“QCA Hymes and Perkin,” one of them said as he briefly let Joe see his identification plaque. “You’re a pot-healer, Mr. Fernwright; correct? And you’re also on the vet-dole; am I right? Yes I’m right,” he finished, answering his own question. “What would you say your daily income amounts to, your dole and money received for the alleged work you do?”
The other QCA man pushed open the door of the bathroom. “Something interesting here. The top of the tank, the toilet tank, is off. And he’s got a bag of metal coins hanging in there; I should guess about eighty quarters. You’re a frugal man, Mr. Fernwright.” The QCA man came back into the main room. “How long—“
“Two years,” Joe said. “And I’m not breaking any law; I checked with Mr. Attorney before I began.”
“What’s this about thirty-five thousand Plabkian crumbles?”
Joe hesitated.
It was not an unusual phenomenon, his attitude toward the QCA and their men. They had such neat suits, such good gray and brown weaves. Each carried a briefcase. All looked like highly reputable businessmen—prosperous and responsible, able to make decisions: they were not mere bureaucrats to whom orders were given and who merely carried out orders like pseudorobots . . . and yet they had an inhumanity about them, for no particular reason that he could make out. But then he thought, Ah—I have it. No one could ever imagine a QCA man holding a door open for a lady; that was it; that explained his feeling. A small thing, perhaps, but it seemed to be a comprehension of the severe essence of the QCA throughout. Never hold a door, Joe thought, never take off your hat in an elevator. The ordinary laws of charity did not apply to them, and these laws they did not follow. Ever. But how well shaved they were. How greatly neat.
Strange, he thought, how thinking this could give me the feeling that at last I understand them. But I do. In symbolic form, maybe. But the comprehension is there and it will never go away.
“I got a note,” Joe said. “I’ll show it to you.” He handed them the note which he had found bobbing about in its plastic bottle in the water closet of his facility.
“Who wrote this?” one of the QCA men asked.
“God knows,” Joe said.
“Is that a joke?”
Joe said, “You mean is the note a joke, or what I said in answer to your question in saying, ‘God knows—‘ “He broke off, because one of the QCA men was bringing out a teep rod, a receptor which would pick up and record his thoughts for police inspection. “You,” Joe said, “will see. That it’s true.”
The rod, wandlike, hovered over his head for several minutes. No one spoke. Then the QCA man returned the rod to his pocket and stuffed a little speaker into his ear; he played back the tape of Joe’s thoughts, listening intently.
“It’s so,” the QCA man said, and stopped the tape transport, which was located, of course, in his briefcase. “He doesn’t know anything about this note, who put it there or why. Sorry, Mr. Fernwright. You know, naturally, that we monitor all phone calls. This one interested us because—as you can probably appreciate—the sum involved is so large.”
His companion cop said, “Report to us once a day about this matter.” He handed Joe a card. “The number you’re to call is on the card. You don’t have to ask for anyone in particular; tell whoever answers the call what’s developed.”
The first QCA man said, “There isn’t anything legal that you could do to get paid thirty-five thousand Plabkian crumbles, Mr. Fernwright. It has to be illegal. That’s how we see it.”
“Maybe there’re a hell of a lot of broken pots on Sirius five,” Joe said.
“Bit of humor, there,” the first QCA man said tartly. He nodded to his companion, and the two of them opened the door and departed from his room. The door closed behind them.
“Maybe it’s one gigantic pot,” Joe said loudly. “A pot the size of a planet. With fifty glazes and—“ He gave up; they probably couldn’t hear him anyhow. And originally ornamented by the greatest graphic artist in Plabkian history, he thought. And it’s the only product of his genius left, and an earthquake has broken the pot, which is locally worshiped. So the whole Plabkian civilization has collapsed.
Plabkian civilization. Hmm, he thought. Just how far developed are they on Sirius five? he asked himself. A good question.
Going to the phone he dialed the encyclopedia number.
“Good evening,” a robotic voice said. “What info do you require, sir or madam?”
Joe said, “Give me a brief description of the social development on Sirius five.”
Without the passing of even a tenth second the artificial voice said, “It is an ancient society which has seen better days. The current dominant species on the planet consists of what is called a Glimmung. This shadowy, enormous entity is not native to the planet; it migrated there several centuries ago, taking over from the feeble species such as wubs, werjes, klakes, trobes, and printers left over when the once-ruling master species, the so-called Fog-Things of antiquity, passed away.”
“Glimmung—the Glimmung—is all-powerful?” Joe asked.
“His power,” the encyclopedia’s voice said, “is sharply curtailed by a peculiar book, probably nonexistent, in which, it is alleged, everything which has been, is, and will be, is recorded.”
Joe said, “Where did this book come from?”
“You have used up your allotted quantity of information,” the voice said. And clicked off.
Joe waited exactly three minutes and then redialed the number.
“Good evening. What info do you require, sir or madam?”
“The book on Sirius five,” Joe said. “Which is alleged to tell everything that has been—“
“Oh, it’s you again. Well, your trick won’t work anymore; we store voice patterns now.” It rang off.
That’s right, Joe realized. I remember reading in the newspaper about that. It was costing the government too much money the way it was—when we did what I tried to do just now. Nuts, he said to himself. Twenty-four hours before he could get any more free information. Of course, he could go to a private enterprise encyclopedia booth, to Mr. Encyclopedia. But it would cost as much as he had stored in his asbestos bag: the government, when licensing the nonstateowned enterprises such as Mr. Attorney and Mr. Encyclopedia and Mr. Job, had seen to that.
I think I got aced out, Joe Fernwright said to himself. As usual.
Our society, he thought broodingly, is the perfect form of government. Everyone is aced out, in the end.
3
When he reached his work cubicle the next morning he found a second special delivery letter waiting for him.
SHIP OUT TO PLOWMAN’S PLANET, MR. FERNWRIGHT, WHERE
YOU ARE NEEDED. YOUR LIFE WILL SIGNIFY SOMETHING; YOU
WILL CREATE A PERMANENT ENDEAVOR WHICH WILL OUTLAST
ME AS WELL AS YOU.
Plowman’s Planet, Joe reflected. It rang a bell, although dimly. Absentmindedly, he dialed the encyclopedia’s number.
“Is Plowman’s Planet—“ he began, but the artificial voice interrupted him.
“Not for another twelve hours. Goodby.”
“Just one fact?” he said angrily. “I just want to find out if Sirius five and Plowman’s—“ Click. The robot mechanism had rung off. Bastards, he thought. All robot servo-mechanisms and all computers are bastards.
Who can I ask? he asked himself, that would know, offhand, if Plowman’s Planet is Sirius five? Kate. Kate would know.
But, he thought as he started to dial her office number, if I’m going to emigrate to Plowman’s Planet I don’t want her to know; she’ll be able to trace me re my back alimony payments.
Once more he picked up the unsigned note, studied it. And, in a gradual, seeping fashion, a realization concerning it suffused his mind and entered into his field of awareness. There were more words on the note in some kind of semiinvisible ink. Runic writing? he wondered; he felt a sort of wicked, animal excitement, as if he had found a carefully protected trail.
He dialed Smith’s number. “If you got a letter,” Joe said, “with semi-invisible runic writing on it, how would you—you in particular—go about making it visible?”
“I’d hold it over a heat source,” Smith said.
“Why?” Joe said.
“Because it’s most likely written in milk. And writing in milk turns black over a heat source.”
“Runic writing in milk?” Joe said angrily.
“Statistics show—“
“I can’t imagine it. I simply can’t imagine it. Runic writing in milk.” He shook his head. “Anyway, what statistics are there on runic writing? This is absurd.” He got out his cigarette lighter and held it beneath the sheet of paper. At once, black letters became visible.
WE SHALL RAISE HELDSCALLA.
“What’s it say?” Smith asked.
Joe said, “Listen, Smith; you haven’t used the encyclopedia in the last twenty-four hours, have you?”
“No,” Smith said.