Thus it went, all down the line. Later sociology would catch up with technology. It hadn’t, just yet. Economic gambling had reached a pitch never before attained in the history of the world. Geniuses were needed to straighten out the mess. Mutations eventually provided such geniuses, by natural compensation; but a long time was to pass until that satisfactory conclusion had been reached. The man with the best chance for survival, Gallegher had realized by now, was one with a good deal of adaptability and a first-class all-around stock of practical and impractical knowledge, versed in practically everything. In short, in matters vegetable, animal or mineral—
Gallegher opened his eyes. There was little to see, chiefly because, as he immediately discovered, he was slumped face down at a table. With an effort Gallegher sat up. He was unbound, and in a dimly lighted attic that seemed to be a storeroom; it was littered with broken-down junk. A fluorescent burned faintly on the ceiling. There was a door, but the man with the gold tooth was standing before it. Across the table sat Max Cuff, carefully pouring whiskey into a glass.
“I want some,” Gallegher said feebly.
Cuff looked at him. “Awake, huh? Sorry Blazer socked you so hard.”
“Oh, well. I might have passed out anyway. Those alphabetical pub-crawls are really something.”
“Heigh-ho,” Cuff said, pushing the glass toward Gallegher and rilling another for himself. “That’s the way it goes. It was smart of you to stick with me—the one place the boys wouldn’t think of looking.”
“I’m naturally clever,” Gallegher said modestly. The whiskey revived him. But his mind still felt foggy. “Your… uh… associates, by which I mean lousy thugs, tried to kidnap me earlier, didn’t they?”
“Uh-huh. You weren’t in. That robot of yours—”
“He’s a beaut.”
“Yeah. Look, Blazer told me about the machine you had set up. I’d hate to have Smith get his hands on it.”
Smith—Fatty. Hm-m-m. The jigsaw was dislocated again. Gallegher sighed.
If he played the cards close to his chest—
“Smith hasn’t seen it yet.”
“I know that,” Cuff said. “We’ve been tapping his visor beam. One of our spies found out he’d told DU he had a man working on the job—you know? Only he didn’t mention the man’s name. All we could do was shadow Smith and tap his visor till he got in touch with you. After that—well, we caught the conversation. You told Smith you’d got the gadget.”
“Well?”
“We cut in on the beam, fast, and Blazer and the boys went down to see you. I told you I didn’t want Smith to keep that contract.”
“You never mentioned a contract,” Gallegher said.
“Don’t play dumb. Smith told ’em, up at DU, that he’d laid the whole case before you.”
Maybe Smith had. Only Gallegher had been drunk at the tune, and it was Gallegher Plus who had listened, storing the information securely in the subconscious. “So?”
Cuff burped. He pushed his glass away suddenly. “I’ll see you later. I’m tight, damn it. Can’t think straight. But—I don’t want Smith to get that machine. Your robot won’t let us get near it. You’ll get in touch with him by visor and send him off somewhere, so the boys can pick up your gadget. Say yes or no. If it’s no, I’ll be back.”
“No,” Gallegher said. “On account of you’d kill me anyway, to stop me from building another machine for Smith.”
Cuffs lids drew down slowly over his eyes. He sat motionless, seemingly asleep, for a time. Then he looked at Gallegher blankly and stood up.
“I’ll see you later, then.” He rubbed a hand across his forehead; his voice was a little thick. “Blazer, keep the lug here.”
The man with the gold tooth came forward. “You O. K.?”
“Yeah. I can’t think—” Cuff grimaced. “Turkish bath. That’s what I need.” He went toward the door, pulling Blazer with him. Gallegher saw the alderman’s lips move. He read a few words.
“—drunk enough… vise that robot… try it—”
Then Cuff went out. Blazer came back, sat opposite Gallegher, and shoved the bottle toward him. “Might as well take it easy,” he suggested. “Have another; you need it.”
Gallegher thought: Smart guys. They figure if I get stinko, I’ll do what they want. Well—
There was another angle. When Gallegher was thoroughly under the influence of alcohol, his subconscious took over/ And Gallegher Plus was a scientific genius—mad, but good. ”
Gallegher Plus might be able to figure a way out of this.
“That’s it,” Blazer said, watching the liquor vanish. “Have another. Max is a good egg. He wouldn’t put the bee on you. He just can’t stand people helixing up his plans.”
“What plans?”
“Like with Smith,” Blazer explained.
“I see.” Gallegher’s limbs were tingling. Pretty soon he should be sufficiently saturated with alcohol to unleash his subconscious. He kept drinking.
Perhaps he tried too hard. Usually Gallegher mixed his liquor judiciously. This time, the factors of the equation added up to a depressing zero. He saw the surface of the table moving slowly toward his nose, felt a mild, rather pleasant bump, and began to snore. Blazer got up and shook him.
“One half so precious as the stuff they sell,” Gallegher said thickly. “High-piping Pehlevi, with wine, wine, wine, wine. Red wine.”
“Wine he wants,” Blazer said. “The guy’s a human blotter.” He shook Gallegher again, but there was no response. Blazer grunted, and his footsteps sounded, growing fainter.
Gallegher heard the door close. He tried to sit up, slid off the chair, and banged his head agonizingly against a table leg.
It was more effective than cold water. Wavering, Gallegher crawled to his feet. The attic room was empty except for himself and other jetsam. He walked with abnormal carefulness to the door and tried it. Locked. Reinforced with steel, at that.
“Fine stuff,” Gallegher murmured. “The one time I need my subconscious, it stays buried. How the devil can I get out of here?”
There was no way. Tlie room had no windows, and the door was firm. Gallegher floated toward the piles of junk. An old sofa. A box of scraps. Pillows. A rolled carpet. Junk.
Gallegher found a length of wire, a bit of mica, a twisted spiral of plastic, once part of a mobile statuette, and some other trivia. He put them together. The result was a thing vaguely resembling a gun, though it had some resemblance to an egg beater. It looked as weird as a Martian’s doodling.
After that, Gallegher returned to the chair and sat down, trying, by sheer will power, to sober up. He didn’t succeed too well. When he heard footsteps returning, his mind was still fuzzy.
The door opened. Blazer came in, with a swift, wary glance at Gallegher, who had hidden the gadget under the table.
“Back, are you? I thought it might be Max.”
“He’ll be along, too,” Blazer said. “How d’you feel?”
“Woozy. I could use another drink. I’ve finished this bottle.” Gallegher had finished it. He had poured it down a rat hole.
Blazer locked the door and came forward as Gallegher stood up. The scientist missed his balance, lurched forward, and Blazer hesitated. Gallegher brought out the crazy egg-beater gun and snapped it up to eye level, squinting along its barrel at Blazer’s face.
The thug went for something, either his gun or his sap. But the eerie contrivance Gallegher had leveled at him worried Blazer. His motion was arrested abruptly. He was wondering what menace confronted him. In another second he would act, one way or another—perhaps continuing that arrested smooth motion toward his belt.
Gallegher did not wait. Blazer’s stare was on the gadget. With utter disregard for the Queensbury Rules, Gallegher kicked his opponent below the belt. As Blazer folded up, Gallegher followed his advantage by hurling himself headlong on the thug and bearing him down in a wild, octopuslike thrashing of lanky limbs. Blazer kept trying to reach his weapon, but that first foul blow had handicapped him.