ï»¿The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Skylark of Space, by Edward Elmer Smithand Lee Hawkins GarbyThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copyit, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Skylark of SpaceAuthor: Edward Elmer Smith and Lee HawkinsGarbyRelease Date: March 21, 2007  [eBook #20869]Most recently updated April 18, 2011Language: English***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SKYLARK OF SPACE***E-text prepared by GregWeeks, L. N. Yaddanapudi, David Dyer-Bennet, andthe Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team(http://www.pgdp.net)Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this      file which includes theoriginal illustrations.      See 20869-h.htm or 20869-h.zip:      (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/0/8/6/20869/20869-h/20869-h.htm)      or      (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/0/8/6/20869/20869-h.zip)      +----------------------------------------------------------+      | Transcriber's note                                       |      |                                                          |      | This etext was produced from Amazing Stories August,     |      |September and October 1928. Extensive research did not   |      | uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this     |      | publication wasrenewed.                                 |      |                                                          |      | Other notes and a list of corrections made will be found |      | at the end of thebook.                                  |      +----------------------------------------------------------+THE SKYLARK OF SPACEbyEDWARD ELMER SMITHIn Collaboration withLEE HAWKINS GARBY[Illustration: CoverPage]    +--------------------------------------+    |                                      |    | _Perhaps it is a bit unethical and   |    | unusual for editors to voice their   |    | opinion of their own wares, but when |    | such a storyas "The Skylark of      |    | Space" comes along, we just feel as  |    | if we must shout from the housetops  |    | that this is the greatest            |    | interplanetarian and space flying    |    | story that has appearedthis year.   |    | Indeed, it probably will rank as one |    | of the great space flying stories    |    | for many years to come. The story is |    | chock full, not only of excellent    |    | science, but woven through itthere  |    | is also that very rare element, love |    | and romance. This element in an      |    | interplanetarian story is often apt  |    | to be foolish, but it does not seem  |    | so in this particularstory._        |    |                                      |    | _We know so little about             |    | intra-atomic forces, that this       |    | story, improbable as it will appear  |    | in spots, will read commonplace      |    | yearshence, when we have atomic     |    | engines, and when we have solved the |    | riddle of the atom._                 |    |                                      |    | _You will follow the hair-raising    |    | explorations and strangeventures    |    | into far-away worlds with bated      |    | breath, and you will be fascinated,  |    | as we were, with the strangeness of  |    | itall._                             |    |                                      |    +--------------------------------------+CHAPTER IThe Occurrence of the ImpossiblePetrified with astonishment, Richard Seaton stared after thecoppersteam-bath upon which he had been electrolyzing his solution of "X," theunknown metal. For as soon as he had removed the beaker the heavy bathhad jumped endwise from under his hand as though it werealive. It hadflown with terrific speed over the table, smashing apparatus and bottlesof chemicals on its way, and was even now disappearing through the openwindow. He seized his prism binoculars and focused themupon the flyingvessel, a speck in the distance. Through the glass he saw that it didnot fall to the ground, but continued on in a straight line, only itsrapidly diminishing size showing the enormous velocity with which itwasmoving. It grew smaller and smaller, and in a few moments disappearedutterly.The chemist turned as though in a trance. How was this? The copper bathhe had used for months was gone--gone like a shot, withnothing to makeit go. Nothing, that is, except an electric cell and a few drops of theunknown solution. He looked at the empty space where it had stood, atthe broken glass covering his laboratory table, and again staredout ofthe window.He was aroused from his stunned inaction by the entrance of his coloredlaboratory helper, and silently motioned him to clean up the wreckage."What's happened, Doctah?" asked the duskyassistant."Search me, Dan. I wish I knew, myself," responded Seaton, absently,lost in wonder at the incredible phenomenon of which he had just been awitness.Ferdinand Scott, a chemist employed in the next room,entered breezily."Hello, Dicky, thought I heard a racket in here," the newcomer remarked.Then he saw the helper busily mopping up the reeking mass of chemicals."Great balls of fire!" he exclaimed. "What've you beencelebrating? Hadan explosion? How, what, and why?""I can tell you the 'what,' and part of the 'how'," Seaton repliedthoughtfully, "but as to the 'why,' I am completely in the dark. Here'sall I know about it," and in a fewwords he related the foregoingincident. Scott's face showed in turn interest, amazement, and pityingalarm. He took Seaton by the arm."Dick, old top, I never knew you to drink or dope, but this stuff surecame out ofeither a bottle or a needle. Did you see a pink serpentcarrying it away? Take my advice, old son, if you want to stay in UncleSam's service, and lay off the stuff, whatever it is. It's bad enough tocome down here so fargone that you wreck most of your apparatus andlose the rest of it, but to pull a yarn like that is going too far. TheChief will have to ask for your resignation, sure. Why don't you take acouple of days of your leave andstraighten up?"Seaton paid no attention to him, and Scott returned to his ownlaboratory, shaking his head sadly.Seaton, with his mind in a whirl, walked slowly to his desk, picked uphis blackened and battered briarpipe, and sat down to study out what hehad done, or what could possibly have happened, to result in such anunbelievable infraction of all the laws of mechanics and gravitation. Heknew that he was sober and sane, thatthe thing had actually happened.But why? And how? All his scientific training told him that it wasimpossible. It was unthinkable that an inert mass of metal should flyoff into space without any applied force. Since it hadactuallyhappened, there must have been applied an enormous and hitherto unknownforce. What was that force? The reason for this unbelievablemanifestation of energy was certainly somewhere in the solution,theelectrolytic cell, or the steam-bath. Concentrating all the power of hishighly-trained analytical mind upon the problem--deaf and blind toeverything else, as was his wont when deeply interested--he satmotionless,with his forgotten pipe clenched between his teeth. Hourafter hour he sat there, while most of his fellow-chemists finished theday's work and left the building and the room slowly darkened with thecoming ofnight.Finally he jumped up. Crashing his hand down upon the desk, heexclaimed:"I have liberated the intra-atomic energy of copper! Copper, 'X,' andelectric current!"I'm sure a fool for luck!" he continued as a newthought struck him."Suppose it had been liberated all at once? Probably blown the wholeworld off its hinges. But it wasn't: it was given off slowly and in astraight line. Wonder why? Talk about power! Infinite! Believeme, I'llshow this whole Bureau of Chemistry something to make their eyes stickout, tomorrow. If they won't let me go ahead and develop it, I'llresign, hunt up some more 'X', and do it myself. That bath is on its waytothe moon right now, and there's no reason why I can't follow it.Martin's such a fanatic on exploration, he'll fall all over himself tobuild us any kind of a craft we'll need ... we'll explore the wholesolar system! Great Cat,what a chance! A fool for luck is right!"He came to himself with a start. He switched on the lights and saw thatit was ten o'clock. Simultaneously he recalled that he was to have haddinner with his fiancÃ©e at her home,their first dinner since theirengagement. Cursing himself for an idiot he hastily left the building,and soon his motorcycle was tearing up Connecticut Avenue toward hissweetheart's home.CHAPTER IISteel BecomesInterestedDr. Marc DuQuesne was in his laboratory, engaged in a research uponcertain of the rare metals, particularly in regard to theirelectrochemical properties. He was a striking figure. Well over six feettall,unusually broad-shouldered even for his height, he was plainly aman of enormous physical strength. His thick, slightly wavy hair wasblack. His eyes, only a trifle lighter in shade, were surmounted byheavy blackeyebrows which grew together above his aquiline nose.Scott strolled into the room, finding DuQuesne leaning over a delicateelectrical instrument, his forbidding but handsome face strangelyilluminated by the ghastlyglare of his mercury-vapor arcs."Hello, Blackie," Scott began. "I thought it was Seaton in here atfirst. A fellow has to see your faces to tell you two apart. Speaking ofSeaton, d'you think that he's quite right?""I shouldsay, off-hand, that he was a little out of control last nightand this morning," replied DuQuesne, manipulating connections with hislong, muscular fingers. "I don't think that he's insane, and I don'tbelieve that hedopes--probably overwork and nervous strain. He'll beall right in a day or two.""I think he's a plain nut, myself. That sure was a wild yarn he sprungon us, wasn't it? His imagination was hitting on all twelve, that'ssure.He seems to believe it himself, though, in spite of making a flatfailure of his demonstration to us this morning. He saved that wastesolution he was working on--what was left of that carboy of platinumresidues after hehad recovered all the values, you know--and got themto put it up at auction this noon. He resigned from the Bureau, and heand M. Reynolds Crane, that millionaire friend of his, bid it in for tencents.""M. ReynoldsCrane?" DuQuesne concealed a start of surprise. "Where doeshe come in on this?""Oh, they're always together in everything. They've been thicker thanDamon and Pythias for a long time. They play tennistogether--they'redoubles champions of the District, you know--and all kinds of things.Wherever you find one of them you'll usually find the other. Anyway,after they got the solution Crane took Seaton in his car, andsomebodysaid they went out to Crane's house. Probably trying to humor him. Well,ta-ta; I've got a week's work to do yet today."As Scott left DuQuesne dropped his work and went to his desk, with a newexpression,half of chagrin, half of admiration, on his face. Picking uphis telephone, he called a number."Brookings?" he asked, cautiously. "This is DuQuesne. I must see youimmediately. There's something big started that may aswell belong tous.... No, can't say anything over the telephone.... Yes, I'll be rightout."He left the laboratory and soon was in the private office of the head ofthe Washington or "diplomatic" branch, as it was known incertaincircles, of the great World Steel Corporation. Offices and laboratorieswere maintained in the city, ostensibly for research work, but inreality to be near the center of political activity."How do you do, DoctorDuQuesne?" Brookings said as he seated hisvisitor. "You seem excited.""Not excited, but in a hurry," DuQuesne replied. "The biggest thing inhistory has just broken, and we've got to work fast if we get in on it.Have youany doubts that I always know what I am talking about?""No," answered the other in surprise. "Not the slightest. You are widelyknown as an able man. In fact, you have helped this company severaltimes in variousdeal--er, in various ways.""Say it. Brookings. 'Deals' is the right word. This one is going to bethe biggest ever. The beauty of it is that it should be easy--one simpleburglary and an equally simple killing--and won't meanwholesale murder,as did that....""Oh, no, Doctor, not murder. Unavoidable accidents.""Why not call things by their right names and save breath, as long aswe're alone? I'm not squeamish. But to get down to business.You knowSeaton, of our division, of course. He has been recovering the variousrare metals from all the residues that have accumulated in the Bureaufor years. After separating out all the known metals he hadsomethingleft, and thought it was a new element, a metal. In one of his attemptsto get it into the metallic state, a little of its solution fizzed outand over a copper steam bath or tank, which instantly flew out ofthewindow like a bullet. It went clear out of sight, out of range of hisbinoculars, just that quick." He snapped his fingers under Brookings'nose. "Now that discovery means such power as the world never dreamedof. Infact, if Seaton hadn't had all the luck in the world right withhim yesterday, he would have blown half of North America off the map.Chemists have known for years that all matter contains enormous storesof intra-atomicenergy, but have always considered it 'bound'--that is,incapable of liberation. Seaton has liberated it.""And that means?""That with the process worked out, the Corporation could furnish powerto the entire world, atvery little expense."       *       *       *       *       *A look of scornful unbelief passed over Brookings' face."Sneer if you like," DuQuesne continued evenly. "Your ignorance doesn'tchange the fact in any particular. Do youknow what intra-atomic energyis?""I'm afraid that I don't, exactly.""Well, it's the force that exists between the ultimate component partsof matter, if you can understand that. A child ought to. Call in yourchief chemistand ask him what would happen if somebody would liberatethe intra-atomic energy of one hundred pounds of copper.""Pardon me, Doctor. I didn't presume to doubt you. I will call him in."He telephoned a request andsoon a man in white appeared. In response tothe question he thought for a moment, then smiled slowly."If it were done instantaneously it would probably blow the entire worldinto a vapor, and might force it clear outof its orbit. If it could becontrolled it would furnish millions of horsepower for a long time. Butit can't be done. The energy is bound. Its liberation is animpossibility, in the same class with perpetual motion. Is that all,Mr.Brookings?"As the chemist left, Brookings turned again to his visitor, with anapologetic air."I don't know anything about these things myself, but Chambers, also anable man, says that it is impossible.""As far as heknows, he is right. I should have said the same thing thismorning. But I do know about these things--they're my business--and Itell you that Seaton has done it.""This is getting interesting. Did you see it done?""No. Itwas rumored around the Bureau last night that Seaton was goinginsane, that he had wrecked a lot of his apparatus and couldn't explainwhat had happened. This morning he called a lot of us into hislaboratory, told uswhat I have just told you, and poured some of hissolution on a copper wire. Nothing happened, and he acted as though hedidn't know what to make of it. The foolish way he acted and theapparent impossibility of thewhole thing, made everybody think himcrazy. I thought so until I learned this afternoon that Mr. ReynoldsCrane is backing him. Then I knew that he had told us just enough of thetruth to let him get away clean with thesolution.""But suppose the man _is_ crazy?" asked Brookings. "He probably is amonomaniac, really insane on that one thing, from studying it so much.""Seaton? Yes, he's crazy--like a fox. You never heard of anyinsanity inCrane's family, though, did you? You know that he never invests a centin anything more risky than Government bonds. You can bet your lastdollar that Seaton showed him the real goods." Then, as a lookofconviction appeared upon the other's face, he continued:"Don't you understand that the solution was Government property, and hehad to do something to make everybody think it worthless, so that hecould get titleto it? That faked demonstration that failed wascertainly a bold stroke--so bold that it was foolhardy. But it worked.It fooled even me, and I am not usually asleep. The only reason he gotaway with it, is, that he hasalways been such an open-faced talker,always telling everything he knew."He certainly played the fox," he continued, with undisguisedadmiration. "Heretofore he has never kept any of his discoveries secretor tried tomake any money out of them, though some of them were worthmillions. He published them as soon as he found them, and somebody elsegot the money. Having that reputation, he worked it to make us think hima nut.He certainly is clever. I take off my hat to him--he's a wonder!""And what is your idea? Where do we come in?""You come in by getting that solution away from Seaton and Crane, andfurnishing the money to developthe stuff and to build, under mydirection, such a power-plant as the world never saw before.""Why get that particular solution? Couldn't we buy up some platinumwastes and refine them?""Not a chance," replied thescientist. "We have refined platinumresidues for years, and never found anything like that before. It is myidea that the stuff, whatever it is, was present in some particular lotof platinum in considerable quantities as animpurity. Seaton hasn't allof it there is in the world, of course, but the chance of finding anymore of it without knowing exactly what it is or how it reacts isextremely slight. Besides, we must have exclusive control. Howcould wemake any money out of it if Crane operates a rival company and issatisfied with ten percent profit? No, we must get all of that solution.Seaton and Crane, or Seaton, at least, must be killed, for if he is leftalivehe can find more of the stuff and break our monopoly. I want toborrow your strong-arm squad tonight, to go and attend to it."After a few moments' thought, his face set and expressionless, Brookingssaid:"No, Doctor. Ido not think that the Corporation would care to go into amatter of this kind. It is too flagrant a violation of law, and we canafford to buy it from Seaton after he proves its worth."       *       *       *       *       *"Bah!"snorted DuQuesne. "Don't try that on me, Brookings. You think youcan steal it yourself, and develop it without letting me in on it? Youcan't do it. Do you think I am fool enough to tell you all about it,with facts, figures,and names, if you could get away with it withoutme? Hardly! You can steal the solution, but that's all you can do. Yourchemist or the expert you hire will begin experimenting without Seaton'slucky start, which I havealready mentioned, but about which I haven'tgone into any detail. He will have no information whatever, and thefirst attempt to do anything with the stuff will blow him and all thecountry around him for miles into animpalpable powder. You will loseyour chemist, your solution, and all hope of getting the process. Thereare only two men in the United States, or in the world, for that matter,with brains enough and information enoughto work it out. One isRichard B. Seaton, the other is Marc C. DuQuesne. Seaton certainly won'thandle it for you. Money can't buy him and Crane, and you know it. Youmust come to me. If you don't believe that now, youwill very shortly,after you try it alone."Brookings, caught in his duplicity and half-convinced of the truth ofDuQuesne's statements, still temporized."You're modest, aren't you, Doctor?" he asked, smiling."Modest? No,"said the other calmly. "Modesty never got anybody anythingbut praise, and I prefer something more substantial. However, I neverexaggerate or make over-statements, as you should know. What I have saidis merely astatement of fact. Also, let me remind you that I am in ahurry. The difficulty of getting hold of that solution is growinggreater every minute, and my price is getting higher every second.""What is your price at thepresent second?""Ten thousand dollars per month during the experimental work; fivemillion dollars in cash upon the successful operation of the first powerunit, which shall be of not less than ten thousand horsepower;and tenpercent of the profits.""Oh, come, Doctor, let's be reasonable. You can't mean any such figuresas those.""I never say anything I don't mean. I have done a lot of dirty work withyou people before, and never gotmuch of anything out of it. You werealways too strong for me; that is, I couldn't force you without exposingmy own crookedness, but now I've got you right where I want you. That'smy price; take it or leave it. If youdon't take it now, the first twoof those figures will be doubled when you do come to me. I won't go toanybody else, though others would be glad to get it on my terms, becauseI have a reputation to maintain and you


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                                          SHREK                                       Written by                                William Steig & TedElliott                                     SHREK                         Once upon a time there was a lovely                          princess. But she had an enchantment                          upon her of a fearful sort whichcould                          only be broken by love's first kiss.                          She was locked away in a castle guarded                          by a terrible fire-breathing dragon.                          Many brave knights hadattempted to                          free her from this dreadful prison,                          but non prevailed. She waited in the                          dragon's keep in the highest room of                          the tallest tower for hertrue love                          and true love's first kiss. (laughs)                          Like that's ever gonna happen. What                          a load of - (toilet flush)                Allstar - by Smashmouth begins to play.Shrek goes about his                day. While in a nearby town, the villagers get together to go                after the ogre.                NIGHT - NEAR SHREK'SHOME                                     MAN1                         Think it's in there?                                     MAN2                         All right. Let's getit!                                     MAN1                         Whoa. Hold on. Do you know what that                          thing can do to you?                                      MAN3                         Yeah, it'llgrind your bones for it's                          bread.                Shrek sneaks up behind them and laughs.                                     SHREK                         Yes, well, actually, that would bea                          giant. Now, ogres, oh they're much worse.                          They'll make a suit from your freshly                          peeled skin.                                     MEN                         No!                                     SHREK                         They'll shave your liver. Squeeze the                          jelly from your eyes! Actually,it's                          quite good on toast.                                      MAN1                         Back! Back, beast! Back! I warn ya!                          (waves the torch at Shrek.)                Shrekcalmly licks his fingers and extinguishes the torch. The                men shrink back away from him. Shrek roars very loudly and long                and his breath extinguishes all the remaining torches untilthe                men are in the dark.                                      SHREK                         This is the part where you run away.                          (The men scramble to get away. Helaughs.)                          And stay out! (looks down and picks                          up a piece of paper. Reads.) "Wanted.                          Fairy tale creatures."(He sighs and                          throws the paper over hisshoulder.)                                         THE NEXT DAY               There is a line of fairy tale creatures. The head of the guard                sits at a table paying people for bringing the fairy talecreatures                to him. There are cages all around. Some of the people in line                are Peter Pan, who is carrying Tinkerbell in a cage, Gipetto                who's carrying Pinocchio, and a farmer who is carryingthe three                little pigs.                                      GUARD                         All right. This one's full. Take it                          away! Move it along. Come on! Get up!                                                              HEAD GUARD                         Next!                                     GUARD                         (taking the witch's broom) Give methat!                          Your flying days are over. (breaks the                          broom in half)                                      HEAD GUARD                         That's 20 pieces of silver for thewitch.                          Next!                                      GUARD                         Get up! Come on!                                     HEAD GUARD                         Twentypieces.                                     LITTLE BEAR                         (crying) This cage is too small.                                     DONKEY                         Please, don't turn me in. I'llnever                          be stubborn again. I can change. Please!                          Give me another chance!                                      OLD WOMAN                         Oh, shut up. (jerks hisrope)                                     DONKEY                         Oh!                                     HEAD GUARD                         Next! What have yougot?                                     GIPETTO                         This little wooden puppet.                                     PINOCCHIO                         I'm not a puppet. I'm a real boy. (his                          nosegrows)                                      HEAD GUARD                         Five shillings for the possessed toy.                          Take it away.                                     PINOCCHIO                         Father, please! Don't let them do this!                          Help me!                Gipetto takes the money and walks off. The old woman stepsup                to the table.                                      HEAD GUARD                         Next! What have you got?                                     OLD WOMAN                         Well, I've got a talkingdonkey.                                     HEAD GUARD                         Right. Well, that's good for ten shillings,                          if you can prove it.                                      OLDWOMAN                         Oh, go ahead, little fella.               Donkey just looks up at her.                                     HEAD GUARD                         Well?                                     OLDWOMAN                         Oh, oh, he's just...he's just a little                          nervous. He's really quite a chatterbox.                          Talk, you boneheaded dolt...                                      HEADGUARD                         That's it. I've heard enough. Guards!                                                               OLD WOMAN                         No, no, he talks! He does.(pretends                          to be Donkey) I can talk. I love to                          talk. I'm the talkingest damn thing                          you ever saw.                                      HEADGUARD                         Get her out of my sight.                                     OLD WOMAN                         No, no! I swear! Oh! He can talk!               The guards grab the old woman and she struggles withthem. One                of her legs flies out and kicks Tinkerbell out of Peter Pan's                hands, and her cage drops on Donkey's head. He gets sprinkled                with fairy dust and he's able to fly.                                     DONKEY                         Hey! I can fly!                                     PETER PAN                         He can fly!                                     3 LITTLEPIGS                         He can fly!                                     HEAD GUARD                         He can talk!                                     DONKEY                         Ha, ha! That's right, fool! NowI'm                          a flying, talking donkey. You might                          have seen a housefly, maybe even a superfly                          but I bet you ain't never seen a donkey                          fly. Ha, ha! (the pixiedust begins                          to wear off) Uh-oh. (he begins to sink                          to the ground.)                He hits the ground with a thud.                                     HEADGUARD                         Seize him! (Donkey takes of running.)                          After him!                                      GUARDS                         He's getting away! Get him! Thisway!                          Turn!                Donkey keeps running and he eventually runs into Shrek. Literally.                Shrek turns around to see who bumped into him. Donkey looks scared                for amoment then he spots the guards coming up the path. He                quickly hides behind Shrek.                                      HEAD GUARD                         You there.Ogre!                                     SHREK                         Aye?                                     HEAD GUARD                         By the order of Lord Farquaad I am authorized                          to place youboth under arrest and transport                          you to a designated resettlement facility.                                                               SHREK                         Oh, really? You and whatarmy?               He looks behind the guard and the guard turns to look as well                and we see that the other men have run off. The guard tucks tail                and runs off. Shrek laughs and goes back about hisbusiness and                begins walking back to his cottage.                                      DONKEY                         Can I say something to you? Listen,                          you was really, really, reallysomethin'                          back here. Incredible!                                      SHREK                         Are you talkin' to...(he turns around                          and Donkey is gone) me? (he turnsback                          around and Donkey is right in front                          of him.) Whoa!                                      DONKEY                         Yes. I was talkin' to you. Can Itell                          you that you that you was great back                          here? Those guards! They thought they                          was all of that. Then you showed up,                          and bam! They was trippin'over themselves                          like babes in the woods. That really                          made me feel good to see that.                                      SHREK                         Oh, that's great.Really.                                     DONKEY                         Man, it's good to be free.                                     SHREK                         Now, why don't you go celebrate your                          freedomwith your own friends? Hmm?                                                               DONKEY                         But, uh, I don't have any friends. And                          I'm not goin' out there by myself.Hey,                          wait a minute! I got a great idea! I'll                          stick with you. You're mean, green,                          fightin' machine. Together we'll scare                          the spit out of anybody thatcrosses                          us.                Shrek turns and regards Donkey for a moment before roaring very                loudly.                                      DONKEY                         Oh, wow!That was really scary. If you                          don't mind me sayin', if that don't                          work, your breath certainly will get                          the job done, 'cause you definitely                          need some Tic


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                                       THE BIG WHITE                                        Written by                                      CollinFriesen      FADE IN:      EXT. ROAD - WINTER DAY      A police car, nothing more than a speck on the landscape, is intermittently      visible through the blowing snow.      INT. POLICE CAR -SAME      A CORPORAL (20s), behind the wheel, with a bored DETECTIVE BOYLE (60s)      at his side.                                  CORPORAL              So his hand is like, off, right.  So he puts ona              tourniquet, puts the hand in his pocket, walks five              miles through the bush til he gets to the highway,              where he passes out, on the road, right.  Then this              logging truck comesalong...                                  DETECTIVE BOYLE                        (looking ahead)              Hey.      The Corporal looks forward.      CAR'S POV: Through the windshield of a WOMAN (40s), dressed inher      pajamas and a parka, skipping down the middle of the road.      EXT. ROAD      The police car pulls to a stop, just as the woman does a pirouette and falls      over backwards.      Detective Boyle andthe other Cop get out and walk over.                                  CORPORAL                        (into his radio)              Dispatch, this is unit 611, we need a first              responsder--                                  DETECTIVE BOYLE              Cancel that.      The Woman kicks up a leg, wiggles her foot.                                  DETECTIVE BOYLE (cont'd)              I know where she belongs.      Asthey lift her up...1     INT. INSIDE A TRASH DUMPSTER - LATE AFTERNOON                                  1      The dumpster lid opens on a bitterly cold, gray winter's day in an Alaskan city.  A      chunky, shiveringHAIR STYLIST with jet black bangs shakes out a box of      conditioning samples.                                  HAIR STYLIST                        (to someone O.S.)              She says "I haven't eaten all day," then,right there on              the bus she pulls out this, like, salmon steak and              I'm...2     INT. INSIDE A TRASH DUMPSTER - LATE AFTERNOON                                  2      The dumpster lid BANGS shut,reopens a beat later. A moment of calm until      two garbage bags SLAM against the inside of the lid. It falls shut with a CLANG.3     EXT. TRASH DUMPSTER -NIGHT                                                    3      The lid reopens. Night time now, as a street lamp BUZZES to life. A middle      aged MAN in work clothes checks to make sure he's alone. He gently lowers      thelid, opens it again a moment later, this time balancing a mini-bar fridge on      his shoulder.  He dumps the appliance into the bin and runs off.4     INT. INSIDE A TRASH DUMPSTER -NIGHT                                           4      The lid reopens.  SIRENS off in the distance...                                  MEN'S VOICES (O.S.)              One, two, three... up.      The lifeless body of a fair-sizedman comes CRASHING into the garbage.      SIRENS closer.  A man seen only in silhouette leans in to pull some garbage      over the corpse.  A second man looks in, then pulls the first manaway.                                  MAN'S VOICE              We'll get him later.  C'mon.      The lid drops.5     EXT. TRASH DUMPSTER - MORNING                                                  5      Black.  Thedumpster reopens. Morning now. A Korean-American  TEENAGER      wearing an apron and headphones sings along to an  old KISS tune as he      deposits two large orange garbagebags.                                  TEENAGER              "...Get up, everybody's gonna move their feet, get              down, everybody's gonna leave their seat...gonna              lose your mind in..."      He shuts thelid with care.  Black.6     EXT. CITY STREET - DAY                                                         6      A cookie-cutter subdivision.  Old pine trees poke through the snow cover that      blankets theneighborhood.  HOWARD (30s), a burly outdoors type, is trying to      unload a new snowmobile from the back of his pickup.  TED WATTERS (late      20s) half hidden under a heavy dress coat, walks down the street.He stops by      Howard's driveway.                                  TED              Need a hand?                                  HOWARD                        (turning)              Yeah.  Could ya grab me those two byeights?      Ted walks up the driveway, grabs the wood slats, makes a ramp by leaning      them against the rear bumper.                                  HOWARD (cont'd)              Thanks.      Howard maneuvers thesnowmobile down the ramp, his back turned toward      Ted -- who has taken out a small cam-corder and is taping Howard.                                  HOWARD (cont'd)              I tell ya, it may look fast but it sure ain'tlight.  You the              guy who just moved in to the Stevens old house?                                  TED              No.  Name's Ted.                                  HOWARD              Hey Ted, I'mHoward.                                  TED              Hey Howard.  What is that, an Arctic Cat? What do              those go for?7     P.O.V. CAMCORDER VIEWFINDER                                                   7      Howard finally has the snowmobile on the ground.  He's breathing heavy as he      pulls off his mitt to shakehands.                                  HOWARD              More than I could normally afford, I'll tell ya.                        (seeing the camera)              Hey!  What do you think you're you doing?      As Ted and Howardcontinue to talk, we PULL BACK to reveal we are watching      Ted's video playing on a VCR that is --8     INT. INSURANCE OFFICE / COMMON AREA - DAY                                      8      A group of officeWORKERS look on, very much impressed, as a stunned      Howard stares at the camera.                                  TED (O.S.)              Howard, you seem like a reasonable kind of guy.              Lets you and metalk.      TIGHT ON: WATTERS at his nearby cubicle, typing frenetically on his computer.      At first, he appears to be working, until we realize that on his computer screen      pixilated Zombies die in silent anguishbeneath an unholy hail of bullets.  A      Miami Dolphins sticker is the sole cubicle decoration.      As the tape finishes, a smattering of APPLAUSE from his colleagues.  Ted      gives a small wave over the cubiclewall.                                  TED (cont'd)              Thank you.  Just happy to give something back to              Liberty Capital...                        (to himself - bitter)              After all they've done for me.9     INT.INSURANCE OFFICE / COMMON AREA - DAY                                      9      CAM (30s), Native-American Alaskan walks over. Ted immediately hits a key      that turns the screen to aspread-sheet.                                  CAM              That was really cool.  It was like... watching "Cops".                                  TED              He was pretty spry for a man with a herniateddisc.                                  CAM              You know, I don't want to bitch or anything, but you              were supposed to take me along on that one.                                  TED              Couldn'tfind you.                                  CAM              I know you know this, but the sooner they think I can              handle calls on my own, the sooner they'll kick you              back downsouth.                                  TED              I've been hearing that for 13 months and six days,              Cam.  After a while, it gets a little old.                        (off Cam's look)              Next time,okay.      Good enough.  Cam moves off.  Back to the zombie blood bath.  The phone      RINGS.  Ted picks up, his eyes never wavering from the gore intensive      computer game.                                  TED(cont'd)              Claims, Ted Watters.  Sure.      A final key stroke separates one last zombie from its entrails.10    INT. INSURANCE OFFICE / BRANCH'S OFFICE - MOMENTSLATER                       10      TIGHT ON: A MOUNTED SALMON      We PULL BACK to see the walls lined with souvenirs of a life spent on the      edge of the wilderness; citations from the Rotarians,pictures of sponsored      hockey teams... We are --      FRANK BRANCH (50s), a mid-level management type sits across from PAUL      BARNELL (40s), a mild-mannered everyman wrapped in a cheapsuit.  Paul      takes in the display.  The two men sit in silence, smiling politely at one another.                                  PAUL              That's... quite the fish.      Branch is about to answer when Ted enters witha slim file.                                  BRANCH              Paul Barnell, Ted Watters.      Handshakes.  Paul makes steady eye contact.  Ted notices.                                  BRANCH (cont'd)              Mr. Barnellwants to talk to us about his brother's life              insurance policy.      Ted sits and flips open the file.                                  TED              Raymond, isn'tit?                                  PAUL              Yes, Raymond.  You see, as I've already explained to              Mr. Branch, he's been gone for five years now, and I              thought it might be time to... moveon.                                  TED              By move on you mean...?                                  BRANCH              ...cash in Raymond's policy.      Ted smiles tohimself.                                  PAUL              I just thought, well, it's pretty unlikely he's still alive.              My Dad always wanted us to be able to look after              each other if anything should everhappen.  And to              be frank, money's a little --                                  TED              I understand Mr. Barnell, but here's the thing. With no              actual body, under Alaskan statutes a personmust              be missing for seven years before he or she can be              legally declared dead and that's not withstanding an              investigation period where concerned parties can              take up to anotheryear to file interventions              concerning the motion.  So, even though your              brother's status is undetermined at this point, there's              really very little we can do for you.      Ted flips the fileshut.  Case closed.  Branch, not entirely happy with Ted's      demeanor, forces a smile.                                  BRANCH              Of course we are extremely sorry for your loss.      Branch looks at Ted.  Tedturns to Paul.                                  TED              Oh, absolutely.11    EXT.  STRIP MALL - NIGHT                                                      11      The city skyline rises in the distance as heat vents belchsteam against the      rapidly setting sun.  But that's miles away.  Here on the outskirts is a rapidly      failing five store strip mall; a "Porn-a-copia" XXX Video store, hair stylist,      small engine repair shop, fish andchips joint and the "Barnell Great Escapes"       travel agency.  We might notice a big trash dumpster in the corner.  Paul's car,      a Ford Taurus, pulls onto the parking pad.12    INT. PAUL'S CAR -


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Wheels of Chance, by H. G. WellsThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use itunder the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Wheels of Chance       A Bicycling IdyllAuthor: H. G. WellsRelease Date: April, 1998  [Etext#1264]Posting Date: November 10, 2009 [EBook #1264]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHEELS OF CHANCE ***Produced by Dianne BeanTHE WHEELS OF CHANCE; ABICYCLING IDYLLBy H.G. Wells1896I. THE PRINCIPAL CHARACTER IN THE STORYIf you (presuming you are of the sex that does such things)--if you hadgone into the Drapery Emporium--which is really onlymagnificent forshop--of Messrs. Antrobus & Co.--a perfectly fictitious "Co.," bythe bye--of Putney, on the 14th of August, 1895, had turned to theright-hand side, where the blocks of white linen and piles of blanketsriseup to the rail from which the pink and blue prints depend, youmight have been served by the central figure of this story that is nowbeginning. He would have come forward, bowing and swaying, he would haveextendedtwo hands with largish knuckles and enormous cuffs over thecounter, and he would have asked you, protruding a pointed chin andwithout the slightest anticipation of pleasure in his manner, what hemight have thepleasure of showing you. Under certain circumstances--as,for instance, hats, baby linen, gloves, silks, lace, or curtains--hewould simply have bowed politely, and with a drooping expression, andmaking a kind of circularsweep, invited you to "step this way,"and so led you beyond his ken; but under other and happierconditions,--huckaback, blankets, dimity, cretonne, linen, calico, arecases in point,--he would have requested you totake a seat, emphasisingthe hospitality by leaning over the counter and gripping a chair back ina spasmodic manner, and so proceeded to obtain, unfold, and exhibithis goods for your consideration. Under which happiercircumstances youmight--if of an observing turn of mind and not too much of a housewifeto be inhuman--have given the central figure of this story less cursoryattention.Now if you had noticed anything about him, itwould have been chiefly tonotice how little he was noticeable. He wore the black morning coat, theblack tie, and the speckled grey nether parts (descending into shadowand mystery below the counter) of his craft. Hewas of a pallidcomplexion, hair of a kind of dirty fairness, greyish eyes, and askimpy, immature moustache under his peaked indeterminate nose.His features were all small, but none ill-shaped. A rosette ofpinsdecorated the lappel of his coat. His remarks, you would observe, wereentirely what people used to call cliche, formulae not organic to theoccasion, but stereotyped ages ago and learnt years since by heart."This,madam," he would say, "is selling very well." "We are doing avery good article at four three a yard." "We could show you somethingbetter, of course." "No trouble, madam, I assure you." Such were thesimple countersof his intercourse. So, I say, he would have presentedhimself to your superficial observation. He would have danced aboutbehind the counter, have neatly refolded the goods he had shown you,have put on one sidethose you selected, extracted a little book witha carbon leaf and a tinfoil sheet from a fixture, made you out a littlebill in that weak flourishing hand peculiar to drapers, and have bawled"Sayn!" Then a puffy littleshop-walker would have come into view,looked at the bill for a second, very hard (showing you a partingdown the middle of his head meanwhile), have scribbled a still moreflourishing J. M. all over the document, haveasked you if therewas nothing more, have stood by you--supposing that you were payingcash--until the central figure of this story reappeared with the change.One glance more at him, and the puffy little shop-walkerwould have beenbowing you out, with fountains of civilities at work all about you. Andso the interview would have terminated.But real literature, as distinguished from anecdote, does not concernitself with superficialappearances alone. Literature is revelation.Modern literature is indecorous revelation. It is the duty of theearnest author to tell you what you would not have seen--even at thecost of some blushes. And the thing thatyou would not have seen aboutthis young man, and the thing of the greatest moment to this story, thething that must be told if the book is to be written, was--let us faceit bravely--the Remarkable Condition of thisYoung Man's Legs.Let us approach the business with dispassionate explicitness. Let usassume something of the scientific spirit, the hard, almost professorialtone of the conscientious realist. Let us treat this young man'slegs asa mere diagram, and indicate the points of interest with the unemotionalprecision of a lecturer's pointer. And so to our revelation. On theinternal aspect of the right ankle of this young man you wouldhaveobserved, ladies and gentlemen, a contusion and an abrasion; on theinternal aspect of the left ankle a contusion also; on its externalaspect a large yellowish bruise. On his left shin there were twobruises, one aleaden yellow graduating here and there into purple,and another, obviously of more recent date, of a blotchy red--tumid andthreatening. Proceeding up the left leg in a spiral manner, an unnaturalhardness and rednesswould have been discovered on the upper aspect ofthe calf, and above the knee and on the inner side, an extraordinaryexpanse of bruised surface, a kind of closely stippled shading ofcontused points. The right legwould be found to be bruised in amarvellous manner all about and under the knee, and particularly on theinterior aspect of the knee. So far we may proceed with our details.Fired by these discoveries, an investigatormight perhaps have pursuedhis inquiries further--to bruises on the shoulders, elbows, and even thefinger joints, of the central figure of our story. He had indeed beenbumped and battered at an extraordinary number ofpoints. But enoughof realistic description is as good as a feast, and we have exhibitedenough for our purpose. Even in literature one must know where to drawthe line.Now the reader may be inclined to wonder how arespectable young shopmanshould have got his legs, and indeed himself generally, into such adreadful condition. One might fancy that he had been sitting with hisnether extremities in some complicated machinery, athreshing-machine,say, or one of those hay-making furies. But Sherlock Holmes (now happilydead) would have fancied nothing of the kind. He would have recognisedat once that the bruises on the internal aspect of theleft leg,considered in the light of the distribution of the other abrasions andcontusions, pointed unmistakably to the violent impact of the MountingBeginner upon the bicycling saddle, and that the ruinous state oftheright knee was equally eloquent of the concussions attendant on thatperson's hasty, frequently causeless, and invariably ill-conceiveddescents. One large bruise on the shin is even more characteristic ofthe 'prenticecyclist, for upon every one of them waits the jest of theunexpected treadle. You try at least to walk your machine in an easymanner, and whack!--you are rubbing your shin. So out of innocence weripen. Two bruises onthat place mark a certain want of aptitude inlearning, such as one might expect in a person unused to muscularexercise. Blisters on the hands are eloquent of the nervous clutchof the wavering rider. And so forth, untilSherlock is presentlyexplaining, by the help of the minor injuries, that the machine riddenis an old-fashioned affair with a fork instead of the diamond frame, acushioned tire, well worn on the hind wheel, and a grossweight all onof perhaps three-and-forty pounds.The revelation is made. Behind the decorous figure of the attentiveshopman that I had the honour of showing you at first, rises a visionof a nightly struggle, of two darkfigures and a machine in a darkroad,--the road, to be explicit, from Roehampton to Putney Hill,--andwith this vision is the sound of a heel spurning the gravel, a gaspingand grunting, a shouting of "Steer, man, steer!" awavering unsteadyflight, a spasmodic turning of the missile edifice of man and machine,and a collapse. Then you descry dimly through the dusk the centralfigure of this story sitting by the roadside and rubbing his legatsome new place, and his friend, sympathetic (but by no means depressed),repairing the displacement of the handle-bar.Thus even in a shop assistant does the warmth of manhood assert itself,and drive him againstall the conditions of his calling, against thecounsels of prudence and the restrictions of his means, to seek thewholesome delights of exertion and danger and pain. And our firstexamination of the draper reveals beneathhis draperies--the man! Towhich initial fact (among others) we shall come again in the end.IIBut enough of these revelations. The central figure of our story is nowgoing along behind the counter, a draper indeed, withyour purchases inhis arms, to the warehouse, where the various articles you have selectedwill presently be packed by the senior porter and sent to you. Returningthence to his particular place, he lays hands on a foldedpiece ofgingham, and gripping the corners of the folds in his hands, begins tostraighten them punctiliously. Near him is an apprentice, apprenticed tothe same high calling of draper's assistant, a ruddy, red-haired ladina very short tailless black coat and a very high collar, who isdeliberately unfolding and refolding some patterns of cretonne. Bytwenty-one he too may hope to be a full-blown assistant, even as Mr.Hoopdriver. Printsdepend from the brass rails above them, behind arefixtures full of white packages containing, as inscriptions testify,Lino, Hd Bk, and Mull. You might imagine to see them that the two wereboth intent upon nothing butsmoothness of textile and rectitude offold. But to tell the truth, neither is thinking of the mechanicalduties in hand. The assistant is dreaming of the delicious time--onlyfour hours off now--when he will resume the taleof his bruises andabrasions. The apprentice is nearer the long long thoughts of boyhood,and his imagination rides cap-a-pie through the chambers of his brain,seeking some knightly quest in honour of that Fair Lady,the last butone of the girl apprentices to the dress-making upstairs. He inclinesrather to street fighting against revolutionaries--because then shecould see him from the window.Jerking them back to the present comesthe puffy little shop-walker,with a paper in his hand. The apprentice becomes extremely active. Theshopwalker eyes the goods in hand. "Hoopdriver," he says, "how's thatline of g-sez-x ginghams?"Hoopdriver returnsfrom an imaginary triumph over the uncertainties ofdismounting. "They're going fairly well, sir. But the larger checks seemhanging."The shop-walker brings up parallel to the counter. "Any particular timewhen you wantyour holidays?" he asks.Hoopdriver pulls at his skimpy moustache. "No--Don't want them too late,sir, of course.""How about this day week?"Hoopdriver becomes rigidly meditative, gripping the corners of theginghamfolds in his hands. His face is eloquent of conflictingconsiderations. Can he learn it in a week? That's the question.Otherwise Briggs will get next week, and he will have to wait untilSeptember--when the weather is oftenuncertain. He is naturally of asanguine disposition. All drapers have to be, or else they could neverhave the faith they show in the beauty, washability, and unfadingexcellence of the goods they sell you. The decisioncomes at last."That'll do me very well," said Mr. Hoopdriver, terminating the pause.The die is cast.The shop-walker makes a note of it and goes on to Briggs in the"dresses," the next in the strict scale of precedence ofthe DraperyEmporium. Mr. Hoopdriver in alternating spasms anon straightens hisgingham and anon becomes meditative, with his tongue in the hollow ofhis decaying wisdom tooth.IIIAt supper that night, holiday talkheld undisputed sway. Mr. Pritchardspoke of "Scotland," Miss Isaacs clamoured of Bettws-y-Coed, Mr. Judsondisplayed a proprietary interest in the Norfolk Broads. "I?" saidHoopdriver when the question came to him."Why, cycling, of course.""You're never going to ride that dreadful machine of yours, day afterday?" said Miss Howe of the Costume Department."I am," said Hoopdriver as calmly as possible, pulling at theinsufficientmoustache. "I'm going for a Cycling Tour. Along the SouthCoast.""Well, all I hope, Mr. Hoopdriver, is that you'll get fine weather,"said Miss Howe. "And not come any nasty croppers.""And done forget some tinscher ofarnica in yer bag," said the juniorapprentice in the very high collar. (He had witnessed one of the lessonsat the top of Putney Hill.)"You stow it," said Mr. Hoopdriver, looking hard and threateninglyat the juniorapprentice, and suddenly adding in a tone of bittercontempt,--"Jampot.""I'm getting fairly safe upon it now," he told Miss Howe.At other times Hoopdriver might have further resented the satiricalefforts of theapprentice, but his mind was too full of the projectedTour to admit any petty delicacies of dignity. He left the supper tableearly, so that he might put in a good hour at the desperate gymnasticsup the Roehampton Roadbefore it would be time to come back for lockingup. When the gas was turned off for the night he was sitting on the edgeof his bed, rubbing arnica into his knee--a new and very big place--andstudying a Road Map ofthe South of England. Briggs of the "dresses,"who shared the room with him, was sitting up in bed and trying to smokein the dark. Briggs had never been on a cycle in his life, but he feltHoopdriver's inexperience andoffered such advice as occurred to him."Have the machine thoroughly well oiled," said Briggs, "carry one ortwo lemons with you, don't tear yourself to death the first day, and situpright. Never lose control of themachine, and always sound the bell onevery possible opportunity. You mind those things, and nothing very muchcan't happen to you, Hoopdriver--you take my word."He would lapse into silence for a minute, saveperhaps for a curse or soat his pipe, and then break out with an entirely different set of tips."Avoid running over dogs, Hoopdriver, whatever you do. It's one ofthe worst things you can do to run over a dog. Never letthe machinebuckle--there was a man killed only the other day through his wheelbuckling--don't scorch, don't ride on the foot-path, keep your own sideof the road, and if you see a tramline, go round the corner atonce,and hurry off into the next county--and always light up before dark. Youmind just a few little things like that, Hoopdriver, and nothing muchcan't happen to you--you take my word.""Right you are!" saidHoopdriver. "Good-night, old man.""Good-night," said Briggs, and there was silence for a space, savefor the succulent respiration of the pipe. Hoopdriver rode off intoDreamland on his machine, and was scarcely therebefore he was pitchedback into the world of sense again.--Something--what was it?"Never oil the steering. It's fatal," a voice that came from rounda fitful glow of light, was saying. "And clean the chain dailywithblack-lead. You mind just a few little things like that--""Lord LOVE us!" said Hoopdriver, and pulled the bedclothes over hisears.IV. THE RIDING FORTH OF MR. HOOPDRIVEROnly those who toil six long days out ofthe seven, and all the yearround, save for one brief glorious fortnight or ten days in the summertime, know the exquisite sensations of the First Holiday Morning. Allthe dreary, uninteresting routine drops from yousuddenly, your chainsfall about your feet. All at once you are Lord of yourself, Lord ofevery hour in the long, vacant day; you may go where you please, callnone Sir or Madame, have a lappel free of pins, doff your blackmorningcoat, and wear the colour of your heart, and be a Man. You grudge sleep,you grudge eating, and drinking even, their intrusion on those exquisitemoments. There will be no more rising before breakfast incasualold clothing, to go dusting and getting ready in a cheerless,shutter-darkened, wrappered-up shop, no more imperious cries of,"Forward, Hoopdriver," no more hasty meals, and weary attendance onfitful oldwomen, for ten blessed days. The first morning is by farthe most glorious, for you hold your whole fortune in your hands.Thereafter, every night, comes a pang, a spectre, that will not beexorcised--the premonition ofthe return. The shadow of going back, ofbeing put in the cage again for another twelve months, lies blacker andblacker across the sunlight. But on the first morning of the ten theholiday has no past, and ten days seemsas good as infinity.And it was fine, full of a promise of glorious days, a deep blue skywith dazzling piles of white cloud here and there, as though celestialhaymakers had been piling the swathes of last night's clouds intococksfor a coming cartage. There were thrushes in the Richmond Road, and alark on Putney Heath. The freshness of dew was in the air; dew orthe relics of an overnight shower glittered on the leaves andgrass.Hoopdriver had breakfasted early by Mrs. Gunn's complaisance. He wheeledhis machine up Putney Hill, and his heart sang within him. Halfway up, adissipated-looking black cat rushed home across the road andvanishedunder a gate. All the big red-brick houses behind the variegated shrubsand trees had their blinds down still, and he would not have changedplaces with a soul in any one of them for a hundred pounds.He hadon his new brown cycling suit--a handsome Norfolk jacket thingfor 30/(sp.)--and his legs--those martyr legs--were more than consoledby thick chequered stockings, "thin in the foot, thick in the leg," forall they hadendured. A neat packet of American cloth behind the saddlecontained his change of raiment, and the bell and the handle-bar and thehubs and lamp, albeit a trifle freckled by wear, glittered blindinglyin the risingsunlight. And at the top of the hill, after onlyone unsuccessful attempt, which, somehow, terminated on the green,Hoopdriver mounted, and with a stately and cautious restraint in hispace, and a dignified curvature ofpath, began his great Cycling Touralong the Southern Coast.There is only one phrase to describe his course at this stage, and thatis--voluptuous curves. He did not ride fast, he did not ride straight,an exacting criticmight say he did not ride well--but he rodegenerously, opulently, using the whole road and even nibbling at thefootpath. The excitement never flagged. So far he had never passed orbeen passed by anything, but as yetthe day was young and the road wasclear. He doubted his steering so much that, for the present, he hadresolved to dismount at the approach of anything else upon wheels. Theshadows of the trees lay very long andblue across the road, the morningsunlight was like amber fire.At the cross-roads at the top of West Hill, where the cattle troughstands, he turned towards Kingston and set himself to scale the littlebit of ascent. An earlyheath-keeper, in his velveteen jacket, marvelledat his efforts. And while he yet struggled, the head of a carter roseover the brow.At the sight of him Mr. Hoopdriver, according to his previousdetermination, resolved todismount. He tightened the brake, and themachine stopped dead. He was trying to think what he did with his rightleg whilst getting off. He gripped the handles and released the brake,standing on the left pedal andwaving his right foot in the air.Then--these things take so long in the telling--he found the machine wasfalling over to the right. While he was deciding upon a plan of action,gravitation appears to have been busy. Hewas still irresolute when hefound the machine on the ground, himself kneeling upon it, and a vaguefeeling in his mind that again Providence had dealt harshly with hisshin. This happened when he was just level with theheathkeeper. The manin the approaching cart stood up to see the ruins better."THAT ain't the way to get off," said the heathkeeper.Mr. Hoopdriver picked up the machine. The handle was twisted askew againHe saidsomething under his breath. He would have to unscrew the beastlything."THAT ain't the way to get off," repeated the heathkeeper, after asilence."_I_ know that," said Mr. Hoopdriver, testily, determined to overlookthenew specimen on his shin at any cost. He unbuckled the wallet behindthe saddle, to get out a screw hammer."If you know it ain't the way to get off--whaddyer do it for?" said theheath-keeper, in a tone of friendlycontroversy.Mr. Hoopdriver got out his screw hammer and went to the handle. He wasannoyed. "That's my business, I suppose," he said, fumbling with thescrew. The unusual exertion had made his hands shakefrightfully.The heath-keeper became meditative, and twisted his stick in hishands behind his back. "You've broken yer 'andle, ain't yer?" hesaid presently. Just then the screw hammer slipped off the nut. Mr.Hoopdriver


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Variable Man, by Philip K. DickThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it underthe terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.netTitle: The Variable ManAuthor: Philip K. DickIllustrator: Alex EbelRelease Date: April 27, 2010 [EBook #32154][Lastupdated: May 4, 2011]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VARIABLE MAN ***Produced by Greg Weeks, Barbara Tozier and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net    This etext was produced from Space Science Fiction September    1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the    U.S. copyright on this publication wasrenewed.[Illustration]THE VARIABLE MANBY PHILIP K. DICKILLUSTRATED BY EBEL    He fixed things--clocks, refrigerators, vidsenders and    destinies. But he had no business in the future, where the    calculators couldnot handle him. He was Earth's only    hope--and its sure failure!Security Commissioner Reinhart rapidly climbed the front steps andentered the Council building. Council guards stepped quickly aside andhe entered thefamiliar place of great whirring machines. His thinface rapt, eyes alight with emotion, Reinhart gazed intently up at thecentral SRB computer, studying its reading."Straight gain for the last quarter," observed Kaplan,the laborganizer. He grinned proudly, as if personally responsible. "Not bad,Commissioner.""We're catching up to them," Reinhart retorted. "But too damn slowly.We must finally go over--and soon."Kaplan was in atalkative mood. "We design new offensive weapons, theycounter with improved defenses. And nothing is actually made!Continual improvement, but neither we nor Centaurus can stop designinglong enough to stabilizefor production.""It will end," Reinhart stated coldly, "as soon as Terra turns out aweapon for which Centaurus can build no defense.""Every weapon has a defense. Design and discord. Immediateobsolescence. Nothinglasts long enough to--""What we count on is the _lag_," Reinhart broke in, annoyed. His hardgray eyes bored into the lab organizer and Kaplan slunk back. "Thetime lag between our offensive design and their counterdevelopment.The lag varies." He waved impatiently toward the massed banks of SRBmachines. "As you well know."At this moment, 9:30 AM, May 7, 2136, the statistical ratio on the SRBmachines stood at 21-17 on theCentauran side of the ledger. All factsconsidered, the odds favored a successful repulsion by ProximaCentaurus of a Terran military attack. The ratio was based on thetotal information known to the SRB machines, on agestalt of the vastflow of data that poured in endlessly from all sectors of the Sol andCentaurus systems.21-17 on the Centauran side. But a month ago it had been 24-18 in theenemy's favor. Things were improving,slowly but steadily. Centaurus,older and less virile than Terra, was unable to match Terra's rate oftechnocratic advance. Terra was pulling ahead."If we went to war now," Reinhart said thoughtfully, "we wouldlose.We're not far enough along to risk an overt attack." A harsh, ruthlessglow twisted across his handsome features, distorting them into astern mask. "But the odds are moving in our favor. Our offensivedesigns aregradually gaining on their defenses.""Let's hope the war comes soon," Kaplan agreed. "We're all on edge.This damn waiting...."The war would come soon. Reinhart knew it intuitively. The air wasfull of tension, the_elan_. He left the SRB rooms and hurried downthe corridor to his own elaborately guarded office in the Securitywing. It wouldn't be long. He could practically feel the hot breath ofdestiny on his neck--for him apleasant feeling. His thin lips set ina humorless smile, showing an even line of white teeth against histanned skin. It made him feel good, all right. He'd been working at ita long time.First contact, a hundred yearsearlier, had ignited instant conflictbetween Proxima Centauran outposts and exploring Terran raiders. Flashfights, sudden eruptions of fire and energy beams.And then the long, dreary years of inaction between enemieswherecontact required years of travel, even at nearly the speed of light.The two systems were evenly matched. Screen against screen. Warshipagainst power station. The Centauran Empire surrounded Terra, an ironringthat couldn't be broken, rusty and corroded as it was. Radicalnew weapons had to be conceived, if Terra was to break out.Through the windows of his office, Reinhart could see endlessbuildings and streets, Terranshurrying back and forth. Bright specksthat were commute ships, little eggs that carried businessmen andwhite-collar workers around. The huge transport tubes that shot massesof workmen to factories and labor campsfrom their housing units. Allthese people, waiting to break out. Waiting for the day.Reinhart snapped on his vidscreen, the confidential channel. "Give meMilitary Designs," he orderedsharply.       *       *       *       *       *He sat tense, his wiry body taut, as the vidscreen warmed into life.Abruptly he was facing the hulking image of Peter Sherikov, directorof the vast network of labs under the UralMountains.Sherikov's great bearded features hardened as he recognized Reinhart.His bushy black eyebrows pulled up in a sullen line. "What do youwant? You know I'm busy. We have too much work to do, as itis.Without being bothered by--politicians.""I'm dropping over your way," Reinhart answered lazily. He adjustedthe cuff of his immaculate gray cloak. "I want a full description ofyour work and whatever progress you'vemade.""You'll find a regular departmental report plate filed in the usualway, around your office someplace. If you'll refer to that you'll knowexactly what we--""I'm not interested in that. I want to _see_ what you'redoing. And Iexpect you to be prepared to describe your work fully. I'll be thereshortly. Half an hour."       *       *       *       *       *Reinhart cut the circuit. Sherikov's heavy features dwindled andfaded. Reinhartrelaxed, letting his breath out. Too bad he had towork with Sherikov. He had never liked the man. The big Polishscientist was an individualist, refusing to integrate himself withsociety. Independent, atomistic in outlook.He held concepts of theindividual as an end, diametrically contrary to the accepted organicstate Weltansicht.But Sherikov was the leading research scientist, in charge of theMilitary Designs Department. And on Designsthe whole future of Terradepended. Victory over Centaurus--or more waiting, bottled up in theSol System, surrounded by a rotting, hostile Empire, now sinking intoruin and decay, yet still strong.Reinhart got quickly tohis feet and left the office. He hurried downthe hall and out of the Council building.A few minutes later he was heading across the mid-morning sky in hishighspeed cruiser, toward the Asiatic land-mass, the vastUralmountain range. Toward the Military Designs labs.Sherikov met him at the entrance. "Look here, Reinhart. Don't thinkyou're going to order me around. I'm not going to--""Take it easy." Reinhart fell into step besidethe bigger man. Theypassed through the check and into the auxiliary labs. "No immediatecoercion will be exerted over you or your staff. You're free tocontinue your work as you see fit--for the present. Let's getthisstraight. My concern is to integrate your work with our total socialneeds. As long as your work is sufficiently productive--"Reinhart stopped in his tracks."Pretty, isn't he?" Sherikov said ironically."What the hell isit?"Icarus, we call him. Remember the Greek myth? The legend of Icarus.Icarus flew.... This Icarus is going to fly, one of these days."Sherikov shrugged. "You can examine him, if you want. I suppose thisis what youcame here to see."Reinhart advanced slowly. "This is the weapon you've been working on?""How does he look?"Rising up in the center of the chamber was a squat metal cylinder, agreat ugly cone of dark gray.Technicians circled around it, wiring upthe exposed relay banks. Reinhart caught a glimpse of endless tubesand filaments, a maze of wires and terminals and parts criss-crossingeach other, layer on layer."What is it?"Reinhart perched on the edge of a workbench, leaning hisbig shoulders against the wall. "An idea of Jamison Hedge--the sameman who developed our instantaneous interstellar vidcasts forty yearsago. He was trying tofind a method of faster than light travel whenhe was killed, destroyed along with most of his work. After that ftlresearch was abandoned. It looked as if there were no future in it.""Wasn't it shown that nothing couldtravel faster than light?""The interstellar vidcasts do! No, Hedge developed a valid ftl drive.He managed to propel an object at fifty times the speed of light. Butas the object gained speed, its length began to diminishand its massincreased. This was in line with familiar twentieth-century conceptsof mass-energy transformation. We conjectured that as Hedge's objectgained velocity it would continue to lose length and gain massuntilits length became nil and its mass infinite. Nobody can imagine suchan object.""Go on.""But what actually occurred is this. Hedge's object continued to loselength and gain mass until it reached the theoretical limitofvelocity, the speed of light. At that point the object, still gainingspeed, simply ceased to exist. Having no length, it ceased to occupyspace. It disappeared. However, the object had not been _destroyed_.It continuedon its way, gaining momentum each moment, moving in anarc across the galaxy, away from the Sol system. Hedge's objectentered some other realm of being, beyond our powers of conception.The next phase ofHedge's experiment consisted in a search for someway to slow the ftl object down, back to a sub-ftl speed, hence backinto our universe. This counterprinciple was eventually worked out.""With what result?""The deathof Hedge and destruction of most of his equipment. Hisexperimental object, in re-entering the space-time universe, came intobeing in space already occupied by matter. Possessing an incrediblemass, just below infinitylevel, Hedge's object exploded in a titaniccataclysm. It was obvious that no space travel was possible with sucha drive. Virtually all space contains _some_ matter. To re-enter spacewould bring automatic destruction.Hedge had found his ftl drive andhis counterprinciple, but no one before this has been able to put themto any use."Reinhart walked over toward the great metal cylinder. Sherikov jumpeddown and followed him. "I don'tget it," Reinhart said. "You said theprinciple is no good for space travel.""That's right.""What's this for, then? If the ship explodes as soon as it returns toour universe--""This is not a ship." Sherikov grinned slyly. "Icarusis the firstpractical application of Hedge's principles. Icarus is a bomb.""So this is our weapon," Reinhart said. "A bomb. An immense bomb.""A bomb, moving at a velocity greater than light. A bomb which willnot exist inour universe. The Centaurans won't be able to detect orstop it. How could they? As soon as it passes the speed of light itwill cease to exist--beyond all detection.""But--""Icarus will be launched outside the lab, on thesurface. He willalign himself with Proxima Centaurus, gaining speed rapidly. By thetime he reaches his destination he will be traveling at ftl-100.Icarus will be brought back to this universe within Centaurus itself.Theexplosion should destroy the star and wash away most of itsplanets--including their central hub-planet, Armun. There is no waythey can halt Icarus, once he has been launched. No defense ispossible. Nothing can stophim. It is a real fact.""When will he be ready?"Sherikov's eyes flickered. "Soon.""Exactly how soon?"The big Pole hesitated. "As a matter of fact, there's only one thingholding us back."Sherikov led Reinhart around to theother side of the lab. He pushed alab guard out of the way."See this?" He tapped a round globe, open at one end, the size of agrapefruit. "This is holding us up.""What is it?""The central control turret. This thing bringsIcarus back to sub-ftlflight at the correct moment. It must be absolutely accurate. Icaruswill be within the star only a matter of a microsecond. If the turretdoes not function exactly, Icarus will pass out the other sideandshoot beyond the Centauran system.""How near completed is this turret?"Sherikov hedged uncertainly, spreading out his big hands. "Who cansay? It must be wired with infinitely minuteequipment--microscopegrapples and wires invisible to the naked eye.""Can you name any completion date?"Sherikov reached into his coat and brought out a manila folder. "I'vedrawn up the data for the SRB machines,giving a date of completion.You can go ahead and feed it. I entered ten days as the maximumperiod. The machines can work from that."Reinhart accepted the folder cautiously. "You're sure about the date?I'm notconvinced I can trust you, Sherikov."Sherikov's features darkened. "You'll have to take a chance,Commissioner. I don't trust you any more than you trust me. I know howmuch you'd like an excuse to get me out of hereand one of yourpuppets in."Reinhart studied the huge scientist thoughtfully. Sherikov was goingto be a hard nut to crack. Designs was responsible to Security, notthe Council. Sherikov was losing ground--but he wasstill a potentialdanger. Stubborn, individualistic, refusing to subordinate his welfareto the general good."All right." Reinhart put the folder slowly away in his coat. "I'llfeed it. But you better be able to come through.There can't be anyslip-ups. Too much hangs on the next few days.""If the odds change in our favor are you going to give themobilization order?""Yes," Reinhart stated. "I'll give the order the moment I see theoddschange."       *       *       *       *       *Standing in front of the machines, Reinhart waited nervously for theresults. It was two o'clock in the afternoon. The day was warm, apleasant May afternoon. Outside thebuilding the daily life of theplanet went on as usual.As usual? Not exactly. The feeling was in the air, an expandingexcitement growing every day. Terra had waited a long time. The attackon Proxima Centaurus had tocome--and the sooner the better. Theancient Centauran Empire hemmed in Terra, bottled the human race up inits one system. A vast, suffocating net draped across the heavens,cutting Terra off from the brightdiamonds beyond.... And it had toend.The SRB machines whirred, the visible combination disappearing. For atime no ratio showed. Reinhart tensed, his body rigid. He waited.The new ratio appeared.Reinhart gasped.7-6. Toward Terra!Within five minutes the emergency mobilization alert had been flashedto all Government departments. The Council and President Duffe hadbeen called to immediate session. Everything washappening fast.But there was no doubt. 7-6. In Terra's favor. Reinhart hurriedfrantically to get his papers in order, in time for the Councilsession.At histo-research the message plate was quickly pulled fromtheconfidential slot and rushed across the central lab to the chiefofficial."Look at this!" Fredman dropped the plate on his superior's desk."Look at it!"Harper picked up the plate, scanning it rapidly. "Sounds like therealthing. I didn't think we'd live to see it."Fredman left the room, hurrying down the hall. He entered the timebubble office. "Where's the bubble?" he demanded, looking around.One of the technicians looked slowly up."Back about two hundredyears. We're coming up with interesting data on the War of 1914.According to material the bubble has already brought up--""Cut it. We're through with routine work. Get the bubble back tothepresent. From now on all equipment has to be free for Military work.""But--the bubble is regulated automatically.""You can bring it back manually.""It's risky." The technician hedged. "If the emergency requires it,Isuppose we could take a chance and cut the automatic.""The emergency requires _everything_," Fredman said feelingly."But the odds might change back," Margaret Duffe, President of theCouncil, said nervously. "Anyminute they can revert.""This is our chance!" Reinhart snapped, his temper rising. "What thehell's the matter with you? We've waited years for this."The Council buzzed with excitement. Margaret Duffehesitateduncertainly, her blue eyes clouded with worry. "I realize theopportunity is here. At least, statistically. But the new odds havejust appeared. How do we know they'll last? They stand on the basis ofa singleweapon.""You're wrong. You don't grasp the situation." Reinhart held himselfin check with great effort. "Sherikov's weapon tipped the ratio in ourfavor. But the odds have been moving in our direction for months. Itwasonly a question of time. The new balance was inevitable, sooner orlater. It's not just Sherikov. He's only one factor in this. It's allnine planets of the Sol System--not a single man."One of the Councilmen stood up. "ThePresident must be aware theentire planet is eager to end this waiting. All our activities for thepast eighty years have been directed toward--"Reinhart moved close to the slender President of the Council. "If youdon'tapprove the war, there probably will be mass rioting. Publicreaction will be strong. Damn strong. And you know it."Margaret Duffe shot him a cold glance. "You sent out the emergencyorder to force my hand. You werefully aware of what you were doing.You knew once the order was out there'd be no stopping things."A murmur rushed through the Council, gaining volume. "We have toapprove the war!... We're committed!... It's toolate to turn back!"Shouts, angry voices, insistent waves of sound lapped around MargaretDuffe. "I'm as much for the war as anybody," she said sharply. "I'monly urging moderation. An inter-system war is a big thing.We'regoing to war because a machine says we have a statistical chance ofwinning.""There's no use starting the war unless we can win it," Reinhart said."The SRB machines tell us whether we can win.""They tell us our_chance_ of winning. They don't guarantee anything.""What more can we ask, beside a good chance of winning?"Margaret Duffe clamped her jaw together tightly. "All right. I hearall the clamor. I won't stand in the wayof Council approval. The votecan go ahead." Her cold, alert eyes appraised Reinhart. "Especiallysince the emergency order has already been sent out to all Governmentdepartments.""Good." Reinhart stepped away withrelief. "Then it's settled. We canfinally go ahead with full mobilization."Mobilization proceeded rapidly. The next forty-eight hours were alivewith activity.Reinhart attended a policy-level Military briefing in theCouncilrooms, conducted by Fleet Commander Carleton."You can see our strategy," Carleton said. He traced a diagram on theblackboard with a wave of his hand. "Sherikov states it'll take eightmore days to completethe ftl bomb. During that time the fleet we havenear the Centauran system will take up positions. As the bomb goes offthe fleet will begin operations against the remaining Centauran ships.Many will no doubt survivethe blast, but with Armun gone we should beable to handle them."Reinhart took Commander Carleton's place. "I can report on theeconomic situation. Every factory on Terra is converted to armsproduction. With Armunout of the way we should be able to promotemass insurrection among the Centauran colonies. An inter-system Empireis hard to maintain, even with ships that approach light speed. Localwar-lords should pop up all overthe place. We want to have weaponsavailable for them and ships starting _now_ to reach them in time.Eventually we hope to provide a unifying principle around which thecolonies can all collect. Our interest is moreeconomic thanpolitical. They can have any kind of government they want, as long asthey act as supply areas for us. As our eight system planets act now."Carleton resumed his report. "Once the Centauran fleet hasbeenscattered we can begin the crucial stage of the war. The landing ofmen and supplies from the ships we have waiting in all key areasthroughout the Centauran system. In this stage--"Reinhart moved away. It washard to believe only two days had passedsince the mobilization order had been sent out. The whole system wasalive, functioning with feverish activity. Countless problems werebeing solved--but much remained.Heentered the lift and ascended to the SRB room, curious to see ifthere had been any change in the machines' reading. He found it thesame. So far so good. Did the Centaurans know about Icarus? No doubt;but therewasn't anything they could do about it. At least, not ineight days.Kaplan came over to Reinhart, sorting a new batch of data that hadcome in. The lab organizer searched through his data. "An amusing itemcame in. Itmight interest you." He handed a message plate toReinhart.It was from histo-research:                            May 9, 2136    This is to report that in bringing the research time bubble up    to the present the manual return