Bert ignored the question and led the way through the mass of tables back to the elevator row.
Jim looked at the elevator as they stood there at the end of the bank. “Hey, this isn’t for us, old buddy. This is some kind of private deal for the high mucky-mucks in the faculty.”
However, the screen had identified Bert Alshuler and the door opened. Jim followed him inside, wonderingly.
Bert said, “Suite G.”
“Yes, Mr. Alshuler.”
Jim’s eyes widened.
Bert said, “What kind of a priority does your identity card give you on the National Data Banks?”
Jim looked at him. “Three. It’s the same with all students, except some fields like medicine or nuclear physics. You’ve got to be cleared for some of the material in them.”
Bert shook his head. “Mine’s all fouled up. I’m protesting it.”
When they got to the top floor, Jim Hawkins followed him blankly as he led the way to Suite G. Several times his lips moved as though he was about to blurt a question, but he held silence. Bert Alshuler would have enjoyed the whole thing more if he hadn’t been so full of questions himself.
The door screen identified him and opened as they approached.
Jim Hawkins, hands on hips, stood in the middle of the living room and stared about.
“How in the devil did you get in here?” he demanded, “What’re you doing here?”
His war time companion led the way to the bar. “I had to promise to keep it all secret before I fell into this deal. I’m not paying for it. It’s a special arrangement with one of the professors.”
Jim shook his head in admiration. “Kind of babysitting, eh? The old boy wants kind of a guard in a place like this while he’s gone.”
“Not exactly,” Bert told him, unhappy at being less than candid with his best friend. “Anyway, how about a belt?”
“Holy smokes, he even lets you drink his liquor?”
“That’s right,” Bert said, reaching his hand out for the bottle of stone age Scotch which had laid him low the day before. “I hate to use you for the royal taster, old buddy, but how about a slug of this?”
“Why not?” Jim leered.
“Because it floored me yesterday,” Bert said, pouring the other a hefty amount.
The other chuckled amusement. “You never could hold your booze, old buddy.”
“I warned you.”
Bert’s lanky companion knocked the drink back with nonchalant ease, “Man,” he said, “that’s sippin’ whiskey.”
Bottle in hand, Bert watched him. Nothing happened. Bert sighed and filled the other’s glass again and poured a drink for himself.
He motioned to the bar and said, “Make yourself at home, Jim. Meanwhile, lend me your Identity Card.”
“What?”
“Your Identity Card. I told you mine was fouled up. I’ve got a priority One and I want yours to order up a book or so that I need for something I’m working on.”
“It’s against the law to lend your Identity Card.”
Bert said, “Since when did you give a damn about the law—particularly where I’m concerned, old buddy?”
The other sighed and handed over the card.
Bert said, “I’ll be an hour or so. Help yourself to the liquor. There’s a library booster screen on the desk. There’s one in every room in this place Do some of your homework, or look up some books, whatever. There’s a king-size Tri-Di box over there.”
“Take your time, take your time,” Jim gushed, eyeing the bar with a fond eye.
Bert left him and went to the study. For the first time, he noticed that the door had a key on the other side. He locked the door behind him and went over to the desk with its library booster screen. He put his friend’s Identity Card into the slot and dialed for the list of books on neuro-physiology.
Since he was completely at sea in the subject, he had difficulty finding what he wanted. When finally he had a book that looked promising, something came to him and he stood and went over to his bottles of pills. He took a brown one and went back to the screen.
He skimmed one book, skimmed another, got a smattering of background and terminology, but wasn’t happy. His texts would mention some reference to another work which was then found to be beyond his priority Three card. It mystified him. Did you have to be a doctor of medicine, or even a specialist in this field before its full literature was available? He could see that various works in say, nuclear physics, might have to be banned to those without clearance There were evidently methods of constructing nuclear mini-bombs in a home laboratory these days and obviously the information couldn’t be made available to every crackpot that came along. But medical information pertaining to the brain? Who could care that the information be available to anyone who could understand it?
Various passages gave him pause. Early in his research he ran into: “… Three major areas of excitement and progress can be detected among the numerous enquiries in the field. First, there is a growing power to intervene in the non-intellectual functions of the brain: a growing ability to alter moods and emotional states—a development which is based on the realization that the brain is not simply an electrical or computer-like mechanism, but a complex chemical system as well. Secondly, a spirit of extreme optimism has sprung up concerning the possibility of discovering the nature of memory. Finally, there is a guarded belief that one may be able to effect considerable improvement in the level of intelligence of future generations.
He sat back for a moment and ran the palm of his right hand over his lips. The passage had been written more than two decades previous.
Later on, he came up with: “… the brain is a complex chemical device. Its parts respond in subtle ways to the influence of substances in the fluids which bathe them, and contain specialized chemical agents—gangliosides, cerebrosides, sphingomyelin and so on—the functions of which are still obscure.”
He finally looked at his wrist chronometer. He couldn’t leave Jim Hawkins alone indefinitely. The other was probably already wondering what Bert was doing so long with his Identity Card. The second hand on his watch seemed to be barely crawling. He snorted inwardly and realized that he hadn’t checked the time when he had first entered the study, so he didn’t know how long he had been at his books. He had better return.
He went over to his pills and took one of the green ones and then unlocked the door and returned to the living room.
Jim Hawkins was at one wall, glass in hand and staring owlishly at a display set in the wall that Bert Alshuler hadn’t realized was there. Evidently, the other had opened some panel that had been sunken in such a way that a casual inspection wouldn’t indicate its presence.
Bert came up behind him. “What’s this?” he said.
Jim, frowning, said in gentle reproof, “Old buddy, didn’t you know it was illegal for private citizens to possess laser weapons?”
Chapter Six
“Laser weapons?”
Bert stared into the case. There were, neatly displayed, a dozen firearms, ranging from gyro-jet pistols and carbines, to, yes, two laser pistols and even a folding type laser rifle. To Bert’s experienced eye, the latter seemed on the sophisticated side, more compact than the arms with which he’d been familiar in the Asian War. Evidently, the very latest.
“Maybe they’re just models,” he said, reaching out for the larger of the lasers.
Jim, who was looking a little blurry around the edges as a result of the sampling of the bottled goods, snorted. “With that machining?”
His old comrade in arms handled the weapon professionally, expertly. He slapped the side and dislodged the power pack. There was a red dot at the top.