Sighted men? Blind men? As if that were the only distinction to be made? As if there were only two kinds of people in the world? Along with the Borkum Riff, I began to sniff a serious case of paranoia!
Tom Swift went on to confirm my diagnosis. “The time has come for the blind to take over. The time has come for the blind to lead the blind who don’t know they’re blind, who because they’re sighted mistakenly think they have vision.”
“What makes you think blind people can run the world better than people who can see?” I asked. “The way I figure, the only difference is the lack of sight. And that’s a negative thing, not a positive quality.”
“Wrong. Lots of positive qualities go along with being blind. Being sighted, you naturally aren’t hip to them. Besides the increased perceptions of the other senses, there are things like intuition, reasoning ability, and concentration. Only the blind are free enough of distractions to focus on the large problems and find solutions. I’m not religious ordinarily. But the Bible says ‘The meek shall inherit the Earth.’ And who, I ask you, is meeker than the blind?”
“You sure don’t sound meek to me!” I pointed out.
“It takes strength to be truly meek.”
Sophomore Logic 201! In Braille yet! But there was no arguing with it. Tom Swift was beyond reasoning. “You were going to tell me about phase three,” I reminded him.
“It stems from phase two, which gives me absolute control over the most powerful computer in the world. I’ve reprogrammed it from scratch. You see, when I muted all the phones in the U.S., I also seized all the tandems leading into the computer. Right now I’m the only one in the world who can use it—and I am using it. Have you any idea of the scope of the information stored in its memory bank? Just let me give you one example. It not only can tell me the exact strength and placement of the atomic arsenals of every nation on earth, it can also tell me just how—just what codes to use in each country — to trigger the firing of those nuclear stockpiles!”
“But you wouldn’t do that!”
“Nope. But not for the reasons you might think. I wouldn’t do that because there’s a better way. Germ warfare!”
“Germ warfare? I thought the idea was that blind people were more humane! I thought you wanted to solve the problems of humanity, not destroy it!”
“The biggest problem in the world today is overpopulation. Phase three will reverse the population explosion through germ warfare. And—-with the computer’s help -- I pick the germs!”
“What have you got in mind?” Along with feeling scared, I was beginning to feel nauseous.
“A specially bred bacillus with a fifty-percent fatality prognosis. The world’s population will be stabilized with the fifty percent who survive. And they’ll-—” He broke off abruptly. “Can’t you guess?”
“I’m afraid to try.” I swallowed my gorge.
“They’ll be blind!”
“I see.”
“Not for long.” Tom Swift chuckled. “Of course there is a serum,” he added. “But it will be administered only to blind people; The sighted will have to take their chances. Those who survive will develop an immunity—but, as I said, they’ll be blind.”
“Great.” My voice lacked enthusiasm.
“The meek --- the blind — shall inherit the earth. It will be the introduction of a new era, the beginning of a new world, the start of a new order!”
“Sieg Heil!” I commented weakly.
He ignored it. “And the effects will be genetic, too,” he continued. “All the children will be born blind. Oh, there may be a few sighted mutants, but there are new techniques. They’ll be detected in the womb and aborted before birth.”
“Just when does phase three start?” I wondered.
The gun at my head stirred as he touched the wrist holding it with his other hand. I realized he was feeling the raised numerals on his wristwatch to check the time.
“In approximately one hour. Across the room from you — you can’t see it in the dark — is the telephone. As you know, it’s in use, tying up various exchanges around the country. But what you don’t know is that it’s routed directly into the input of the South American computer. Right now a cassette recorder is attached to that phone. It’s playing a coded tape that I prepared. When that tape runs out, the computer will do whatever’s necessary to put phase three into effect immediately.”
I decided he was mad. Stark raving bananas! But he wouldn’t be the first madman to successfully inflict his madness on the world. He had the perverted genius to do everything he said he was doing. One more hour! That’s what he’d said!
And I was the only one who could stop him. It was a real ego-builder. Only me between Tom Swift and Doomsday!
Shee-it!
“Got a cigarette?” I asked him.
“The computer said you’d given up smoking,” he reminded me.
“Did it also mention that I was low on willpower?”
“As a matter of fact, it did.” He chuckled. “You’re in luck. I’m a pipe smoker myself, but last week I had a sore throat from a cold and I tried switching to mentholated cigarettes. I still have hall a pack left. I’m afraid they’re kind of stale.”
“Grubbers can’t be choosers.” I accepted a dried-out cylinder and stuck it between my lips. “Got a light?’
He lit a kitchen match on the sole of his shoe with his free hand. His other hand still held the gun behind my ear. I bent my head as if to meet the flame halfway. My hand came up as if to steady his. For a few short seconds I could see him, while he, of course, couldn’t see me.
I chopped at the wrist of the hand holding the match. Still lit, it fell into his lap. Simultaneously, I jerked my head to one side and dived for the floor.
His reflexes were fast. As the heat of the match seared his crotch, he jumped to his feet. With the move, he fired the gun.
The roar deafened me. A micrometer couldn’t have measured how close the bullet came to blowing off my head. Even as I was scrambling, my hand went by reflex to my ear. A trickle of blood! The slug had nicked my earlobe.
Unconcerned with the problem of wearing earrings, I wasted no time worrying about the mangled lobe. Even as I touched it, my shoulder was slamming into Tom Swift’s legs. The gun roared again as he went sprawling to the floor.
It slowed me down. Like I have this survival instinct which points me away from the mouth of the cannon. Custer would have shot me for a coward, and I probably would have been drummed out of the Light Brigade. Still, not being a hero does increase the chances of staying alive.
So, with Swift’s second shot, I scrambled away on my hands and knees, seeking some kind of cover. When my head butted against an iron cot, I crawled underneath it and stayed very still. In the darkness, I couldn’t see any better than he could, and he still had the gun. With his acute hearing, it figured that any sound I made would give away my position, and — blind as he was -- I believed what he’d said about his accuracy once he’d located his target.
So I held my breath. Unfortunately, crouching the way I was, I got a cramp in one leg. I moved slightly to relieve it. The bedspring above me squeaked. The gun roared again!
The sonofabitch nicked my other earlobe! Shades of Billy the Kid! I darted out from under the bed and dived behind some kind of cabinet before he could correct his aim. Another shot pinged at my heel.
“Give it up, Victor. Next time I won’t miss.”
His voice came from across the room, somewhere in the vicinity of the telephone. By the time I realized his words were covering the fact that he was reloading, it was too late to take advantage of it. Then I also realized that he’d positioned himself to guard the phone and the cassette player hooked into it.