his throat growlingly.

“Let’s see one of those cards.”

Kirk walked to the file, pulled a small envelope at random, and held it out. The district leader examined it.

“Hah!” he snorted. “I thought so. Duplication of effort. This has nothing on it that isn’t in my quarters and locator files.”

“There’s billing information on the back, sir,” Kirk, pointed out. “And current charge slips are kept in the envelope. We use these to prepare the subscriber bills, as well as to maintain the directory service. It’s a convenience file, to speed up our work.”

Morely turned the envelope over in his hands. “Oh, yes.” He opened the envelope, to look at the slips inside. “How do you get the information for these?”

“The charge slips come from Long Lines, sir.” Kirk paused. “We get billing information for basic billing from the counters in the dial machine. The other information comes from installation reports and from the quarters file section and the locator files.”

Morely handed the envelope back.

“I can see, Kirk,” he said, “that you’ve built up a whole subsection of unnecessary people here.” He stepped over to the file cabinets, examined their indices, then pulled a drawer open. He pulled his notebook out, consulted its entries, and searched out an envelope. For a moment, he compared it with the notebook. Then, he turned, holding out the envelope.

“And you don’t even keep your information current,” he accused. “This man was transferred yesterday afternoon, to another sector. You still show him at his old quarters, with his old communicator code.”

“We haven’t that information from Files yet, sir,” protested Kirk. “They send us a consolidated list of changes daily, but it generally doesn’t come in till thirteen hundred.”

Morely dropped the envelope on one of the desks.

“Quarters Files can handle this entire operation,” he declared, “with a little help from Fiscal. And they can handle it far better than your people here.” He stopped for a moment, thinking, then continued. “Certainly,” he decided, “Fiscal can take care of your billing. They handle the funds anyway, in the final analysis. And you can coördinate your directory work with the chief clerk at Files. You’ve got excess people here, Kirk. We don’t need any of them.”

He looked at the desks and felt a wave of consternation. Kirk spread his hands.

“But we have the information we need close at hand, sir. Our directory has been coming out on time, and in accurate condition. And our billing is well organized. The directory and billing are my respons—”

Morely waved a hand, then tapped himself on the chest with a long forefinger. “The entire operation of this headquarters is my responsibility, Kirk,” he said positively, “and mine alone. And I mean to take care of it. You’re responsible to me that Fixed Communications are kept in order, and I don’t mean to relieve you of a bit of that responsibility. But I won’t have you making jobs and wasting funds on excess personnel.” He snorted. “Convenience files are all right. But they’re meant to save work, not make it.”

Kirk shook his head. “A decentralization will make it difficult,” he began.

Again, Morely cut him off. “Don’t start telling me why you can’t do something,” he snapped. “Work out a way you can do it. Make up plans for transferring this filing function to Quarters Files, and work up a plan for transferring your billing to Fiscal. That’s their business, and they know how to handle it. Submit your study to me this afternoon.” He looked around the office again.

“The people in Files and Fiscal can handle this workload without adding a single person. And they will. You’re using four clerks to swing it. Kirk, I want this organization to run efficiently, and excess personnel don’t lead to economic operation.” He stared at the section chief.

“Give these four people their notices today, and I’ll expect some suggestions from you as to further streamlining of your section within the next two days. And be sure they’re sound suggestions, which result in personnel savings. Otherwise, I’ll be looking for a new section chief up here.”

For a few seconds, he stood, enjoying the waves of consternation and futile anger which beat about him. Almost, he could pick up some of the despairing thoughts in detail. The clerks, of course, were second-class citizens. And without employment, they’d soon lose their luxury privileges. Unless they were fortunate enough to find other employment very soon, they’d have to move to subsistence quarters, and learn to do without all but the most meagre of food, clothing, and shelter. When they did get employment again, they’d appreciate it. He looked majestically around the office once more, then turned and strode away.

He went through the corridor to the elevator, and stepped in, smiling contentedly. The morning hadn’t been entirely wasted.

As he got out of the elevator on executive level, he glanced at his watch. It wasn’t quite time for lunch, but there would be little point in spending the few remaining minutes in his office. He walked slowly toward the executive cafeteria.

After lunch, he returned to his office. A few matters awaited his examination and decision, and he busied himself for a short time, disposing of them. He paused over the last.

It was a request from Kirk for more cable construction. The justification showed figures which indicated an increase in executive type communications during the past few months. This, coupled with new quarters construction, necessitated additions to the cable trunks from the main exchange. There was added a short survey of necessary repair to existing cable facilities.

Morely leaned back. If he approved the request, he would be helping Kirk increase his section. On the other hand, if he disapproved it, and the communicator lines became congested, he might find himself open to criticism later. Some of his satisfaction evaporated. He looked sourly at the paper.

Suddenly, he thought of Bond’s new project. The man had claimed this device could serve as a communication means between its wearers, and had demonstrated that his claim had some truth. After noting the slight fatigue the device seemed to cause in this application, and the vagueness of the device’s operation, Morely had disregarded the claim. But junior executives could put up with a little fatigue and inconvenience. And he could see that they did. It might even cut down the time they were always wasting, talking with one another. He rubbed his chin with one hand.

“Well,” he told himself, “let’s see how it works.”

From the way Bond had acted in his office, the sector leader might be still wearing his headband. In fact, he probably was. Morely concentrated on the man, then concentrated on a single, peremptory thought.

“Bond! Can you receive me?”

The answer was prompt. “Yes, sir. You wanted me?”

“Of course, Idiot. Why do you think I called? Do you really believe these things would be suitable for routine communication? Could they supplement our normal system?”

“Certainly, sir. They should be very effective.”

“Have you offered them to Consolidated yet?”

“Yes, sir. They’ve accepted them. They’re beginning to tool up for production.”

Morely winced. He had given the order, to be sure—and before creditable witnesses. Bond had been right in taking immediate action, and his speed would have been commendable in most cases. But this time, Morely regretted his subordinate’s efficiency. It was possible the devices might have a practical use after all. Possibly he had been hasty in releasing them to the open market. He shrugged away his thoughts. After all, an administrator had to make quick decisions. He returned to his unusual conversation.

“Set up a line in research and make up sufficient of those communicators to outfit the executive personnel of this district.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And give me delivery as soon as you possibly can. How soon will that be?”

“We can do it in five days, sir.”

“Make it three. That’s all.”

Morely took off his headband. It wasn’t as good as a communicator sphere, but it would be good enough. He looked at the request from Communications. Possibly, he would be able to cut Kirk down still more. He scrawled a “disapproved” on the sheet and initialed it. He started to toss the sheet to the corner of his desk, then hesitated.

Drawing the request back to him, he added: “Two subjects on same request. Resubmit as separate requests.” He tossed the sheet to the desk corner, for the clerk to pick up. Let Kirk make up new requests, then worry about why his new construction request was still disapproved. He could always be advised to resubmit later, if the headbands didn’t work out.

Miles away, Bond turned to an engineer.

“Tool up and start producing these communicators as fast as you can make ‘em, Morris. I’ll tell you when to stop. The Old Man just ordered a batch of ‘em, and this is one order I want to comply with, and fast!”

He walked toward the small production office. Let’s see, he had to produce enough for all the exec personnel in the district. Have to start finding out just how many of those guys there were.

“Make delivery as soon as possible, huh? Cut my estimate by two days? I’ll have ‘em out over night, if I have to start driving people to do it.”

Morely looked up as the communicator beeped. He reached to the control panel and touched the switch. The face of his deputy appeared in the sphere.

“The section chiefs and field leaders are in the conference room, sir.”

“Very good.” Morely pushed back his chair. “I’ll be right in.”

He stepped through the door and crossed the outer office to the conference room. As he entered, there was a rustle of motion. The section chiefs and field leaders stood at attention around the table, waiting. At each place at the table was a blank notepad. The district leader went immediately to the head of the table and sat down.

“Gentlemen,” he began, “I’ll make this short. I’ve called you in to try out a new device which I intend to use to help solve the ever-present problem of communication.” He looked toward Ward Kirk, who had glanced up in surprise.

“From time to time,” he continued, “requests for more and more communicator lines have been coming in to my office. Since no one else seemed to be able to do anything about it, I decided it was time for me to step in. After all, we can’t expand our cables indefinitely. We haven’t unlimited funds at our disposal and there are other projects demanding attention. Important projects.

“A new electronic development has come to my attention, and it promises to relieve the load on our communicators. Each of you will be issued one of these devices, which I believe are called ‘mental communicators,’ or something of the sort. And you will draw sufficient of them to outfit those of your people who have occasion to use communication to any large degree. You will use them for all routine communications.” He nodded to his deputy, who stepped to the door and beckoned.

Two men came in, carrying cartons, which they distributed around the room. Morely waited until one of the cartons was in the hands of each of the men before him, then he reached up to touch the headband he was wearing.

“This is the device I’m speaking of,” he said. “Each of you will wear one of these at all times while you are on duty. You will find, after a little practice, that you will be able to call any associate who is similarly equipped. And you will use them in place of the conventional communications whenever possible.” He cleared his throat raspingly.

“Sufficient of these devices have been produced to outfit all the key people of this district. I shall leave it to you to distribute them to your subordinates, and to instruct those subordinates in their use. And I shall expect the load on our communicator cables to be appreciably diminished.” He looked to one side of the room.

“Bond.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will instruct those present in the use of this new communicator.” Morely rose and left the room.

As the district leader disappeared through the door, Harold Bond walked to the front of the room. In his hands, he held one of the headbands and a power pack.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “this is a form of communicator. I don’t pretend to understand precisely how it operates, though I watched its development and set up a production line for it. All I know is that it works. And I know how to use it—to some extent.

“The district leader remarked that one could learn to use it with a little practice, and he’s right. Basically, anyone can use it as soon as he puts it on for the first time. But it’s like so many other tools. The more you use it, the more proficient you get with it. And I suspect it has capabilities I haven’t found yet.” He shrugged.

“Operation is simple in the extreme. Since the first model, refinements have been added, and it’s unnecessary now for an operator to make any adjustments, other than intensity.”

He picked up the power pack.

“This is the power pack, which is plugged into the headband, thus.” He paused as he connected the two plugs.

“If you gentlemen will perform the operations as I do, this will take only a short time.”

There was a crackling in the room as cartons were opened. Power packs and headbands rattled against the table for a moment, then Bond continued.

“Having plugged in the power pack, you turn this small knob very slightly in a clockwise direction, then place the headband on your head. The knob is the switch and intensity control, and it’s quite sensitive. Most people need very little intensity. If you have difficulty with communication, raise the intensity a little at a time, till thoughts come through clearly.” He paused, as the men before him adjusted the headbands to their heads.

“The power pack,” he continued, “may be placed in a pocket.” He reached down. “Personally, I carry mine in my shirt, since I find that convenient.”

He looked around the room. Men were turning to stare at their neighbors. Bond could detect a current of uncertainty, then a sensation of pleased surprise. Snatches of thought drifted to him. He ignored them for the moment. Time enough to become acquainted with people later. He placed a hand over his mouth, so everyone could see he was not speaking.

“Can everyone receive me?”

There was a wave of affirmation, and Bond nodded.

“Simple, isn’t it? Are there any questions?”

A jumble of thoughts made him waver. Most of them could have been phrased, “How does this thing work? What does it do? Am I dreaming?” Bond smiled in real amusement. He held up a hand.

“I felt the same way,” he thought reassuringly. “Sometimes. I still do. All I can tell you is what you’ve already found out for yourselves. It works. I’m told it’s a sort of telepathic amplifier and radiator. But as I told you, I don’t understand its principles. As to practice? I’m still meeting interesting people. So will you.” He took off the headband.

“If anyone has any further questions on operation, I’ll try to answer them,” he thought quickly. He glanced around the room. Three men were looking at him blankly. He took careful note of them, and mentally shook hands with himself. They were the ones he’d thought would blank out. He spoke aloud.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” he apologized. “I forgot I might be out of communication. I’m not completely used to this mentacom, myself.” He looked toward the deputy leader.

“Do you have anything to add, sir?”

The deputy shook his head. “No,” he said thoughtfully. “I think the demonstration was adequate. He cast a quizzical look at Bond, then looked around the room.

“You gentlemen will find a supply of these devices in the outer office. You may draw one for each person you wish outfitted. If any of you have further questions, I would suggest you get in touch with Community Research. They understand this thing.” He waved toward the door. “This meeting is adjourned.”

He watched as the men filed from the room, then turned on Bond.

“What was that business after you took off your headband?” he demanded. “I received you perfectly, and so did practically everyone here. Why the apology?”

Bond grimaced. “We found out something peculiar while we were making preliminary tests on this device, sir,” he explained. “Some people don’t seem to be able to pick up clear thoughts with it, unless another person uses the mentacom to drive in to them. Most of us can pick up thoughts from anyone we look at, whether they have a band on or not. Definite, surface thoughts, that is.”

“And?” The deputy’s expression was still questioning. He reached up to point at the band he was still wearing. “I’m getting some mighty peculiar secondary thoughts right now,” he added.

“And the people who can’t use the device fully have other peculiarities, sir. I’d rather not go into detail. You can find out the whole story for yourself with a very short bit of experimentation, and you have a subject right at hand. If I simply told you, you probably wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

The deputy nodded slowly. “For the moment,” he said, “I’ll take your words—and your thoughts—as true. Now, one more question: Can a person, using one of these things, successfully lie to another person who wears one?”

“No, sir.” Bond was positive. “It’s impossible.”

“I got that impression. Thanks.” The deputy turned and walked out of the door. Bond looked after him, a slight smile growing on his lips.

“Old Man wanted ‘em,” he told himself. “He’s got ‘em.”

The Fiscal chief glanced through the letter in his hands, then canted his head a little and read again. He lowered it to his desk, then sat for a moment, to stare into space. Finally, he looked down once more.

Central Coördination Agency
Office of the Comptroller

CCA 7.338 21 July, 2012

To: District Leader
District Twelve
Region Nine
Attn.: Fiscal Chief
Subject: Mental Communicator

1. It has been brought to the attention of this office that a product known as the “Consolidated Mental Communicator” is being manufactured in District Twelve, Region Nine, and offered for sale as a luxury item.

2. The characteristics of this device have been investigated by the Technical Division, Central Coördination Agency, and it has been found that the device does in fact permit communication between persons by telepathic or some similar means.

3. This device is presently being offered for sale in retail luxury stores throughout the nation. The volume of sales and of potential sales warrants distribution of the manufacturing load to manufacturers other than the Consolidated Electronics Company, who, it is understood, presently hold an exclusive manufacturing agreement with the office of the District Leader, District Twelve, Region Nine. This arrangement is inconsistent with the sales and use potential of the device in question.

4. The agreement between District Twelve, Region Nine, and the Consolidated Electronics Company will be forwarded immediately to this headquarters for consideration. It is contemplated that this agreement will be terminated and replaced by a manufacturing license from the Products Division, Central Coördinating Agency, who will further license other manufacturers to produce this device.

By Command of Chief Coördinator Gorman

KELLER
Comptroller

MRK/pem

The Fiscal chief shook his head. This one spelled trouble—in capitals. The royalty payments from Consolidated had become one of the major sources of income for the district. And Morely had ordered project after project, using those funds to pay for them. Some of the projects were still outstanding. The Old Man would blow his top.

He looked again at the small scrap of paper which was clipped to the letter. On it was scrawled: “DeVore—See me—HRM.”

For a moment, DeVore considered using his own mentacom, then he discarded the idea. To be sure, the leader had insisted that his subordinates use the devices for their own communications, and he’d cut Fixed Communications to the bone. But he still insisted on either communicator calls or personal contact when he wished to talk to any of his people. And he discouraged any but essential use of the communicator system, generally demanding that people come in to see him.

DeVore wrinkled his face disgustedly. It was hard to communicate with the district leader by means of a headband. There was a repellent characteristic about the man’s mental emanations, and he seemed to fail to comprehend nuances of meaning. Similes, he ignored completely. Thoughts had to be completely and clearly detailed, then phrased into normal, basic wordage before he would acknowledge them. None of the short-cuts used by other members of the administrative staff seemed to work out in his case. He apparently didn’t notice visualizations, and he never made one. His transmission was as stiff and labored as the type of communication he required from others—more so, if anything. DeVore scratched his neck.

“How,” he asked himself, “does one define a telepathic monotone?”

There were a few others with whom DeVore had experienced similar difficulties, but most people, he had found, picked up meanings and concepts without difficulty—even seemed to anticipate at times. And since the new induction mentacoms had come on the market, with the annoying contacts and headstraps removed, virtually everyone seemed to be either in possession of one of the devices, or about to get one. And, they were worn everywhere.

He smiled as he thought of the young father-to-be, who had bored through the evening traffic rush yesterday. The youngster had been so intent on getting his wife to the hospital that he’d probably failed to see half the ships that clawed out of his way. And his visualization had been almost painfully clear. He’d probably be apologizing for weeks to everyone he contacted.

DeVore straightened in his chair. What would happen, he wondered, if the leader ever ran into one of those situations?

“Yipe!” he muttered. “What a row that would be.”

He shrugged, got out of his chair, and walked out into the corridor.

“Better get it over with,” he told himself.

As he approached the leader’s door, it opened, and Ward Kirk came out. He closed the door with a careful gentleness, then faced it for an instant. DeVore was conscious of a wave of hopeless fury, and a fleeting glimpse of Morely’s face, framed by brilliant flame. Then, Kirk faced around and saw him.

“Careful,” DeVore thought. “You’re broadcasting. He’ll pick you up.”

Kirk grimaced and DeVore saw a faint image of a tyrannosaur, which reared up, jaws agape. Blood dripped from the human figure gripped in the creature’s talons.

“The old … wouldn’t understand if he did.”

DeVore grinned. “See what you mean. Well, guess I’m the next victim.”

He stepped to the door and tapped.

“Come in.”

Morely looked up as his Fiscal Chief entered, then swept some papers aside. “Well, what do you want?”

DeVore held out the letter. “You wanted to see me, sir, about this.” He placed the paper within the reach of his superior, who snatched at it, held it up for a moment, then dropped it to his desk.

“Yes, I did. What can we do about it?”

“Why,” DeVore spread his hands slightly, “we’ll have to comply.”

“That isn’t what I meant, Idiot! How can we continue to receive the payments from Consolidated?”

“I don’t think we can, sir. If Central Coördinating wants to put the device on a national basis, we can’t do anything about it.”

Morely looked down at the letter, then glared searchingly at DeVore. “The way I read this,” he declared, “they want to distribute manufacturing rights on the communicator to plants in other regions than this. Right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But they don’t say anything about our continuing the Consolidated payments on an overwrite basis, for the sale of devices they may make. Now, do they?”

“No, sir. But that’s implied. In cases like this, Central always takes over all rights.” DeVore hesitated. “I believe regulations—”

“I don’t care what’s implied, DeVore. And I don’t care what you believe. All I see is what’s in this letter. They want to distribute the manufacturing load, and I’m quite willing that they should. I want to continue receiving the payments from Consolidated. Now, you arrange it so that they’re satisfied and I’m satisfied.”

“But that’ll mean Consolidated will have to pay double. We can’t—”

“Don’t say ‘can’t’ to me!” Morely held up a hand angrily. “DeVore, I’m not going to tell you how to do this. I want it done. The details are your affair, and if I have to teach you your business, I’ll get someone who can do things without having to have them spelled out to him.” He leaned back, to glare at DeVore.

“Now, get on the job. I told you to make arrangements for me so that we will retain our payments from Consolidated. And I’m not interested in what arrangements you make with them, or what arrangements they make with Central. Is that a simple enough order for you to understand?”

“Yes, sir. I understand all right. But—”

“Good! I’m glad I managed to get at least one simple idea into your head.” The spring in the chair twanged as Morely came forward, to poke his head at DeVore. “Now, get to work on it.”

He jerked his head down for a quick look at the letter on his desk, then looked up again.

“And I’ll expect a report from you by tonight that you’ve got the matter taken care of.”

DeVore looked at his superior expressionless for a heartbeat. He had been given peculiar orders before, and he’d always managed to work out the problems involved. But this was the ultimate. This one seemed to be just plain illegal. And there was no point in arguing further. There was just the barest chance that there might be some legitimate way out. If he challenged the Old Man on an illegal order, he just might get his ears pinned back. He’d simply have to go back to his office and try to hunt out a technicality. He nodded.

“Yes, sir. I’ll get on it immediately.”

He saluted and started to leave the office. But he didn’t make it.

“And, DeVore!”

The Fiscal chief halted abruptly, and turned.

“Sir?”

“I’m getting tired of the negative thinking you people seem to have fallen into lately. I’m sick of going into every routine detail with you. When you got that letter, you should have immediately worked out a method of retaining the royalties. Then, you could have come in and presented it for my approval. That is the kind of work I want. And that’s the kind of work I mean to get in the future. Do you understand?”

Sternly, DeVore suppressed a sarcastic thought. He held his mind and face blank and nodded with a semblance of respect.

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well.” Morely waved a hand. “Now get something done.”

As DeVore walked through the corridor, he thought over the situation. Of course, the easy way out would be to force Consolidated to continue the payments in addition to their license fees from Central. That could be done. There were all kinds of methods by which pressure could be brought to bear on any company by the district leader’s office. And from Consolidated’s point of view, double payments could offer a cheap means of keeping out of difficulties. They would be able to pass most of the cost to the consumer by a slight price increase, justified by a minor modification of the devices.

But they wouldn’t be happy about it, and there would come a day when an auditing team from Central would be checking in the district. And that would be the day of days!

DeVore turned in at the door to his own office, crossed the room, and sat down at his desk.

To be sure, he could request a share of the fees from Central, and they’d make an award. But they’d never award more than fifty per cent, and it’d be hard to get that much. That was no good. The Old Man would want the same payments he’d been getting.

Or, he could try to negotiate a new agreement with Consolidated, double the royalties, and then request fifty per cent from Central. He grinned wryly. That would be within legal limits, he was sure, but Central knew the present arrangement, and he knew that they knew. And so would most of the interested manufacturers in other regions. The first-class citizens who owned the plants had their own liaison. They’d all balk. Then, Central would invalidate both old and new agreements and refuse compensation of any kind to district. That would be a suicidal course.

He looked up, thinking of one of the girls out in the legal crew.

“Fiscal regulations, please. And Markowitz on royalties, too.”

The girl turned half around, and he could see a faint impression of her view of office details. Then, she went to a book rack. For a few seconds, she glanced over the books, then selected two large volumes.

“Shall I look it up, or do you want the books?”

“I’ll take them. Might need quite a bit of research.”

Shortly, the girl appeared in his doorway. Quickly, she laid the two volumes on his desk.

DeVore nodded his thanks and opened regulations. Some of the paragraphs were delightfully vague, and could be subject to more than one interpretation. But one paragraph was clear and explicit. And that was the one he was concerned with.

A royalty agreement with, or manufacturing license from Central Coördination definitely abrogated any agreement with, or payment to, any lesser headquarters. Such an agreement or license barred any further negotiation between any lesser headquarters and a manufacturer, relating to the product concerned. Double royalties were prohibited in any case.

He pushed the books aside. There was no need of looking in Markowitz. That regulation paragraph took care of this exact situation, and disposed of it neatly. For an instant, he thought of taking the volume in to the leader’s office. Then, he remembered the threatening note in the authoritative voice and the flat, deadly thoughts he had noted as secondaries.

That wouldn’t work either. He thought of the undercurrent in Kirk’s thoughts. Kirk had been carrying a regulation book, he remembered. He contacted the Fixed Communications chief.

“Don’t,” he was told. “I tried it. Know what happened?”

“Go ahead.”

“He got the regional director on the communicator. I’ve been transferred to Outpost. They seem to need a cable maintenance chief up there. And I was lucky at that. I started to protest, and they nearly had me for insubordination.” Abruptly, Kirk cut away.

DeVore stared unseeingly across the desk. He’d been at Outpost for a short time once, on an inspection trip, and he still remembered the place. At one time, it had been a well supplied, well organized post. At that time, observational duty had been regarded more highly than now, and the place had been desirable for any single officer, though the married men had objected to being separated from their families by the many miles of frozen waste. But that had changed.

Now, Outpost was the end of the line. The dilapidated surface quarters offered poor protection from the fierce cold. Supply ships were rarely scheduled to the place, and were often held up by storms when they were scheduled. Half rations—even quarter rations—were commonplace. He shook his head. Kirk was in real trouble, and there would be no point in joining him. That would help neither of them.

This, he thought, was a situation. Then, he realized something else. From Morely’s point of view, it was a perfectly safe situation, with nothing to lose. The district leader could easily disclaim any responsibility for his Fiscal chief’s actions in this matter. After all, he hadn’t given any detailed instructions. He had made no direct suggestion of any illegal course. He’d merely consulted his Fiscal expert on a technical matter, and if DeVore had seen fit to use an illegal method of solving a problem, it was DeVore’s responsibility alone.

To be sure, Morely had been a little emphatic in his order, but that was simply because he was well aware of his Fiscal chief’s disinclination to make exhaustive technical research.

DeVore pursed his lips and looked thoughtfully at the regulation book. He might be able to use the same tactic Morely was following—if he were so inclined. He could issue verbal instructions to the sector leader concerned, and Bond might fail to see the trap. Then, he could report to the leader that the matter was taken care of, indorse the letter back to Central, with the agreement copy, and let Bond turn in funds under one of the “miscellaneous received” accounts. In fact, he realized, that was just about what the district leader expected him to do.

He smiled and shook his head. A few months ago, it was possible he could have done that, but even then, he wouldn’t have. And now, with the mental communicators in use, it would be a flat impossibility. The trap would be as obvious to Bond as it had been to him. He leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingertips against each other.

The mentacoms, he knew, were in common use by this time, in virtually every office of district, regional, and national administration, as well as by most citizens. And he’d served under Marko Keller once—known him fairly well, too. He shrugged.

It would be a little irregular for a district Fiscal chief to make direct contact with the Coördination Agency’s comptroller, but there was nothing like getting the most expert and authoritative advice available. He relaxed, trying to recreate his memories of the man who was now National Comptroller.

Marko Keller strode purposefully into the filing section. He could easily get the data he needed by simply contacting one of the clerks, he knew, but he felt an urgent need for personal activity. That conversation with DeVore, way out in Region Nine, had upset him more than he liked to admit, even to himself.

It wouldn’t be so bad if it were an isolated incident. Such things could be taken care of by administrative action, and a single instance would cause little disturbance. But there were too many, happening too often. He pulled a file drawer open, violently.

One of the clerks approached. “Can I help, sir?”

Keller turned to look at him. The man, he noted, was wearing one of the late model inductive headbands that had been sold in such quantities lately. Deluxe model, too. Must have cost him at least two months’ pay. Like almost everyone else, he was vitally concerned in this latest affair. Keller frowned. He, himself, he realized, was acting childishly. He would simply be wasting time by trying to do this by himself.

“Yes,” he growled. “Get me a brief on a few cases like this one.” He made full contact with the man, rapidly summarizing his conversation with DeVore, and including DeVore’s short flash of his own conversation with Ward Kirk.

“And get a rundown from personnel. Dig up something on their angle, too. Several representative cases. Get a few people to help you—many as you need. I’m going to take this whole mess in to the Chief tomorrow morning.”

Paul Graham swept into the apartment, seized his wife about the waist and swung her into the air, to set her on top of one of his bookcases.

“They’ve done it, honey,” he shouted.

Elaine kicked her heels in a rapid tattoo against the back of the case.

“Paul Graham, you get me down this instant,” she ordered indignantly. “Who’s done what?”

Graham stepped back and beat on his chest. “Meet the new production manager, Mentacom Division, Consolidated Electronics.”

“Production manager? But, Paul, only first-class citizens can hold supervisory positions.”

“Not any more. Didn’t you have the communicator on for the news? It all came in.”

Elaine shook her head and jumped to the floor. “I’ve a confession to make, Paul. Ever since they stopped the compulsory notices, I haven’t had the thing on at all. It bothered me.”

Her husband shook his head in mock dismay. “So now, I’m married to an ignoramus.” He spread his hands. “She doesn’t know what’s going on in the great, big world.” He shook a finger at her.

“It all busted this afternoon, darling. While you sat around in your splendid isolation, everything turned upside down.”

She looked at him indignantly for an instant, then turned toward the kitchen.

“Paul, if you don’t stop raving, I’m going to get my mentacom and pry it out of you,” she threatened. “Now, you just settle down. Stop talking in circles and tell me what this is all about.”

“Oh, all right. If you insist.” Graham sank into a chair, looking like a small boy caught in a prank. “First, there are no more first-class citizens—no second-class citizens—not even third-class citizens. Everyone’s a citizen again. Period.” He threw his hands up.

“You mean—?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. No more restrictions. No more compulsory community work. No more quarters inspections. And no more privileges. We’ve got rights again!

“If you want a dress, you buy it. You don’t worry about whether it suits your station. If I can hold a job, I get it. And I did!” He got out of the chair and strode across the room, to sit on the arm of the divan. “And I can do this, if I want to. If I break this thing down, so help me, George, I’ll go out and buy a new one.” He bounced up and down a little.

“The administrators are going back to their original jobs. They’re responsible for defense, in case of enemy attack, and that’s all.” He paused. “Of course, until sector and district elections can be held, they’ll still take care of some of the community functions—some of them, that is. But the elections’ll be set up in a few weeks, and we’ll be able to choose our own officials for community government.”

He bounced to his feet again, strode around the bookcases, and looked down at his desk. Then, he looked around again.

“Corporations are being set up to take over home construction.” He held up a hand. “Home construction, I said, not quarters. They’re commercializing helicopter manufacture, all kinds of repair work, and a lot of other services. And they’re going to restore patent rights. That means plenty to us, darling, believe me.”

“But, but why? What happened?”

Graham turned on her. “Elaine,” he cried, “haven’t you noticed how many people are wearing mentacoms now, all the time? Haven’t you noticed the consideration people have been giving each other for the past weeks? Remember what I told you once? If you fully understand a person, you simply can’t kick him around. It’s too much like taking slaps at yourself. With the exception of a few empathic cripples, who can’t use the mentacom properly anyway, everyone, inside the administrative offices, as well as out, recognized that the bureaucracy was simply unworkable as it stood. So, they changed it. Effective immediately.”

Elaine stamped her foot. “You know I haven’t been out of this apartment,” she cried. “And you know why. I simply couldn’t stand the treatment I got. I’d have gotten into serious trouble in minutes. So, I’ve stayed in. I’ve done my shopping by communicator, and contented myself right here.” She paused.

“But how is the new administration going to be supported? What are people going to do? How are they taking it? It’s all so sudden, I should think—”

Graham held up a hand.

“Hey,” he protested. “One at a time, please! First—remember taxes? Remember how we used to growl about them? They’re back. And I love ‘em. Second—nobody is going to do anything. Anything drastic or unusual, that is. And finally? Everyone I’ve seen is taking it in their stride. Seems as though they’ve been sort of expecting it, ever since they started mind-to-mind communication.

“You’d be surprised how good most people are at it, now that they’re used to it. You start into a line of helicopters. All at once, you realize that the guy coming is really in a hurry. He’s got to get somewhere, fast. So, you let him go by. The next fellow’s not going to be in any tearing rush. He’ll let you in, and cheer you on your way.

“You feel like being left alone? Nobody’ll even notice you. But if you feel like talking, half a dozen total strangers’ll find something in common with you. And they’ll discuss it. Honey, you’ll be surprised how much you’ve missed. Get your mentacom. Let’s take a little shopping trip.”

“And here’s one of our more difficult cases. But he’s coming along nicely.” Dr. Moran pointed through the one-way window.

“Name’s Howard Morely. He used to be a district leader, under the bureaucracy. But along in the last few weeks, just before the change, he got into some sort of scrape. They questioned him, and declared him unfit for service. Put him out on a pension.” He pulled at an ear.

“Matter of fact, I understand his case had quite a deal to do with the change—sort of triggered it. They tell me it sort of pointed up the fallacies of the bureaucracy.” He shrugged.

“But that’s unimportant now, I guess. He almost receded into complete paranoia. Had a virtually complete case of empathic paralysis when he came to us. Simply no conception of any other person’s point of view, and a hatred of people that was fantastic. But he’s nearly normal now.”

The visiting psychiatrist nodded. “I’ve seen the type, of course. We have a number of them, too. You say this new technique was successfully used in his case?”

“Yes. We had doubts of it, too. Seemed too simple. Sure, we’re all familiar with the mentacoms by now. Wouldn’t be without my own. But the idea of a field generator so powerful as to force clear impressions into a crippled mind like his, without completely destroying that mind, seemed a little fantastic.” He shrugged.

“In this case, though, it was a last resort, so we tried it. He resisted the field for days. Simply sat in his cell and stared at the walls. We were almost ready to give up when one of the operators finally got through to him. Know what his first visualization was?”

The visitor shook his head and laughed. “I could try a guess, I suppose,” he said, “but my chances would be something less than one in a thousand million.”

Moran grinned. “You’re so right. There was a whole bunch of kids standing around. Looked like dozens of ‘em. And they were all chanting at the top of their voices. You know that old jingle? ‘Howie’s got a gir-rul?’ Chanted it over and over.” The grin widened. “Operator said his face stung for ten minutes. That girl must have packed one sweet wallop!”

THE END

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