The Push of a Finger - (2)

The first never saw me. I breezed right by and was in the second anteroom before she could say: "What is it, pa-lee-azz?" The second was warned by the bang of the door and grabbed hold of my arm as I tried to go through. I got past anyway, with two of them holding on, but number three added her lovely heft and I bogged down. By this time I was within earshot of the controller so I screamed: "Down with Stability!"
    Sure I did. I also shouted: "Stability is all wrong! I'm for Chaos. Hurray for Chaos!" and a lot more like that. The receptionists were shocked to death and one of them put in a call for emergency and a couple of guys hanging around were all for boffing me. I kept on downing with Stability and fighting toward the sanctum sanctorum et cetera and having a wonderful time because the three girls hanging on to me were strictly class and I happily suffocated on Exuberant No. 5. Finally the controller came out to see what made.
    They let go of me and the controller said: "What's the meaning of this?... Oh, it's you."
    I said: "Excuse it, please."
    "Is this your idea of a joke, Carmichael?"
    "No, sir, but it was the only quick way to get to you."
    "Sorry, Carmichael, but it's a little too quick."
    I said: "Wait a minute, sir."
    "Sorry, I'm extremely busy." He looked worried and impatient all at once.
    I said: "You've got to give me a moment in private."
    "Impossible. See my secretary." He turned toward his office.
    "Please, sir--"
    He waved his hand and started through the door. I took a jump and caught him by the elbow. He was sputtering furiously when I swung him around, but I got my arms around him and gave him a hug. When my mouth was against his ear I whispered: "I've been upstairs in the Prog Building. I know!"
    He stared at me and his jaw dropped. After a couple of vague gestures with his hands he motioned me in with a jerk of his head. I marched straight into the controller's office and almost fell down dead. The stabilizer was there. Yeah, old Jehovah Groating himself, standing before the window. All he needed was the stone tablets in his arms--or is it thunderbolts?
    I felt very, very sober, my friends, and not very smart any more because the stabilizer is a sobering sight no matter how you kid about him. I nodded politely and waited for the controller to shut the door. I was wishing I could be on the other side of the door. Also I was wishing I'd never gone upstairs into the Prog Building.
    The controller said: "This is John Carmichael, Mr. Groating, a reporter for the Times."
    We both said: "How-d'you-do?" only Groating said it out loud. I just moved my lips.
    The controller said: "Now, Carmichael, what's this about the Prog Building?"
    "I went upstairs, sir."
    He said: "You'll have to speak a little louder."
    I cleared my throat and said: "I went upstairs, sir."
    "You what!"
    "W-went upstairs."
    This time lightning really did flash from the C-S's eyes.
    I said: "If I've made trouble for anyone, I'm sorry. I've been wanting to get up there for years and ... and when I got the chance today, I couldn't resist it--" Then I told them how I sneaked up and what I did.
    *       *       *       *       *
    The controller made a terrible fuss about the whole affair, and I knew--don't ask me how, I simply knew--that something drastic was going to be done about it unless I talked plenty fast. By this time, though, the clues in my head were beginning to fall into place. I turned directly to the C-S and I said: "Sir, Prog stands for Prognostication, doesn't it?"
    There was silence. Finally Groating nodded slowly.
    I said: "You've got some kind of fortuneteller up there. You go up every afternoon and get your fortune told. Then you come out and tell the press about it as though you all thought it up by yourselves. Right?"
    The controller sputtered, but Groating nodded again.
    I said: "This afternoon the end of the Universe was prognosticated."
    Another silence. At last Groating sighed wearily. He shut the controller up with a wave of his hand and said: "It seems Mr. Carmichael does know enough to make things awkward all around."
    The controller burst out: "It's no fault of mine. I always insisted on a thorough guard system. If we had guarded the--"
    "Guards," Groating interrupted, "would only have upset existing Stability. They would have drawn attention and suspicion. We were forced to take the chance of a slip-up. Now that it's happened we must make the best of it."
    I said: "Excuse me, sir. I wouldn't have come here just to boast. I could have kept quiet about it. What bothers me is what bothered you?"
    Groating stared at me for a moment, then turned away and began to pace up and down the room. There was no anger in his attitude; if there had been, I wouldn't have been as scared as I was. It was a big room and he did a lot of pacing and I could see he was coldly analyzing the situation and deciding what was to be done with me. That frigid appraisal had me trembling.
    I said: "I'll give you my word not to mention this again--if that'll do the trick."
    He paid no attention--merely paced. My mind raced crazily through all the nasty things that could happen to me. Like solitary for life. Like one-way exploration. Like an obliterated memory track which meant I would have lost my twenty-eight years, not that they were worth much to anyone but me.
    I got panicky and yelled: "You can't do anything to me. Remember Stability--" I began to quote the Credo as fast as I could remember: "The status quo must be maintained at all costs. Every member of society is an integral and essential factor of the status quo. A blow at the Stability of any individual is a blow aimed at the Stability of society. Stability that is maintained at the cost of so much as a single individual is tantamount to Chaos--"
    "Thank you, Mr. Carmichael," the C-S interrupted. "I have already learned the Credo."
    He went to the controller's desk and punched the teletype keys rapidly. After a few minutes of horrible waiting the answer came clicking back. Groating read the message, nodded and beckoned to me. I stepped up to him and, boys, I don't know how the legs kept from puddling on the floor.
    Groating said: "Mr. Carmichael, it is my pleasure to appoint you confidential reporter to the Stability Board for the duration of this crisis."
    I said: "Awk!"
    Groating said: "We've maintained Stability, you see, and insured your silence. Society cannot endure change--but it can endure and welcome harmless additions. A new post has been created and you're it."
    I said: "Th-thanks."
    "Naturally, there will be an advance in credit for you. That is the price we pay, and gladly. You will attach yourself to me. All reports will be confidential. Should you break confidence, society will exact the usual penalty for official corruption. Shall I quote the Credo on that point?"
    I said: "No, sir!" because I knew that one by heart. The usual penalty isn't pleasant. Groating had me beautifully hog-tied. I said: "What about the Times, sir?"
    "Why," Groating said, "you will continue your usual duties whenever possible. You will submit the official releases as though you had no idea at all of what was really taking place. I'm sure I can spare you long enough each day to make an appearance at your office."
    Suddenly he smiled at me and in that moment I felt better. I realized that he was far from being a Jehovian menace--in fact that he'd done all he could to help me out of the nasty spot my curiosity had got me into. I grinned back and on impulse shoved out my hand. He took it and gave it a shake. Everything was fine.
    The C-S said: "Now that you're a fellow-official, Mr. Carmichael, I'll come to the point directly. The Prog Building, as you've guessed, is a Prognostication Center. With the aid of a complete data system and a rather complex series of Integraphs we have been able to ... to tell our fortunes, as you put it."
    I said: "I was just shooting in the dark, sir. I really don't believe it."
    Groating smiled. He said: "Nevertheless it exists. Prophecy is far from being a mystical function. It is a very logical science based on experimental factors. The prophecy of an eclipse to the exact second of time and precise degree of longitude strikes the layman with awe. The scientist knows it is the result of precise mathematical work with precise data."
    "Sure," I began, "but--"
    Groating held up his hand. "The future of the world line," he said, "is essentially the same problem magnified only by the difficulty of obtaining accurate data--and enough data. For example: Assuming an apple orchard, what are the chances of apples being stolen?"
    I said: "I couldn't say. Depends, I suppose, on whether there are any kids living in the neighborhood."
    "All right," Groating said, "that's additional data. Assuming the orchard and the small boys, what are the chances of stolen apples?"
    "Pretty good."
    "Add data. A locust plague is reported on the way."
    "Not so good."
    "More data. Agriculture reports a new efficient locust spray."
    "Better."
    "And still more data. In the past years the boys have stolen apples and been soundly punished. Now what are the chances?"
    "Maybe a little less."
    "Continue the experimental factors with an analysis of the boys. They are headstrong and will ignore punishment. Add also the weather forecasts for the summer; add the location of the orchard and attitude of owner. Now sum up: Orchard plus boys plus thefts plus punishment plus character plus locusts plus spray plus--"
    I said: "Good heavens!"
    "You're overwhelmed by the detail work," Groating smiled, "but not by the lack of logic. It is possible to obtain all possible data on the orchard in question and integrate the factors into an accurate prophecy not only as to the theft, but as to the time and place of theft. Apply this example to our own Universe and you can understand the working of the Prognosis Building. We have eight floors of data analyzers. The sifted factors are fed into the Integrators and--presto, prophecy!"
    I said: "Presto, my poor head!"
    "You'll get used to it in time."
    I said: "The pictures?"
    Groating said: "The solution of a mathematical problem can take any one of a number of forms. For Prognosis we have naturally selected a picturization of the events themselves. Any major step in government that is contemplated is prepared in data form and fed into the Integrator. The effect of that step on the world line is observed. If it is beneficial, we take that step; if not, we abandon it and search for another--"
    I said: "And the pictures I saw this afternoon?"
    Groating sobered. He said: "Up until today, Mr. Carmichael, we have not been able to integrate closer to the present than a week in the future--or deeper into the future than a few hundred years. Wiggon's new data technique has enabled us to push to the end of our existence, and it is perilously close. You saw the obliteration of our Universe take place less than a thousand years from now. This is something we must prevent at once."
    "Why all the excitement? Surely something will happen during the next ten centuries to avoid it."
    "What will happen?" Groating shook his head. "I don't think you understand our problem. On the one hand you have the theory of our society. Stability. You yourself have quoted the Credo. A society which must maintain its Stability at the price of instability is Chaos. Keep that in mind. On the other hand we cannot wait while our existence progresses rapidly toward extinction. The closer it draws to that point, the more violent the change will have to be to alter it.
    "Think of the progress of a snowball that starts at the top of a mountain and rolls down the slopes, growing in bulk until it smashes an entire house at the bottom. The mere push of a finger is sufficient to alter its future when it starts--a push of a finger will save a house. But if you wait until the snowball gathers momentum you will need violent efforts to throw the tons of snow off the course."
    I said: "Those pictures I saw were the snowball hitting our house. You want to start pushing the finger now--"
    Groating nodded. "Our problem now is to sift the billions of factors stored in the Prog Building and discover which of them is that tiny snowball."
    *       *       *       *       *
    The controller, who had been silent in a state of wild suppression all the while, suddenly spoke up. "I tell you it's impossible, Mr. Groating. How can you dig the one significant factor out of all those billions?"
    Groating said: "It will have to be done."
    "But there's an easier way," the controller cried. "I've been suggesting it all along. Let's attempt the trial and error method. We instigate a series of changes at once and see whether or not the future line is shifted. Sooner or later we're bound to strike something."
    "Impossible," Groating said. "You're suggesting the end of Stability. No civilization is worth saving if it must buy salvation at the price of its principles."
    I said: "Sir, I'd like to make a suggestion."
    They looked at me. The C-S nodded.
    "It seems to me that you're both on the wrong track. You're searching for a factor from the present. You ought to start in the future."
    "How's that?"
    "It's like if I said old maids were responsible for more clover. You'd start investigating the old maids. You ought to start with the clover and work backwards."
    "Just what are you trying to say, Mr. Carmichael?"
    "I'm talking about a posteriori reasoning. Look, sir, a fella by the name of Darwin was trying to explain the balance of nature. He wanted to show the chain of cause and effect. He said in so many words that the number of old maids in a town governed the growth of clover, but if you want to find out how, you've got to work it out a posteriori; from effect to cause. Like this: Only bumblebees can fertilize clover. The more bumblebees, the more clover. Field mice attack bumblebee nests, so the more field mice, the less clover. Cats attack mice. The more cats, the more clover. Old maids keep cats. The more old maids ... the more clover. Q. E. D."
    "And now," Groating laughed, "construe."
    "Seems to me you ought to start with the catastrophe and follow the chain of causation, link by link, back to the source. Why not use the Prognosticator backwards until you locate the moment when the snowball first started rolling?"
    There was a very long silence while they thought it over. The controller looked slightly bewildered and he kept muttering: Cats--clover--old maids--But I could see the C-S was really hit. He went to the window and stood looking out, as motionless as a statue. I remember staring past his square shoulder and watching the shadows of the helios flicking noiselessly across the façade of the Judiciary Building opposite us.
    It was all so unreal--this frantic desperation over an event a thousand years in the future; but that's Stability. It's strictly the long view. Old Cyrus Brennerhaven of the Morning Globe had a sign over his desk that read: If you take care of the tomorrows, the todays will take care of themselves.
    Finally Groating said: "Mr. Carmichael, I think we'd better go back to the Prog Building--"
    Sure I felt proud. We left the office and went down the hall toward the pneumatics and I kept thinking: "I've given an idea to the Chief Stabilizer. He's taken a suggestion from me!" A couple of secretaries had rushed down the hall ahead of us when they saw us come out, and when we got to the tubes, three capsules were waiting for us. What's more, the C-S and the controller stood around and waited for me while I contacted my city editor and gave him the official release. The editor was a little sore about my disappearance, but I had a perfect alibi. I was still looking for Hogan. That, my friends, was emphatically that.
    *       *       *       *       *
    At the Prog Building we hustled through the main offices and back up the curved stairs. On the way the C-S said he didn't think we ought to tell Yarr, the little old coot I'd hood-winked, the real truth. It would be just as well, he said, to let Yarr go on thinking I was a confidential secretary.
    So we came again to that fantastic clockwork room with its myriad whirling cams and the revolving crystal and the hypnotic bam-bam of the motors. Yarr met us at the door and escorted us to the viewing desk with his peculiar absent-minded subservience. The room was darkened again, and once more we watched the cloud of blackness seep across the face of the Universe. The sight chilled me more than ever, now that I knew what it meant.
    Groating turned to me and said: "Well, Mr. Carmichael, any suggestions?"
    I said: "The first thing we ought to find out is just what that spaceship has to do with the black cloud ... don't you think so?"
    "Why yes, I do." Groating turned to Yarr and said: "Give us a close-up of the spaceship and switch in sound. Give us the integration at normal speed."
    Yarr said: "It would take a week to run the whole thing off. Any special moment you want, sir?"
    I had a hunch. "Give us the moment when the auxiliary ship arrives."
    Yarr turned back to his switch-board. We had a close-up of a great round port. The sound mechanism clicked on, running at high speed with a peculiar wheetledy-woodeldey-weedledy garble of shrill noises. Suddenly the cruiser shot into view. Yarr slowed everything down to normal speed.
    The fat needle nosed into place, the ports clanged and hissed as the suction junction was made. Abruptly, the scene shifted and we were inside the lock between the two ships. Men in stained dungarees, stripped to the waist and sweating, were hauling heavy canvas-wrapped equipment into the mother ship. To one side two elderly guys were talking swiftly:
    "You had difficulty?"
    "More than ever. Thank God this is the last shipment."
    "How about credits?"
    "Exhausted."
    "Do you mean that?"
    "I do."
    "I can't understand it. We had over two millions left."
    "We lost all that through indirect purchases and--"
    "And what?"
    "Bribes, if you must know."
    "Bribes?"
    "My dear sir, you can't order cyclotrons without making people suspicious. If you so much as mention an atom today, you accuse yourself."
    "Then we all stand accused here and now."
    "I'm not denying that."
    "What a terrible thing it is that the most precious part of our existence should be the most hated."
    "You speak of--"
    "The atom."
    The speaker gazed before him meditatively, then sighed and turned into the shadowy depths of the spaceship.
    I said: "All right, that's enough. Cut into the moment just before the black-out occurs. Take it inside the ship."
    The integrators quickened and the sound track began its shrill babble again. Quick scenes of the interior of the mother ship flickered across the crystal. A control chamber, roofed with a transparent dome passed repeatedly before us, with the darting figures of men snapping through it. At last the Integrator fixed on that chamber and stopped. The scene was frozen into a still-photograph--a tableau of half a dozen half-naked men poised over the controls, heads tilted back to look through the dome.
    Yarr said: "It doesn't take long. Watch closely."
    I said: "Shoot."
    *       *       *       *       *
    The scene came to life with a blurp.
    "--ready on the tension screens?"
    "Ready, sir."
    "Power checked?"
    "Checked and ready, sir."
    "Stand by, all. Time?"
    "Two minutes to go."
    "Good--" The graybeard in the center of the chamber paced with hands clasped behind him, very much like a captain on his bridge. Clearly through the sound mechanism came the thuds of his steps and the background hum of waiting mechanism.
    The graybeard said: "Time?"
    "One minute forty seconds."
    "Gentlemen: In these brief moments I should like to thank you all for your splendid assistance. I speak not so much of your technical work, which speaks for itself, but of your willingness to exile yourselves and even incriminate yourselves along with me--Time?"
    "One twenty-five."
    "It is a sad thing that our work which is intended to grant the greatest boon imaginable to the Universe should have been driven into secrecy. Limitless power is so vast a concept that even I cannot speculate on the future it will bring to our worlds. In a few minutes, after we have succeeded, all of us will be universal heroes. Now, before our work is done, I want all of you to know that to me you are already heroes--Time?"
    "One ten."
    "And now, a warning. When we have set up our spacial partition membrane and begun the osmotic transfer of energy from hyperspace to our own there may be effects which I have been unable to predict. Raw energy pervading our space may also pervade our nervous systems and engender various unforeseen conditions. Do not be alarmed. Keep well in mind the fact that the change cannot be anything but for the better--Time?"
    "Fifty seconds."
    "The advantages? Up to now mathematics and the sciences have merely been substitutes for what man should do for himself. So FitzJohn preached in his first lecture, and so we are about to prove. The logical evolution of energy mechanics is not toward magnification and complex engineering development, but toward simplification--toward the concentration of all those powers within man himself--Time?"
    "Twenty seconds."
    "Courage, my friends. This is the moment we have worked for these past ten years. Secretly. Criminally. So it has always been with those who have brought man his greatest gifts."
    "Ten seconds."
    "Stand by, all."