The disintegration of the social and economic system had been slow, gradual, and profound. It went so deep that people lost faith in natural law itself. Nothing seemed stable or fixed; the universe was a sliding flux. Nobody knew what came next. Nobody could count on anything. Statistical prediction became popular . . . the very concept of cause and effect died out. People lost faith in the belief that they could control their environment; all that remained was probable sequence: good odds in a universe of random chance.
The theory of Minimax—the M-Game—was a kind of Stoic withdrawal, a nonparticipation in the aimless swirl in which people struggled. The M-game player never really committed himself; he risked nothing, gained nothing . . . and wasn’t overwhelmed. He sought to hoard his pot and Strove to outlast the other players. The M-Game player sat waiting for the game to end; that was the best that could be hoped for.
Minimax, the method of surviving the great game of life, was invented by two twentieth century mathematicians, von Neumann and Morgenstern. It had been used in the Second World War, in the Korean War, and in the Final War. Military strategists and then financiers had played with the theory. In the middle of the century, von Neumann was appointed to the U.S. Atomic Energy Commission: recognition of the burgeoning significance of his theory. And in two centuries and a half, it became the basis of Government.
That was why Leon Cartwright, electronics repairman and human being with a conscience, had become a Prestonite.
Signalling, Cartwright pulled his ancient car to the curb. Ahead of him the Society building gleamed dirty white in the May sun, a narrow three-story structure of wood, its single sign jutting up above the laundry next door: PRESTON SOCIETY Main Offices at Rear.
This was the back entrance, the loading platform. Cartwright opened the back of the car and began dragging cartons of mailing literature onto the sidewalk. The people swarming by ignored him; a few yards up a fishmonger was unloading his truck in similar fashion. Across the street a looming hotel shielded a motley family of parasitic stores and dilapidated business establishments: loan shops, cigar stores, girl houses, bars.
Rolling a carton onto his knees, Cartwright trundled it down the narrow walk and into the gloomy storage room of the building. A single atronic bulb glowed feebly in the dank darkness; supplies were stacked on all sides, towering columns of crates and wire-bound boxes. He found an empty spot, set down his heavy load, and then passed through the hall and into the cramped little front office.
The office and its barren reception room were—as usual-empty. The front door of the building was standing wide open. Cartwright picked up a heap of mail; sitting down on the sagging couch, he spread the mail out on the table and began going through it. There was nothing of importance: bills for printing, freight, rent, overdue penalties for power and garbage collection, water and raw supplies.
Opening a letter, he removed a five dollar bill and a long note in a shaky, old-woman’s handwriting. There were a few more microscopic contributions. Adding it up, he found that the Society had taken in thirty dollars.
“They’re getting restless,” Rita O’Neill said, appearing in the doorway behind him. “Maybe we should begin.”
Cartwright sighed. The time had come. Pulling himself to his feet, he emptied an ashtray, straightened a pile of dog-eared copies of Preston’s _Flame Disc_, and reluctantly followed the girl down the narrow hall. Below the fly-specked photograph of John Preston, just to the left of the row of scarf-hooks, he stepped forward and passed through the false slot into the vague interior passage that ran parallel to the ordinary corridor.
At sight of him, the roomful of people ceased talking abruptly. All eyes were turned; an eager hope mixed with fright shuddered around the room. Relieved, a few of the people edged toward him; the murmur boiled up again and became a babble. Now they were all trying to get his attention. A ring of excited, gesturing men and women, formed about him as he moved toward die center.
“Here we go,” Bill Konklin said, relieved.
Beside him, Mary Uzich said eagerly, “We’ve waited so long—we just can’t wait any longerl”
Cartwright felt in his pockets until he found his checklist. A bewildering variety of people crowded anxiously around him: Mexican laborers mute and frightened, clutching their belongings, a hard-faced urban couple, a jet stoker, Japanese optical workmen, a red-lipped bed girl, the middle-aged owner of a retail dry goods store that had gone quack, an agronomy student, a patent medicine salesman, a cook, a nurse, a carpenter. All of them were perspiring, shoving, listening, watching intently.
These were people with skill in their hands—not their heads. Their abilities had come from years of practice and work, from direct contact with objects. They could grow plants, sink foundations, repair leaking pipes, maintain machinery, weave clothing, cook meals. According to the Classification system they were failures.
“I think everybody’s here,” Jereti said tensely. Cartwright took a deep breath of prayer and raised his voice so all could hear. “I want to say something before you leave. The ship is ready to go; it’s been checked over by our friends at the field.”
“That’s correct,” Captain Groves corroborated; he was an impressive, stern-faced Negro in leather jacket, gloves, and boots.
Cartwright rattled his scrap of crumpled metalfoil. “Well, this is it. Anybody have any doubts? Anybody want to back out?”
There was excitement and tension, but none of them stirred. Mary Uzich smiled at Cartwright and then up at the young man beside her; Konklin put his arm around her and pulled her close.
“This is what we’ve worked for,” Cartwright continued. “This is the moment our money and time have gone to. I wish John Preston were here; he’d be glad to see this. He knew it would come, some day. He knew there’d be a ship heading out past the colony planets, beyond the regions controlled by the Directorate. In his heart he was certain that men would seek new frontiers . . . and freedom.” He examined his watch. “Good-bye and good luck—you’re on your way. Keep tight hold of your charms and let Groves do the steering.”
One by one they gathered their meager possessions and shuffled out of the room. Cartwright shook hands with them, mumbled words of hope and comfort. When the last of them had gone he stood for a moment, silent and thoughtful, in the now deserted room.
“I’m glad that’s over,” Rita declared, relaxing. “I was afraid some of them would back out.”
“The unknown is a terrible place. There are monsters out there. And in one of his books Preston describes weird calling voices.” Cartwright poured himself a cup of black coffee from the silex. “Well, we have our part here. I don’t know which is worse.”
“I never really believed it,” Rita said, smoothing her black hair with an unconscious push of her slim, competent fingers. “You can change the universe . . . there’s nothing you can’t do.”
“There’s plenty I can’t do,” Cartwright disagreed dryly. “I’ll try a few things, start some activity here and there, put an end to something else. But they’ll get me, before long.”
Rita was appalled. “How—can you say that?”
“I’m being realistic.” His voice was hard, almost savage. “Assassins have killed every unk the bottle ever twitched. How long do you think it’ll take them to get the Challenge Convention set up? The checks and balances of this system work to check us and balance them. As far as they’re concerned, I broke the rules by just wanting to play. Anything that happens to me from now on is my own fault.”
“Do they know about the ship?”
“I doubt it.” Morbidly, he added, “I hope not.”
“You can last that long, until the ship is safe. Isn’t that the—” Rita broke off, turning in fear.
From outside the building came the sound of jets. A ship was setting down on the roof, a sudden metallic whirr like that of a steel insect. There was a staggering thump, then voices and quick movements from the floors above, as the roof trap was yanked open.
Rita saw the look on her uncle’s face, the momentary terror gleaming out, the brief flash of awareness. Then the benign weariness and quietude filmed over, and he smiled haltingly at her.
“They’re here,” he observed, in a faint, almost inaudible voice.
Heavy military boots showed in the corridor. The green-uniformed Directorate guards fanned out around the meeting chamber; after them came a calm-faced Directorate official with a locked briefcase gripped.
“You’re Leon Cartwright?” the official inquired. Leafing through the notebook he said, “Give me your papers. You have them with you?”
Cartwright slid his plastic tube from his inside coat pocket, unsnapped the seal, and spread out the thin metal-foil. One by one he laid them on the table. “Birth-certificate. School and training records. Psych-analysis. Medical certificate. Criminal record. Status permit. Statement of fealty history. Last fealty release. All the rest.” He pushed the heap toward the official and then removed his coat and rolled up his sleeve.