“Well . . . ” Lew moved closer to the girl, slid an arm around her waist. “Inasmuch as we’re stuck here,” he said, “we may as well make the best of it.”
“What’s that?” Baby Lou felt over Lew’s side, plucked something from his sarong. “It was sticking me,” she said, and pushed the button.
“No!” Lew grabbed the signaler and hurled it into the pit—far too late. Already its telltale pulse had raced to the ship waiting hull-down over the horizon.
“Well—I never!” Baby Lou snapped and marched away.
“Everybody to the beach!” Lew yelled, plunging after her. “We’ve got six minutes before the island goes up in smoke!”
7
It was a balmy evening six months later. Lew, Googooian, and Simenov sat under the thatched shelter they had constructed above the high tide line, playing a game of homemade dominoes by lantern light. In the background, a native electric guitar band played Aloha Oe in time to the chugging of a portable generator.
“Tomorrow comes maybe supply ship,” the Russian said, eyeing the empty horizon.
“I doubt it,” Googooian said.
Baby Lou came up, trailed by George. “No, I do not believe in sharing the wealth,” she was saying tartly. “Father, make George stop bothering me!”
“Ah—perhaps if Lew chaperoned you—”
“I’d like to see him try, the lousy actor,” George snarled.
“Oh, yeah?” Daredevil Jack half rose, then sank back. “It’s too hot,” Lew Jantry said.
Baby Lou sniffed and stalked away. George wandered off. Simenov glowered at the dominoes.
“Now, now,” Googooian said in tones of forced heartiness. “Here we are, living in paradise, plenty of fruit and fresh seafood, sunshine every day, cool breezes at night, no responsibilities, no problems. We should all be perfectly delighted!”
“Then why aren’t we?” Lew demanded.
“I tell you why,” Simenov stated. “Is no damned thing to do. Are not building socialism. Not even building capitalism! Is building only sand castles, and is getting pretty damn boring.”
“Say,” Googooian said suddenly.
“What?” Lew said.
“I was just wondering—not that I regret anything I’ve done, you understand . . . ”
“Go on,” Simenov said.
“If we used the stuff you fellows had left over”—he eyed the Russian—”and if we could salvage a few items from the mountain—”
“Yes?” Lew and Simenov said in chorus.
“We might just be able to tinker up a little line-of-sight rig. Nothing elaborate, mind you. Just straight black and white, two-D—at least at first . . . ”
“Hmm. Is possibility.” The Russian pulled at his lower lip. Together, the two technical men strolled off deep in conversation. Lew Jantry sat where he was, staring after them, a thoughtful look on his face. Then he rose, hurried toward the slight figure wandering lonely along the beach.
“Oh, Baby Lou,” he called. “I’ve been meaning to ask you: have you ever thought of taking up acting as a profession?”
“Why, Lew! Do you really think I might have talent?”
“I’m sure of it. It’s just a matter of finding an outlet for it.”
Together they strolled along the shore of the lagoon toward the silvery path of the rising moon.
GOOBEREALITY
Barnaby Quale, immaculately clad in pale yellow Gooberalls and ochre Gooberbund for his meeting with the head of Goober Enterprises, sat on the edge of the vast, hard chair reserved for personal interviewees of Harlowe Goober, waiting for the magnate to speak.
“Environmental Simulator?” Goober’s voice combined the toughness of Gooberplast with the silky texture of Gooberlon. He fixed Quale with a daggerlike glance from pale blue eyes magnified by quarter-inch electrolenses, prodded the sheets of sketches and calculations before him.
“I’m a practical man, Clune,” he announced. “Never went in for this what-d’ye-call-it science stuff; a Goober hires men for that. Now suppose you leave out all the technical talk and state just what it is you’re referring to.”
“It’s the matter I wrote to you about, six months ago, Mr. Goober,” Barnaby said. “It’s a new application of cybernetic theory. By harnessing a data-response syndrome to a manipulative device, using an application of the principle that’s employed in the Goobervendors to synthesize a variety of products—”
“I’m familiar with the function of the Goobervendor, Gorm,” the industrialist barked. “One of my finer contributions to the Great Society, ranking just after the Goobertape and just ahead of the Gooberlator.” He lit up a Gooberfitter with a flourish.
“Yes, sir,” Quale nodded. “But my device does more than merely produce a product to specification. It assimilates the data introduced, collates, interrelates, extrapolates and, on the basis of up to one hundred billion separate informational factors, re-creates the exocosmic matrix implied by the observed phenomena—”
“Boil that down to straight American, Clud!” Goober snapped. “I have an appointment in two minutes with the Secretary of Poverty. The program’s being expanded to cover another hundred million newly qualified citizens, and Goober Enterprises will be expected to make its usual massive input to the common good.” He clamped the cigar between large, square teeth and glared at Quale.
“I was wondering, Mr. Goober, if you’ve had time to look over my calculations and designs, and reach a decision about backing me.”
“Ah, I think I recall something of the matter now, Grudd. You’re the fellow who quit us to go off on his own! Some wild scheme to mock up some sort of mechanical wax museum.”
“Mr. Goober, I don’t think you’ve quite grasped the real significance of the Environmental Simulator. It’s not just a gimmick! It’s a research tool of the first importance! There are dozens of applications for the device! Police forces could use it to reconstruct crimes, on the basis of all available clues; historians can fill in gaps in historical situations by setting up all known data. The Simulator will fill in the gaps by extension of the known—”
“Nonsense, Greeb! A visionary scheme! Totally impractical! Goober Enterprises wouldn’t put a nickel into a crank idea like this!” Goober rose, a vast, massive figure in fashionable purple Goobervelt with a touch of Gooberlace at the wrists.
“One of my people will show you the way out.”
“I know the way out,” Barnaby said. “I worked here for six years.”
“And having deserted the firm, you now come crawling back for handouts!”
“I’m offering you a solid business deal,” Quale protested. But Goober was gone, in a swirl of Gooberfumes.
* * *
Barnaby made his way from the Executive Wing, rode the Gooberlift down to ground level, took a shortcut across the Experimental Complex toward the Research Block. A new shed had been set up, he noted; a huge, slab-sided structure covering an acre or two of ground. A tall, thin man emerged from a tiny door set in one corner.
“Hey, Barney,” the man hailed, “what you doing over here? Haven’t seen you in months.”
“Hello, Horace. Just been in to see the Old Man about my proposition. He turned me down cold.”
“Say, that’s too bad, Barney. Looks like he’d pay a little more attention to the man that gave him Goobervision, Goobertape, Goobertronics, the Goobervendor.”
“All I did was supply the ideas, Horace; Mr. Goober got them into production. By the way, what’s this?” Barnaby waved a hand at the looming structure.
Horace looked grave. “This is something big, Barney. It’s called the Goobernetic Goobereality Simulator. Very hush-hush.”
“Simulator?” Barnaby’s eyebrows rose almost to his hairline.
“Sure. A great concept.” Horace looked around. “Come on inside,” he said in a conspiratorial tone. “I’ll give you a peek.”
Barnaby followed Horace through the door into the echoing vastness of the immense structure. Fifty feet overhead a roof of translucent Gooberplast admitted a warm, golden light. To the left was a bank of massive machines, featureless in gray housings, a control booth beside them. Otherwise, the flat, covered acres were as smooth and featureless as a parking lot.
“This one was the Old Man’s own, personal idea,” Horace said. “It came down right from his office, about six months ago. Top priority. We rushed her through. She’s all programmed now, ready to go. He plans to give a demonstration for the industry tomorrow; I’ve got an idea he’s working an angle to get a Cabinet appointment out of this one.”
“What does it do?”
“Damnedest thing you ever saw,” Horace said. He led the way to the control booth, indicated a wide panel. “You feed in your data here; it’s flashed to the main cybernetic banks over in Vault One, and processed. See that big cable there? A direct tap to the main power pile. You got over 50 Goobermegs to draw on. When the red light goes on, you throw in the main switch here; that activates the Simulator, and starts the mockup going—”
“Horace—you mean—it sets up a simulated environment?”
Horace gaped. “Hey, how’d you know that?”
“Look, Horace, are you sure? I was just talking to Mr. Goober—”
“Oh,” Horace looked relieved. “He told you about it. For a minute I was afraid there’d been a leak.”