"I see," said Marty slowly. "I see that you weren't quite finished with the engram in Oslo."
"I had barely begun. I am now able—once I've sized up the psyche of the subject—to deliver complex commands in a compulsion-language that cannot possibly be disobeyed."
"Go on," snapped Pepper, catching Fersen's eye. He had seen something at the edge of his vision that made his heart pound. He relaxed deliberately. "Go on!"
"This book," said Fersen, smiling again, "will be released to the general public very shortly—as soon as I've completed copy for a definitive edition. Picture this scene:
"A bookseller receives a shipment of the Odes. 'How now!' says bookseller. He is amazed. He is distressed. He did not order the Odes.
He does not want to pay for them; they look like a slow-moving item. He picks up a copy from the crate so as to get a better idea of what they are.
'What's this?' demands bookseller excitedly. For it seems to be a foreign tongue which he does not understand. Printed plainly on every page in large type is a brief message. Always the same, always legible.
"Bookseller than scans one page, very briefly. Some strange compulsion holds him; he reads further and the mysterious language is as plain as day. The message says: 'You are loyal to the Optimus Party. You will always be loyal to the Optimus Party. You will show the Odes to everybody you see. Everybody must read the Odes. You will always be loyal to the Optimus Party.'
" 'How now!' says bookseller again. 'Uncanny!' And he sees a woman on the street. He seizes her. She screams. He twists her arm and shoves her into his shop. She sits quietly while the Odes are shoved under her nose. She reads, lest this madman damage her. They then join forces and distribute copies of the book far and wide. It's like a prairie fire—
people read and make others read.
"Pepper, there are twelve thousand booksellers in New York Sector. As soon as I've probed somewhat into your minds to determine whether a vowel or a diphthong would serve better to break down the resistance of a determined spirit opposed to the Optimus, I shall give orders to the printers, who've been immunized by a temporary hypnosis.
"Pepper, two hours after I have sent in copy the crates of books will arrive simultaneously in every one of the twelve thousand shops. Now relax. You're going to be investigated."
He turned to select instruments from a cluttered board. With a faint intake of breath Marty slid from the chair in which he had been strapped, from which he had been working himself free with desperate speed while Pepper held the psychologist's gaze.
Marty launched himself at Fersen's back, snapping an arm about his throat. The psychologist snatched a scalpel from the board before the two reeled away into the center of the cluttered room. With his other hand Marty grabbed frantically at the wrist that held the blade, closed with crushing force about it. The knife dropped, tinkling, to the floor.
The two of them fell; Marty, shoving a knee into the small of Fersen's back, wrenched at his arm.
The psychologist collapsed shuddering in a heap. Marty warily broke away from him and picked up a casting, then clubbed Fersen carefully on the side of the head.
As he unbuckled Pepper he snapped: "Thank God that door's locked.
Thank God he didn't make enough noise to get the guard. Thank God for so damned many things, Pepper. This is the chance of a lifetime!"
"I don't understand," said Pepper.
"You will," smiled Marty airily. "You probably will. Now where in the bloody dithering hell does he keep his notes—?"
Jay Morningside, bookseller, wearily said: "I'm sorry, ma'am; I'm in trade. I can't afford to have any political opinions."
"Please," said the girl appealingly. "This election petition will help turn out the Fusionist gang and put in Lowers who know how people like us feel and think—"
Return from M-15
"For this device," declared the haggard young man, "and all rights, I want thirty percent of the World Research Syndicate voting stock."
The big man grinned. "Your little joke, Dr. Train. World Research Syndicate has little interest in independents—but from a person of your ability, perhaps we'll examine it. What is it you have there?
Perhaps a payment of a few thousands can be arranged."
"Don't laugh just yet. Look over these plans—you'll see what I mean."
The engineer took up the sheaf of cap with a smile and unrolled one of the sheets. His brow wrinkled, the smile became a frown. He opened other sheets and stared at them.
"Excuse me," he said, looking up. "I think I see what you are driving at, but I can't deliver an opinion on this sort of thing. I'm an expert in my own line and I know dielectrics as well as most, but this stuff is over my head. I shall endorse your work and refer it to the Board of Technology.
And I think you'll scare hell out of them."
Train laughed freely. "I'll do my best, Hans. And have you any idea of what this device will do?"
Vogel looked frightened. "I almost hope I'm wrong," he said. "Does it—"
he whispered in Train's ear.
"Right the first time. It does and it will. And if the Syndicate doesn't meet my demands, then I can set it up myself and go into business."
The other man looked strangely sober. "Young Dr. Train," he started, "I am strangely inclined to advise you like a father."
"Go ahead, Hans," replied Train cheerfully.
"Very well. I tell you, then, to moderate your request, or you will find yourself in the gravest of difficulties." He looked about the room apprehensively. "This is not a threat; it is merely advice. I am almost convinced that you should scrap your machine or technique, or whatever it is, and forget about it as completely as you can."
Train rose angrily. "Thank you. Vogel, you must be the truest and most faithful slave the Syndicate has; you and your advice can both go to the same place. I'm leaving the plans with you; they are not complete, of course. I hold all the key details. Send them in to your board and have them communicate with me. Good day."
Ann was primping herself before a mirror. "Barney," she warned coldly as she saw Train sneaking up behind her.
"I just wanted to straighten my tie," he said meekly.
"A likely story!"
"It isn't every day one calls on Jehovah," he said. "I think Mr. T J. Hartly would be disgruntled if I appeared with a crooked tie to receive a check for a million dollars."
"For a check that big you should be willing to go in stark naked," she said reflectively.
"Possibly. Where shall we have dinner? I want to flash the check in a head-waitress' face. They've been sneering at me all my life and I think it's time I got even."
"You'll do no such thing!" she retorted indignantly. "The moment we get that check, we head for the city clerk and get married. The money may be in your name, but I'm not going to be short-changed."
"Come on," he said, taking her arm and starting for the door. "It is sort of wonderful, isn't it? I'm so damned nervous I might burst into tears."
Suddenly sober, she looked at him. "Yes."
"Husband and wife," he mused. "Free from care and poverty; we can just love each other and buy all the crazy, expensive machines we want.
We can get acid stains on our hands whenever we feel like it, and have explosions three times a day. It's like a dream."
She kissed him abruptly. "On our way." They hopped into a taxi, and after a few moments of frenzied driving, pulled up at the entrance to the Syndicate Building.
Train paid the driver, gave him an enormous tip. On the elevator, Ann kicked him sharply in the shin.
"What was that for?" he inquired injuredly.
"For wasting our money, dear."
"Then this," he replied, kicking her back, "is for interfering in the distribution of our funds." The door opened and they hobbled out of the car.