Dave Blackmer was an interstellar courier, paid to deliver the almost microscopically-reduced electronic message banks which, on arrival at the branch offices of Terran corporations, yielded up confidential instructions and technical data from the home offices and giant laboratories back on Earth. Since the banks were theoretically stealable, certain key messages were given to Dave in deep hypnosis, and passed on by him in the same state when he reached the planet of destination. For Dave, the job itself was routine. Most of the travel was done in fast commercial spacers, the monotony varied by rare moments when hair-trigger reflexes and hidden weapons made a shambles of a highjacker's attempt at the message banks. Between such moments, he had time to consider a peculiar effect of his job that the company recruiter had warned him about before he took the job.
"Now, don't ask me to explain it," the recruiter had said, "but Einstein's theory predicts it, and our experience proves it. The faster you go, the slower the passage of time. At the speeds you'll be traveling, you've got to take this into account. Are you willing to do it?"
"What's it involve?"
"Well, suppose you're married. You go out on the fastest ship available, make two or three subspace jumps, travel at top velocities, deliver the banks, load up for return, and in six weeks total you're back to report to the head office. The calendar in the office says one year and two months have elapsed since you left."
"You mean I'm a year two months older than when I left, and it only seemed like six weeks to me?"
"No, you're only six weeks older. The people here are a year two months older. They've lived that long while you were away for six weeks of your time."
Dave shrugged. "What does it matter when I live the rest of the fourteen months? I haven't lost anything."
"No, but remember, we said, 'Suppose you're married.' You've been away six weeks, as far as you're concerned. But that was a year and two months on Earth. You're married, and the little woman is conscious of having cooled her heels in solitary neglect for four hundred and twenty-five days and nights. You see what I mean?"
Dave nodded. "That's not so good."
The recruiter said, "In this business, marriage isn't worth it, believe me. But there are compensations, if you're interested in making money."
"High pay?"
"The pay is terrible. You'd do a lot better running a desk in an automatic factory."
"How much?"
"Thirty-five thousand a year, to start."
Dave turned as if to leave.
"Of course," added the recruiter, "you collect that thirty-five thousand at least half-a-dozen times a year."
Dave turned and stared back at him. The recruiter grinned. "We call it the 'accordion effect.' On Earth, time is stretched out like an accordion pulled wide. At high velocity, time is shortened like an accordion squeezed shut. On the company's books, you get paid by the calendar year. But throughout most of the calendar year, you're making subspace jumps and traveling at ultrahigh velocity in the course of your work. You experience the passage of, say five to six weeks, between the time you leave and the time you get back. Meanwhile, on Earth, the calendar year has elapsed, because of the higher rate of flow of time on a slow-moving object. So after five to six weeks' work, you get a year's pay. Nice, huh?"
And that had been Dave's introduction to the "accordion effect." Other delightful aspects had shown up later. Though Dave was earning at least two hundred thousand a year, from his viewpoint, the government saw this as a mere thirty-five thousand a year, repeated six times; the government was thus content to go after his paychecks with a moderately loose net, rather than with the harpoons, axes, and big knives they would otherwise have used. Conversely, though from Dave's viewpoint only a year had passed on the job, from the viewpoint of his bank, the interest on his money had been compounding, piling up, and reproducing itself for half-a-dozen years.
At first, Dave's only worry was that some technological development would eliminate his job. Then he began to notice other results of the accordion effect: the apparently accelerated aging of Earthbound acquaintances; the stepping up, from Dave's viewpoint, of social and technological changes; the perceptible shift of position and power among the peaceable but still strenuously competing nations on the home planet. These, and the sudden emergence of totally unexpected developments, kept Dave constantly aware of the difference in viewpoint that his job brought about.
And now there was a new change. For the first few years—from his viewpoint—Dave had traveled in the fastest American and Soviet ships. Of late, however, his trips more and more often were made in spacers like the Imperial Banner, the Unicorn, the Lion, and the Duke of Richmond. He was currently aboard the Queen of Space, which was hurtling him from Transpluto Terminal to Aurora Shuttle-Drop with a time-lead of twelve hours fifty-seven minutes over the next fastest transportation. Some idea of life on the Queen could be deduced in advance from the first lines of the shipping company's brochure:
"With three grades of accommodation: magnate class, luxury class, and first class, the new liner Queen of Space fulfills your fondest expectations . . ."
But Dave had been unable to foresee all of it. With one hand behind him on the silver doorknob of the first-class lounge, he stepped into the corridor and glanced to his left to see, strolling toward him down the corridor, two elegantly-dressed young men, a little above medium height. They were spare, well-knit, and groomed to perfection. Dave, who seldom noticed clothes, became oppressively aware of their perfectly-tailored jackets, knife-creased trousers, and black shoes polished to mirror brightness. They favored Dave with a brief flick of a glance as they passed, leaving him conscious of his improperly-knotted tie, unsuitable tan sport jacket and slacks, and too thick-soled shoes. Dave bore up under it grimly, conscious that the trip would not last forever and that after seven or eight more trips, the accordion effect would probably present him with some new phenomenon.
A good-natured middle-aged man, carrying a thing like a small riding crop with a silver handle, moved out beside Dave at the doorway, cast a cool glance after the elegant pair, nodded to Dave, and walked down the corridor, carrying the crop turned up inconspicuously against the cloth of his sleeve. From the opposite direction, a beautifully-dressed fop strolled by with a swagger stick. Then two men went past deep in conversation.
"No, no," one was saying earnestly. "I'd have been stuck there for life. A stinking baronet. But I found Carter. He was nobody, then. Nobody. But I saw a possibility. Nothing more, mind you. Just a possibility. And I—"
They disappeared around the corner. From their direction came a thickset man with beet-red cheeks carrying a swagger stick. No, Dave saw, a gold-encrusted baton of some kind—and everyone else in the corridor bowed and stood aside till he passed, whereupon the conversation, respectfully subdued, sprang up again, and the traffic in the hall got moving.
Dave noted that the courtesy was more elaborate than it had been on previous trips. The social phenomenon, whatever it was, must be coming to full bloom. He watched the hustling crowd go past, and became aware of a feeling of loneliness.
Someone banged into Dave, muttered an apology in a strained, suffering voice, and started past into the crowded entrance of the first-class lounge. Dave muttered an automatic acceptance of the apology, started out into the corridor, then hastily changed direction as some grandee came around the corner and they all stood against the wall for him.
Growling under his breath, Dave shoved back out of the way into the lounge, banged somebody, apologized, heard a muttered, "Sure. Sure. That's all right. Never mind," whirled and caught sight of a man in a dark business suit with a thick stubble of beard and horn-rimmed glasses. Dave immediately grabbed him by the arm. The man whirled around, a grim long-suffering look on his face.
From the corridor and all around them came snatches of greetings and conversation:
". . . Beg pardon, your Grace . . ."
". . . Be delighted, Sir Philip. I'm much indebted to you . . ."
". . . Lot of plebian rot, my lord. Hogwash. Income tax, indeed . . ."
". . . Well, that put me one step up the ladder, but I never hoped to lay hold on the swagger stick till—"
". . . No, no. What a bore. I wouldn't dream of it . . ."
". . . Best be up and doing, eh, your Grace? One day a commoner, next a baron, and pretty soon . . ."
" '. . .Tongue, you insolent dog,' I said. 'Your rank was bequeathed. It's no greater than mine, and it's on the slide. Your children will be commoners . . .'"
The man Dave had by the arm was staring at him as at some friend temporarily forgotten, but whose features were agonizingly familiar.
Dave said in a low voice, "You're Anatoly Dovrenin. A courier for Sovcom. Right?"
The man nodded. He said suddenly, "I've seen you. Wait—You're David Blackmer? Interstellar Communications Corporation?"
"Correct."
Dovrenin thrust out his hand. Dave grabbed it. They shook hands with the sincerity of two nineteenth-century Midwesterners in a Boston drawing room. The instant they paused the bits and fragments of conversation washed over them again.
". . . Reconversion dynamometer. Well, I thought, that's good for a step up if I can twist it around a bit, so . . ."
". . . Incredible callousness. The chap was only a rung above me, you know. It wasn't the snub, it was the way he did it. So offhand. As if I didn't exist . . ."
". . . Of course, my dear fellow. Yes, yes. I assuredly will remember you. Now if you'll excuse me . . . Pardon, gentlemen . . ."
". . . Lord Essenden, you've met Sir Dene Swope? . . . Splendid . . . Now, if we can find a quiet seat in a corner somewhere . . ."
Dovrenin glanced around and muttered, "It's getting crowded in here."
Dave nodded, "I know exactly what you mean. My room's just down the hall. If you can spare a minute—"
Dovrenin brightened. "I've got a big collection of cheeses they gave me at home for a going-away present. Also, naturally, I have some Vodka. How about—"
"Good idea."
"But, I haven't got any crackers. There was a little slip in the five-year plan, and ah . . ."
Dave nodded knowingly. "I'll go down to the commissary and pick up a couple of boxes. Incidentally, I'm in 226."
"I'll be there. My room is 280, so it will take me a few minutes."
They parted, Dovrenin going up the corridor, and Dave down it toward the gravity drop to the commissary. A few minutes later he was carrying the crackers and on his way back, meditating on the effect of the change in the exchange rate from six dollars a pound to seven twenty-eight a pound.
Thus preoccupied, Dave failed to notice a sudden hush in the corridor as everyone stood back respectfully against the walls. Dave walked past unaware. An elaborately-dressed fop drew his breath in with a hiss, grabbed Dave's arm with one hand, and slapped him across the face with the other.
Dave instinctively grabbed the man by the shirt front and knocked his unconscious form fifteen feet down the corridor.
There was a dead silence.
Dave picked up the crackers.
Coming toward him down the hall was the man with the riding crop that Dave had seen earlier. He smiled at Dave. Dave smiled at him. Dave walked down the hall with the accumulated gaze of many eyes focused on the back of his neck.
As he approached his room, he could see Anatoly Dovrenin coming down the hall from the opposite direction, carrying a box so large that he could see only by looking around one side of it. Behind Dovrenin, a door opened. People jumped to right and left to stand courteously waiting against the wall as a skinny individual carrying a silver-and-gold-encrusted baton emerged from a room behind Dovrenin, to walk behind him in deep conversation with a short fat man who was obviously paralyzed by greatness, and able only to bob his head and say, "Yes, Yes."
Dovrenin, peering around one side of the box, clearly had no idea what was behind him, till a gorgeously-dressed young man indignantly slammed him to the wall, knocking the box to the floor. Dovrenin waited with downcast gaze as the baton-bearing celebrity went past. There was a blur of motion as people began to move, then the magnificently-dressed young man appeared carrying the box, his expression blank, and Dovrenin right behind him with his hand holding something bulky in a side pocket.
Dave opened the door. The big box was carried in and set on the bed. Dovrenin's companion favored Anatoly and Dave with a hard look, and left the room.
Dave shut the door. Dovrenin carried over a chair and jammed it under the door's silver knob.
"I'm not very popular here right now."
Dave nodded. "My own circle of friends is strictly limited."
Dovrenin went to the box, and glanced around. Dave followed his glance:
The room, done in an exotic combination of silver and New Venus mahogany, had a bed, a chest of drawers, a table, three straight chairs, a large mirror, a plush armchair, and a thing like a wide-screen TV set. Another door, partly open, gave a view into a luxuriously-fitted bathroom.
Dovrenin glanced around, saw the two big boxes of crackers, and beamed. "You had no trouble?"
"No. I'd hardly touched my travel allowance. But if that exchange rate keeps going up—"
"It will," said Dovrenin grimly. "We have information that the next jump would put it at about $8.40 a pound. It may be higher yet when we get back."
Dave winced, then shrugged. "No need to worry about that now." He pulled a couple of boxes out from under his bed, Dovrenin in turn began to unload his own huge box. The table was soon laden with a variety of edible delicacies, and an assortment of liquids in different sizes and shapes of bottles. Various packets, cartons, and little boxes appeared, packed with delicate white cigarettes, and big brown cigars. Dave and Anatoly stepped back, grinned and eyed the table. The room promptly filled with the sounds of pouring liquids, tearing cellophane, and can openers at work. For a time, the conversation was strictly limited:
"Pretty good cheese. What do you call this?"
". . . And of course, there isn't anything in the world like American whisky. However, try some of our . . ."
". . . Stuff really has a sting, doesn't it? But hm-m-m now suppose we mixed in a little of this . . ."
There was enough food and drink on the table to last most of the trip, but there were only two to consume it, and something in the atmosphere impeded the development of really spontaneous joy. The two men glanced around from time to time, unaware that they had the puzzled looks of couriers just home from a long trip, and still unaccustomed to the changes that happened while they were away.
"Eight-forty a pound," murmured Dave, lowering his glass.
Dovrenin put down a bottle of clear brown liquid. His expression clouded. "You should see what is happening to the ruble. And the fools at home try to pass it off as if it didn't mean anything—"
Dave shook his head. "I guess it's because we see things speeded up. They jar us more."
"Oh, of course," said Dovrenin. "But let me just show you." He got out a piece of paper, and wrote rapidly.
He slid the paper over, and Dave noted that it was headed "Overall Industrial Index." Dave read:
I
U.S..98
U.S.S.R..86
Gr. Britain.42
II
U.S..99
U.S.S.R..89
Gr.Britain.42
III
U.S.1.01
U.S.S.R..92
Gr. Britain.47
IV
U.S.1.00
U.S.S.R.95
Gr. Britain.55
V
U.S.1.02
U.S.S.R..97
Gr. Britain.69
VI
U.S.1.01
U.S.S.R..99
Gr. Britain.91
VII
U.S.1.03
U.S.S.R.1.01
Gr. Britain1.26
Dave looked up. "This is accurate?"
"No, it's a summary of our official past estimates. Therefore, it's somewhat biased in our favor. But that can't hide the trend."
"No wonder the exchange rate's going up."
"Yes, and no wonder their ships are beating ours. But why?"
Dave shook his head. "All I heard of it at home was an article I read, headed, 'Boom in Free World Economy. Britain Profits from Westward Economic Shift,' whatever that means. The article didn't make sense."
Dovrenin nodded gloomily, and picked up the big glass in which Dave had mixed several drinks together. Dovrenin eyed it suspiciously, took a cautious sip, shrugged, said, "This is certainly innocuous," and drank it down like water.
Dave sat up.
Dovrenin swallowed several times, and looked around vaguely. He cleared his throat. He opened his mouth, and no sound came out. Dave glanced uneasily at the empty glass. Dovrenin tried again, and now words came out clearly, "I will show you what I mean."
Dave eased his chair back, so as to have freedom of action, just in case.
Dovrenin came to his feet, and glowered around as if looking over a large assemblage, made up entirely of his inferiors.
"Comrades," he growled, his voice threatening, "unhealthy rumors have come to my ears." He looked around, and said in a different voice, "No, we'll skip that part." He cleared his throat, glowered, and said in a deep, authoritative voice, "The present situation in steel production proves the futility of inexpert analysis. Hasty generalizations drawn from overall figures lead to fantastic conclusions. Steel production is not one monolithic development, but is the resultant of three totally unrelated factors: land-based production, sea-based production, space-based production.
"Water covers seventy-five per cent of the Earth's surface. Do you suppose there is no iron in the water, and no iron under the water? To think so would be an absurdity. But it is the kind of absurdity into which the inexpert falls, to bruise himself severely.
"Clear-headed analysis shows that in land-based production, we are breathing fire down the necks of the imperialists, and will soon forge unshakably into the lead. Only by desperate attempts at sea-based and space-based production are the capitalists able to stave off for a while their day of ruin. The sea- and space-based production figures are in direct proportion to their desperation at overcoming us in land-based production, and are thus a source of grim satisfaction to every one of us capable of a true understanding."
Dovrenin leaned across the table and said moodily to Dave, "You understand that before we came to this part, everyone had been already psychologically beaten into a jelly, so that the reasoning seemed very good."
Dave nodded sympathetically. Dovrenin picked up the empty glass and held it in the air, turning it slowly around and looking at it. "I have had it explained to me that this revolution in productive capacity is purely and simply the result of chance inventions. Little things like innovation in dynamic drift, resonant screening, ionic immobilization, linear-directed pseudo-molecular forces, stress-mold patterns, and so on. Mere inventions. No connection with the usual socio-economic factors." He gripped the glass suddenly, and Dave, expecting to see it smashed against the wall, braced himself to duck the flying fragments. Instead, Dovrenin abruptly sat down, pulled over his paper, and did some figuring on the back of it. Then he wrote on the face of the paper, and slid it across to Dave, who read:
VIII
Gr. Britain1.83
U.S.1.04
U.S.S.R.1.03
"That," said Dovrenin, "is what we can expect to see very shortly."
Dave checked the figures. "Seems perfectly accurate, if the trend holds."
Dovrenin swore. "Dukes and earls all over the place! The verminous nobility are taking over the universe! What an experience for a loyal Party member."
Dave bit back the automatic comment, "Well, at least, that's better than if the Communists should take over." He observed the expression of suffering on Dovrenin's face, finished off his glass, and looked at the figures again. The room was now traveling in slow circles, so that it was with some difficulty that he worked out the next stage of the progression:
IX
Gr. Britain2.60
U.S.1.05
U.S.S.R.1.05
Dovrenin checked the figures, and nodded. "That is exactly it. My friend, I am so glad you came on this ship. Otherwise, I would have been all alone with these rabid imperialists." He poured out two generous glasses of something that had a rocket on the label. After the exchange of several toasts, the room picked up considerable speed.
Dovrenin held to the table with one hand, while Dave braced it from the other side, and the paper traveled back and forth. In time, Dave squinted at something reading:
XIV
Gr. Britain11.90
U.S.S.R.1.15
U.S.1.10
There was another lapse of time while Dave worked out a mixture to reverse the polarity and cut back the excessive rotational inertia the room was building up, and this somehow introduced an eccentric motion that landed them both on the floor, where they shared a fresh piece of paper bearing extended calculations on one side, and on the other an untidy scrawl reading:
Gr. Britain3,162.4
U.S.A..1136
U.S.S.R.1.149
"Well, well," said Dave, focusing his mind with some difficulty, "blood is thicker than water, and all that, but we can't let this happen."
Dovrenin nodded emphatically, and speaking carefully said, "Together we will smash the filthy cap . . . er . . . imperialists."
Dave shook his head, and struggled to sit up. "Thing to do is get their secret, strain the dukes and earls out of it, and use it ourselves, see?" The beauty of this idea almost blinded him.
Dovrenin considered this, and a light seemed to burst on him, too. He beamed approval, then said, "How?"
"Have to get that first paper," said Dave. He managed to get up, and tried to step over to the table, but owing to the powerful Coriolis force operating in the room this proved to be impossible. He tried again on hands and knees, succeeded, located the paper, but found that the dizzying motion of the room impeded his concentration. He decided that something would have to be done, located a small brown bottle on the table, and after many patient tries managed to get hold of it. He unscrewed the cap and with great care swallowed the faintest taste. His nostrils immediately filled with bitter fumes, and he experienced the sensation of being slammed headlong into a brick wall.
The room had stopped spinning.
Dave set down the bottle, which was labeled "Snap-Out: The One Minute Drunk Cure. By appointment to His Majesty . . ."
"Whew," said Dave. He fervently hoped he hadn't taken too much. When the room began to revolve again gently, he sighed with relief, and carefully poured out a sparing dose for Dovrenin, who was lying on his back counting the revolutions of the ceiling.
Dovrenin choked, gagged, and sat up. After a moment, he sighed with relief. "That's better."
Dave, without too much difficulty from the free-wheeling action of the room, rummaged through his chest of drawers, and got out a glossy brochure. "Listen to this," he said. " 'Passengers desiring information on any subject have at their disposal a most complete reference library, which may be consulted by dialing "L" on any of the ship's viewers'."
Dovrenin looked doubtful. "Would it be that easy?"
"Maybe not, but we ought to get a few leads."
Dovrenin nodded. "Worth a try."
Both men looked not quite convinced, but as the alcohol they had absorbed overpowered the sparing dosage of Snap-Out, they appeared more confident.
Dave bent at the viewer, and dialed "L". A set of instructions jumped onto the screen, followed by a list of general topics. Dovrenin pulled up a chair and sat down nearby. Thirty minutes passed in plowing through a welter of information neither man was interested in. Then the heading "H.R.I.M. Government, Under Act of Revision, A Summary," sprang onto the screen.
Dave scanned the text, then hit the spacer button for the next page. The two men leaned forward, to read:
"Peerage. The House of Lords more drastically affected by the Revision.
"Two basic factors were taken into consideration. First was the unquestioned importance of technological innovation. One basic change of technique can revolutionize an industry. Second was the ingrained national characteristic of respect for titled nobility, a respect for rank and title apart from any immediate political power.
"At the moment of Commission's report, the foreign trade situation was extremely bad, with broadly-based competition holding an accumulating advantage in resources and production capacity. A feeling of desperation had grown up, and this may explain the speed with which the Commission's report was acted upon.
"Two measures were adopted. The principle of decay of inherited title provided that the eldest son of a nobleman assumed upon his father's death a rank and privilege lowered by two degrees. The son of a duke became an earl. The son of an earl became a baron. The second principle, that of acquisition of merit, provided that noble rank might be acquired only by merit, and principally by the bringing to use of new technological innovations. The patent of nobility was awarded, not to the inventor, who was seldom interested, in any case, but to the individual who brought the useful invention to prominence. The inventor was rewarded by prize money and a percentage of profits, but received a patent of nobility only if he himself brought the invention to prominence.
"The result of these two measures was to create overnight an interest in inventors and inventions which had not existed for the previous two centuries. The energies of those who wished to rise socially, or who were moved to maintain their ancient rank, were at once mobilized in the search for useful innovations. Ingenious technical persons who had in vain pleaded for at least a hearing suddenly found the drawing rooms of the nation flung open to them.
"The effects were not slow in coming. A scheme for ocean-mining which had been kicked around in a desultory way for twenty years was seized upon at once and given a trial. Serious difficulties developed, but the backer was determined upon a peerage. After a heroic struggle, the process was made economically feasible. The result was a dramatic easing in the raw materials problem. New developments followed swiftly as a favorable climate was created for men of inventive minds.
"There were, of course, and still are, certain shortcomings. Fortunes have been lost on worthless devices. The wild scramble for position disgusts many. The bumptious self-importance of some newly-titled knights and baronets is a continuing offense. The lordly mannerisms of the degenerate scions of once-great families is an irritation which must be experienced to be appreciated.
"The main defense of the system is that it works. The social process it has set in motion is the unquestioned cause of the accelerating rise in Imperial power, dominion, and prosperity. This alliance of genius and worldly society is the hallmark that today distinguishes the Empire from the backward nations of the home world.
"One might wish to confer the blessings of our systems upon these nations foundering in the backwash of history. But repeated missionary efforts have failed, rousing savage passions where enlightenment was intended.
"We must not despair. The inevitable march of history will sweep the doubters along with the procession, if not at the van, yet somewhere in the dusty trail of the column, and at last all will issue out of the abyss and the confusion into the broad royal grandeur of space.
"In the end, all will be one mighty Empire."
Dave snapped off the viewer, and the two men looked at each other.
"All right," said Dovrenin. "Now we see how it works. How do we adapt it?"
Dinner time was approaching as, symbolic riding crop in hand, Richard, Prince of the Realm, strode briskly down the hall that ran past Room 226, where Dave and Anatoly still wrestled with their problem. From somewhere up the corridor, the stirring strains of "Rule, Britannia" came faintly to Richard's ears, the word "waves" replaced by "stars," destroying the rhyme but not injuring the meaning. Richard was in a good mood, and slapped his leg lightly with the riding crop every few steps, an outward sign of his satisfaction.
Word had just reached him that young Smythe had cracked the self-repair problem for gravitors in actual use. The silver-handled crop that Richard carried, modest symbol of his position as First Peer of the Empire was his for a time longer. Moreover, this discovery was bound to be so widely useful as to add another few years to his tenure as a prince of quasi-royal blood.
Even if, he thought, eyes narrowed, even if he should lose the first rank—which heaven forbid, but such things did happen—still it was no small matter to be a Prince of the Realm. Damn the accelerated decay on that rank. A fellow could never rest, without getting slammed back to a dukedom.
He rounded a corner, telling himself that it had taken three generations to work up to this position, and he didn't intend to lose it without a struggle. There were those—petty fellows, sweaty upstart barons, backslid sons of earls, and the like—who complained that a dynasty like that of his family was unfair to the others. The beautiful answer to that was, "The system exists for the benefit of the Realm and of the innovators, not for the benefit of the nobility." That left the croakers helplessly grinding their teeth. Good for them. Let them shut up and produce.
His family knew how to produce, how to keep the inventors happy and working. Hunt them out, keep them going, doubt them when doubt will stimulate, believe in them when they doubt themselves. After a time it became an instinct. He could walk past a tenement, with the smell of decaying orange peels in his nostrils, and detect an inventive mind at work in the basement across the street. There must, he supposed, be some outward sign that he wasn't consciously aware of, a flash of light and movement, a fleeting glimpse of apparatus, seen but not—
"Hullo," he said suddenly. "What's this?"
He'd come to an abrupt stop outside a blank-faced door numbered 226. There was a peculiar something in the air, like the almost palpable absence of sound a man is aware of in an intensely quiet room.
"Something doing," said Richard, his instincts alert. He glanced up and down the hall, then stepped to the door, his hand raised as if to knock, and paused, listening.
"So then," came the voice of Anatoly Dovrenin, "each Party member must sponsor one good invention every five years, or he loses his Party card. What do you think of that?"
"It's a good idea," came the voice of Dave Blackmer, muffled by the door, "but probably it still needs to have some more work done on it. Now my idea is to have two major leagues of half-a-dozen teams each, see? Each region's got its own team. The New York Bombers, Boston Gnats, Philadelphia Phillies. The 'players' get on the team because they sponsor inventors. Cash prizes, pennants, and gold, silver and bronze cups are given out every six months for the leading team, with special mention and smaller cups for the leading players on each team. What scores points is useful inventions brought to prominence."
Dovrenin's voice came through the door. "This will work? Or did this idea come out of the whisky bottle? Who will be interested? Where will your 'fans' come from?"
"Where do you think? What gets people interested in a little ball batted around the park? It's the contest that counts. It's regional pride. Once it gets going, it picks up speed. Listen, they'll have special scouts going around to spot inventors. The newspapers will feature a running coverage—"
Outside the door, Richard frowned, gauging the potential merit of the innovations with practiced instinct. "They've got hold of something," he told himself. "Haven't got it worked into proper form yet, but—"
Habit brought his hand up, to rap once eagerly on the door.
"Just a minute," said a voice, "I'll get the door."
Horrified, Richard realized what he had been about to do.
Some inventors were best left alone, like that fellow who had the plan to turn the polar regions into tropical gardens, and which would, just incidentally, immerse London under the melted ice.
Firmly, the First Peer of the Realm stepped back, said, "Sorry, I misread the number," and strode swiftly down the hall.
The door opened, and Dave and Anatoly stared after him.
"Now," said Dave, "what do you suppose he wanted?"
Dovrenin shrugged. "Who knows what goes on in the minds of these grasping imperialists? Let us get back to work."
The door closed.
The ship sped on, carrying twenty-eight assorted dandies, fops, and ne'er-do-wells, thirty crewmen, four hundred and seventy-eight status-conscious noblemen, sixteen inventors and assistants in specially outfitted workshops, one proletarian, and one free-enterpriser.
Not one of these travelers was aware that, between them, they had the long-sought, supposedly-mythical entity to turn dross into wealth. But they went on using it just the same.