The Variable Man - 3

Earl and Sally gazed up, wide-eyed. "Does it work?" Sally asked.
"Of course not," Earl stated. "How could it work? He couldn't--"
"Turn it on!" Sally nudged Steven eagerly. "See if it works."
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.
"Say something into it."
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?"
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.
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.
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.
"Well?" Cole said, at last. "Does it work all right?"
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."
Cole grunted. "All right." He turned and moved away from the light.
"That's fine."
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 box in Steven's hands. They gazed at the box in
growing awe. Awe mixed with dawning fear.
Steven turned and edged toward his house. "I've got to show it to my
Dad," he murmured, dazed. "He's got to know. _Somebody's_ got to
know!"


III

Eric Reinhart examined the vidsender box carefully, turning it around
and around.
"Then he did escape from the blast," Dixon admitted reluctantly. "He
must have leaped from the cart just before the concussion."
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?"
"Elliot. Richard Elliot."
"And your son's name?"
"Steven."
"It was last night this happened?"
"About eight o'clock."
"Go on."
"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 _changed_.
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 _worked_."
"Worked?"
"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."
For a time Reinhart was silent. Finally he tapped the box lying on the
desk. "You got a ship of the line--with _this_?"
"That's right."
"How big are the regular vidsenders?"
Dixon supplied the information. "As big as a twenty-ton safe."
"That's what I thought." Reinhart waved his hand impatiently. "All
right, Elliot. Thanks for turning the information over to us. That's
all."
Security police led Elliot outside the office.
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."
"You mean--"
"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....
"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?"
"No," Dixon said. "What does it mean?"
"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.
"This man is different. He can fix anything, do anything. He doesn't
work with knowledge, with science--the classified accumulation of
facts. He _knows_ nothing. It's not in his head, a form of learning.
He works by intuition--his power is in his 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."
"And the other problem?"
"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."
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.
"What's going on?" Sherikov demanded. "Why can't I go in and peep at
the odds?"
"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.
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?"
"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."
"Certainly, Commissioner." Kaplan took the message plates and placed
them on an intake belt. The machines hummed into life.
"We'll know soon," Reinhart said, half aloud.
Sherikov shot him a keen glance. "We'll know what? Let me in on it.
What's taking place?"
"We're in trouble. For twenty-four hours the machines haven't given
any reading at all. Nothing but a blank. A total blank."
Sherikov's features registered disbelief. "But that isn't possible.
_Some_ odds exist at all times."
"The odds exist, but the machines aren't able to calculate them."
"Why not?"
"Because a variable factor has been introduced. A factor which the
machines can't handle. They can't make any predictions from it."
"Can't they reject it?" Sherikov said slyly. "Can't they just--just
_ignore_ it?"
"No. It exists, as real data. 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."
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."
"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."
"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."
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."
"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--'"
"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."
"What are you doing about this man?"
"The Security police are organized in a mass search for him."
"Results?"
"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--"
"Ready, Commissioner," Kaplan interrupted. "The new totals."
The SRB machines had finished factoring the new data. Reinhart and
Sherikov hurried to take their places before the view windows.
For a moment nothing happened. Then odds were put up, locking in
place.
Sherikov gasped. 99-2. In favor of Terra. "That's wonderful! Now we--"
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."
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.
Nothing showed. No odds. No totals at all. The view windows were
blank.
"You see?" Reinhart murmured. "The same damn thing!"
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."
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."
"The indeterminate particle."
"What's that?"
"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."
"Exactly. It's--it's _unnatural_."
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?"
"I don't want anyone to know the machines show no totals. It's
dangerous to the war effort."
"Margaret Duffe, for example?"
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."
"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."
Reinhart eyed the big Pole critically. "That reminds me. How is Icarus
coming? Have you continued to make progress on the control turret?"
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."
Instantly Reinhart became alert. "Catch up? You mean you're still
behind?"
"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."
"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."
"Has he done anything yet?"
"Nothing important. Rewired a child's toy. A toy vidsender."
"Oh?" Sherikov showed interest. "What do you mean? What did he do?"
"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?"
"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."
"Incredible." Sherikov's eyes were only an inch from the wiring. "Such
tiny relays. How could he--"
"What?"
"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."
"Of course. But why?"
"No special reason. Let's go get our coffee." Sherikov headed toward
the door. "You say you expect to capture this man in a day or so?"
"_Kill_ 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."
Sherikov nodded absently. "Of course," he murmured. A preoccupied
expression still remained on his broad features. "I understand
perfectly."
* * * * *
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.
The heat felt good against his hands. _His hands._ 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.
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--
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.
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.
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 permanent shelter, even make clothes out of hides. In
winter--
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.
He stamped out the fire quickly. What was it? He strained, trying to
see. A bird?
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.
Toward him.
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--
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.
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.
The bundles drifted rapidly to the ground. They landed. They were men.
Men in uniform.
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.
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.
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.
Cole ran. He rolled down a slope, sliding and falling. At the bottom
he leaped to his feet and 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--
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.
A soldier dropped to his knee, leveling his gun. More soldiers
arrived, bringing up their rifles and aiming.
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.
Silence.
Cole opened his eyes slowly. The soldiers had regrouped. A huge man
was striding down the slope toward them, barking orders as he came.
Two soldiers stepped into the brush. One of them grabbed Cole by the
shoulder.
"Don't let go of him." The huge man came over, his black beard jutting
out. "Hold on."
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.
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?"
Cole nodded.
"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."
"Where--where are you taking me?"
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."
* * * * *
Sherikov settled down in his comfortable reinforced chair with a sigh.
"It's good to be back." He signalled to one of his guards. "All right.
You can unfasten him."
The metal clamps were removed from Cole's arms and legs. He sagged,
sinking down in a heap. Sherikov watched him silently.
Cole sat on the floor, rubbing his wrists and legs, saying nothing.
"What do you want?" Sherikov demanded. "Food? Are you hungry?"
"No."
"Medicine? Are you sick? Injured?"
"No."
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.
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.
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."
The guard departed.
"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."
Cole said nothing.
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?"
Cole nodded.
"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."
The screen lit up. A scene gained form.
"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 what you're
seeing on the screen. Pay close attention. You were there, two hours
ago."
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.
He was seeing the destruction of a whole mountain range.
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.
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.
Cole turned away.
"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."
Cole said nothing.
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?"
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.
"Yes. I fixed this." He passed it back to Sherikov. "I repaired that.
It was broken."
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."
Unprotesting, Cole got to his feet, allowing the doctor to take hold
of his arm and help him up.
After Cole had been released by the medical department, Sherikov
joined him in his private dining room, a floor above the actual
laboratory.
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.