Beyond This Horizon Read online

  “What about him?”

  “I think I should recognize him, but I don’t.”

  “I do. Unless I am misled by a close resemblance, he was in the party of the man you burned, night before last.”

  “Sooo! Now that’s interesting.”

  “Try to stay out of trouble, Felix.”

  “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t stain my hostess’ pretty floors. Thanks, Cliff.”

  “Not at all.”

  They moved on, left Hamilton watching the chap he had inquired about. The man evidently became aware that he was being watched, for he left his place and came directly to Hamilton. He paused a ceremonious three paces away and said, “I come in friendship, gentle sir.”

  “‘The House of Hospitality encloses none but friends,’” Hamilton quoted formally.

  “You are kind, sir. My name is McFee Norbert.”

  “Thank you. I hight Hamilton Felix.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Hamilton suddenly changed his manner. “Ah! Did your friend know that when he chopped at me?”

  McFee glanced quickly to the right and left, as if to see whether or not the remark had been overheard. It was obvious that he did not like the tack. “Softly, sir. Softly,” he protested. “I tell you I come in friendship. That was a mistake, a regrettable mistake. His quarrel was with another.”

  “So? Then why did he challenge me?”

  “It was a mistake, I tell you. I am deeply sorry.”

  “See here,” said Hamilton. “Is this procedure? If he made an honest error, why does he not come to me like a man? I’ll receive him in peace.”

  “He is not able to.”

  “Why? I did no more than wing him.”

  “Nevertheless, he is not able to. I assure you he has been—disciplined.”

  Hamilton looked at him sharply. “You say ‘disciplined’—and he is not able to meet with me. Is he—perhaps—so ‘disciplined’ that he must tryst with a mortician instead?”

  The other hesitated a moment. “May we speak privately—under the rose?”

  “There is more here than shows above water. I don’t like the rose, my friend Norbert.”

  McFee shrugged. “I am sorry.”

  Hamilton considered the matter. After all, why not? The set-up looked amusing. He hooked an arm in McFee’s. “Let it be under the rose, then. Where shall we talk?”

  McFee filled the glass again. “You have admitted, Friend Felix, that you are not wholly in sympathy with the ridiculous genetic policy of our so-called culture. We knew that.”

  “How?”

  “Does it matter? We have our—ways. I know you to be a man of courage and ability, ready for anything. Would you like to put your resources to work on a really worthwhile project, worthy of a man?”

  “I would need to know what the project is.”

  “Naturally. Let me say—no, perhaps it is just as well not to say anything. Why should I burden you with secrets?”

  Hamilton refused the gambit. He just sat. McFee waited, then added, “Can I trust you, my friend?”

  “If you can’t, then what is my assurance worth?”

  The intensity of McFee’s deep-set eyes relaxed a little for the first time. He almost smiled. “You have me. Well… I fancy myself a good judge of men. I choose to trust you. Remember, this is still under the rose. Can you conceive of a program, scientifically planned to give us the utmost from the knowledge we have, which would not be inhibited by the silly rules under which our official geneticists work?”

  “I can conceive of such a program, yes.”

  “Backed by tough-minded men, men capable of thinking for themselves?”

  Hamilton nodded. He still wondered what this brave was driving at, but he had decided to see the game through.

  “There isn’t much more I can say…here,” McFee concluded. “You know where the Hall of the Wolf is?”

  “Certainly.”

  “You are a member?”

  Hamilton nodded. Everybody, or almost everybody, belonged to the Ancient Benevolent and Fraternal Order of the Wolf. He did not enter its portals once in six months, but it was convenient to have a place to rendezvous in a strange city. The order was about as exclusive as a rain storm.

  “Good. Can you meet me there, later tonight?”

  “I could.”

  “There is a room there where some of my friends sometimes gather. Don’t bother to inquire at the desk—it’s in the Hall of Romulus and Remus, directly opposite the escalator. Shall we say at two hundred?”

  “Make it half past two.”

  “As you wish.”

  Monroe-Alpha Clifford saw her first during the grand promenade. He could not have told truthfully why she caught his eye. She was beautiful, no doubt, but beauty alone is, of course, no special mark of distinction among girls. They cannot help being beautiful, any more than can a Persian cat, or a luna moth, or a fine race horse.

  What she did possess is less easy to tag. Perhaps it will do to say that, when Monroe-Alpha caught sight of her, he forgot about the delightful and intriguing conversation he had been having with Gerald, he forgot that he did not care much for dancing and had been roped into taking part in the promenade only through his inadvertent presence in the ballroom when the figure was announced, he forgot his own consuming melancholy.

  He was not fully aware of all this. He was only aware that he had taken a second look and that he thereafter spent the entire dance trying to keep track of her. As a result of which he danced even worse than usual. He was forced to apologize to his temporary partners more than once for his awkwardness.

  But he continued to be clumsy, for he was trying to work out in his head the problem of whether or not the figures of the dance would bring them together, make them partners for an interval. If he had been confronted with the question as an abstract problem—Given: the choreographic score of the dance. Required: will unit A and unit B ever come in contact?—had it been stated thus, he could have found the answer almost intuitively, had he considered it worthy of his talents.

  To attempt to solve it after the dynamics had commenced, when he himself was one of the variables, was another matter. Had he been in the second couple? Or the ninth?

  He had decided that the dance would not bring them together, and was trying to figure out some way to fudge—to change positions with another male dancer—when the dance did bring them together.

  He felt her finger tips in his. Then her weight was cradled against his hand as he swung her by the waist. He was dancing lightly, beautifully, ecstatically. He was outdoing himself—he could feel it.

  Fortunately, she landed on top.

  Because of that he could not even help her to her feet. She scrambled up and attempted to help him. He started laboriously to frame his apology in the most abjectly formal terms he could manage when he realized that she was laughing. “Forget it,” she interrupted him. “It was fun. We’ll practice that step on the quiet. It will be a sensation.”

  “Most gracious madame—” he began again.

  “The dance—” she said. “We’ll be lost!” She slipped away through the crowd, found her place.

  Monroe-Alpha was too demoralized by the incident to attempt to find his proper place. He slunk away, too concerned with his own thalamic whirlwind to worry over the gaucherie he was committing in leaving a figure dance before the finale.

  He located her again, after the dance, but she was in the midst of a group of people, all strangers to him. A dextrous young gallant could have improvised a dozen dodges on the spot whereby the lady could have been approached. He had no such talent. He wished fervently that his friend Hamilton would show up in the crowd—Hamilton would know what to do. Hamilton was resourceful in such matters. People never scared him.

  She was laughing about something. Two or three of the braves around her laughed too. One of them glanced his way. Damn it—were they laughing at him?

  Then she looked his way. Her eyes were warm and friendly. No, she w
as not laughing at him. He felt for an instant that he knew her, that he had known her for a long time, and that she was inviting him, as plain as speech, to come join her. There was nothing coquettish about her gaze. Nor was it tomboyish. It was easy, honest, and entirely feminine.

  He might have screwed up his courage to approach her then, had not a hand been placed on his arm. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, young fellow.”

  It was Doctor Thorgsen. Monroe-Alpha managed to stammer, “Uh… How do you fare, learned sir?”

  “As usual. You aren’t busy, are you? Can we have a gab?”

  Monroe-Alpha glanced back at the girl. She was no longer looking at him, was instead giving rapt attention to something one of her companions was saying. Oh well, he thought, you can’t expect a girl to regard being tumbled on a dance floor as the equivalent of a formal introduction. He would look up his hostess later and get her to introduce them. “I’m not busy,” he acknowledged. “Where shall we go?”

  “Let’s find some place where we can distribute the strain equally on all parts,” Thorgsen boomed. “I’ll snag a pitcher of drinks.

  I see by this morning’s news that your department announces another increase in the dividend,” he commenced.

  “Yes,” Monroe-Alpha said, a little mystified. There was nothing startling in an increase in the productivity of the culture. The reverse would have been news; an increase was routine.

  “I suppose there is an undistributed surplus?”

  “Of course. There always is.” It was a truism that the principal routine activity of the Board of Policy was to find suitable means to distribute new currency made necessary by the ever-increasing productive capital investment. The simplest way was by the direct issue of debt-free credit—flat money—to the citizens directly, or indirectly in the form of a subsidized discount on retail sales. The indirect method permitted a non-coercive control against inflation of price symbols. The direct method raised wages by decreasing the incentive to work for wages. Both methods helped to insure that goods produced would be bought and consumed and thereby help to balance the books of every businessman in the hemisphere.

  But man is a working animal. He likes to work. And his work is infernally productive. Even if he is bribed to stay out of the labor market and out of production by a fat monthly dividend check, he is quite likely to spend his spare time working out some gadget which will displace labor and increase productivity.

  Very few people have the imagination and the temperament to spend a lifetime in leisure. The itch to work overtakes them. It behooved the planners to find as many means as possible to distribute purchasing power through wages in spheres in which the work done would not add to the flood of consumption goods. But there is a reasonably, if not an actual, limit to the construction, for example, of non-productive public works. Subsidizing scientific research is an obvious way to use up credit, but one, however, which only postpones the problem, for scientific research, no matter how “pure” and useless it may seem, has an annoying habit of paying for itself many times, in the long run, in the form of greatly increased productivity.

  “The surplus,” Thorgsen went on, “have they figured out what they intend to do with it?”

  “Not entirely, I am reasonably sure,” Monroe-Alpha told him. “I haven’t given it much heed. I’m a computer, you know, not a planner.”

  “Yes, I know. But you’re in closer touch with these planning chappies than I am. Now I’ve got a little project in my mind which I’d like the Policy Board to pay for. If you’ll listen, I’ll tell you about and, I hope, get your help in putting it over.”

  “Why don’t you take it up with the Board directly?” Monroe-Alpha suggested. “I have no vote in the matter.”

  “No, but you know the ins-and-outs of the Board and I don’t. Besides I think you can appreciate the beauty of the project. Offhand, it’s pretty expensive and quite useless.”

  “That’s no handicap.”

  “Huh? I thought a project had to be useful?”

  “Not at all. It has to be worthwhile and that generally means that it has to be of benefit to the whole population. But it should not be useful in an economic sense.”

  “Hmmm… I’m afraid this one won’t benefit anybody.”

  “That is not necessarily a drawback. ‘Worthwhile’ is an elastic term. But what is it?”

  Thorgsen hesitated a moment before replying. “You’ve seen the ballistic planetarium at Buenos Aires?”

  “No, I haven’t. I know about it, of course.”

  “It’s a beautiful thing! Think of it, man—a machine to calculate the position of any body in the solar system, at any time, past or future, and give results accurate to seven places.”

  “It’s nice,” Monroe-Alpha agreed. “The basic problem is elementary, of course.” It was—to him. To a man who dealt in the maddeningly erratic variables of socio-economic problems, in which an unpredictable whim of fashion could upset a carefully estimated prediction, a little problem involving a primary, nine planets, a couple of dozen satellites, and a few hundred major planetoids, all operating under a single invariable rule, was just that—elementary. It might be a little complex to set up, but it involved no real mental labor.

  “Elementary!” Thorgsen seemed almost offended. “Oh, well, have it your own way. But what would you think of a machine to do the same thing for the entire physical universe?”

  “Eh? I’d think it was fantastic.”

  “So it would be—now. But suppose we attempted to do it for this galactic island only.”

  “Still fantastic. The variables would be of the order of three times ten to the tenth, would they not?”

  “Yes. But why not? If we had time enough—and money enough. Here is all I propose,” he said earnestly. “Suppose we start with a few thousand masses on which we now have accurate vector values. We would assume straight-line motion for the original set up. With the stations we now have on Pluto, Neptune, and Titan, we could start checking at once. Later on, as the machine was revised, we could include some sort of empirical treatment of the edge effect—the limit of our field, I mean. The field would be approximately an oblate ellipsoid.”

  “Double oblation, wouldn’t it be, including parallax shown by our own stellar drift?”

  “Yes, yes. That would become important.”

  “I suppose you will include the Solar Phoenix devolution?”

  “Huh?”

  “Why, I should think that was obvious. You’ll type the stars, won’t you? The progression of the hydrogen-helium transformation in each body is certainly a key datum.”

  “Brother, you’re way ahead of me. I was thinking only of a master ballistic solution.”

  “Why stop with that? When setting up a structural analogue why not make the symbolic mechanism as similar to the process as possible?”

  “Sure, sure. You’re right. I just wasn’t that ambitious. I was willing to sell out for less. Tell me—d’you think the Board would go for it?”

  “Why not? It’s worthwhile, it’s very expensive, it will run on for years, and it doesn’t show any prospect of being economically productive. I would say it was tailormade for subsidy.”

  “It does me good to hear you say so.”

  They made a date for the following day.

  As soon as he could gracefully do so, Monroe-Alpha excused himself from Thorgsen and went back to where he had last seen the girl. She was no longer there. He spent more than an hour looking for her, and was finally forced to the conclusion that she had left the party, or had hidden herself very cleverly. She was not in the swimming bath, or, if she were, she was capable of remaining under water longer than ten minutes. She was not in any of the accessible rooms—he had risked his life quite unconsciously, so thoroughly had he searched the dark corners.

  He intended to tell Hazel of the incident on the way to her home, but he could not find the words. What was there to tell, really? He had seen an attractive girl, and had managed to trip her by
his clumsiness. What was there in that? He did not even know her name. And it did not, somehow, seem like just the evening to speak to Hazel of other women. Good old Hazel!

  She noticed his preoccupation, noticed that it differed in character from his earlier glumness. “Enjoy yourself, Clifford?”

  “I think so. Yes.”

  “Meet any attractive girls?”

  “Why, uh, yes. Several.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “See here, Hazel—you don’t intend to go through with this silly divorce business, do you?”

  “I do.”

  One might think that he lay awake that night, filled with romantic thoughts of the nameless beauty. One would be wrong. He did think of her, but only for long enough to work out a suitable face-rehabilitating day dream, one in which he made killingly witty remarks anent his own awkwardness to which she responded with proper appreciation. It had not even been necessary to bulldoze any of the braves who surrounded her. They, too, had applauded his wit.

  Nor did he think long of Hazel. If she saw fit to break the contract, it was her business. Not that there was any sense to it—it did not occur to him that anything could greatly change their relationship. But he would stop this twice-a-week dine-and-visit. A woman appreciated a few surprises, he supposed.

  All this was simply to clear the circuits for the serious getting-to-sleep thoughts. Thorgsen’s proposal. A really pretty problem, that. A nice problem—

  Hamilton Felix had a much busier night. So busy, that he had much on his mind at breakfast the next morning. Decisions to make, matters to evaluate. He did not even turn on the news, and, when the annunciator informed him that a visitor waited outside his door, he punched the “welcome” key absent-mindedly, without stopping to consider whether he really wished to see anyone. Some woman, he had noticed, from the mug plate. His thoughts went no further.

  She came in and perched herself on the arm of a chair, one leg swinging. “Well,” she said, “good morning, Hamilton Felix!”

  He looked at her in puzzlement. “Do we know each other?”

  “Noooo,” she said calmly, “but we will. I thought it was about time I looked you over.”