ODDY AND ID

by Alfred Bester (1913- )

Astounding Science Fiction, August

Like C. M. Kornbluth, Alfred Bester had published science fiction in the early 1940s but then stopped for some eight years to pursue other interests. When he returned to sf in 1950 he quickly established himself as a unique and ambitious writer, but one who published far too little. Almost all of his post-1950 short stories are memorable, and most can be found in Starlight (1976). His two great novels of the 1950s, The Demolished Man (1953) and Tiger! Tiger! (1956, better known as The Stars My Destination, the title of the 1957 American edition), are rightly considered to be seminal works in the field. He again left science fiction when he went to work for Holiday magazine, but returned in the mid-1970s with several interesting stories and two novels. The Computer Connection (1975) and Golem 100 (1980), neither of which could live up to the legendary reputation of his first two.

—M.H.G.

The last time I saw Alfie was at a small convention in New York over the Independence Day weekend of 1983. When a panel fell apart because a couple of the participants had unaccountably failed to show up, Alfie and I, who were in the audience, dutifully agreed to substitute.

A question from the audience was addressed to Alfie. The questioner wanted to know how Alfred Bester reacted to rejections.

A queer look came over Alfie’s face. He looked helplessly from side to side and then said in a nervous voice. “I don’t know. I’ve never had a rejection.”

He did well to look nervous. There are a hundred writers out there, Alfie, who are going to get you for that. Even I average a rejection a year. And yet, I can’t expect a story like “Oddy and Id” to be rejected.

—I.A.

This is the story of a monster.

They named him Odysseus Gaul in honor of Papa’s favorite hero, and over Mama’s desperate objections; but he was known as Oddy from the age of one.

The first year of life is an egotistic craving for warmth and security. Oddy was not likely to have much of that when he was born, for Papa’s real estate business was bankrupt, and Mama was thinking of divorce. But an unexpected decision by United Radiation to build a plant in the town made Papa wealthy, and Mama fell in love with him all over again. So Oddy had warmth and security.

The second year of life is a timid exploration. Oddy crawled and explored. When he reached for the crimson coils inside the non-objective fireplace, an unexpected short-circuit saved him from a burn. When he fell out the third floor window, it was into the grass filled hopper of the Mechano-Gardener. When he teased the Phoebus Cat, it slipped as it snapped at his face, and the brilliant fangs clicked harmlessly over his ear.

“Animals love Oddy,” Mama said. “They only pretend to bite.”

Oddy wanted to be loved, so everybody loved Oddy. He was petted, pampered and spoiled through pre-school age. Shopkeepers presented him with largess, and acquaintances showered him with gifts. Of sodas, candy, tarts, chrystons, bobbletucks, freezies and various other comestibles, Oddy consumed enough for an entire kindergarten. He was never sick.

“Takes after his father,” Papa said. “Good stock.”

Family legends grew about Oddy’s luck…How a perfect stranger mistook him for his own child just as Oddy was about to amble into the Electronic Circus, and delayed him long enough to save him from the disastrous explosion of ’98…How a forgotten library book rescued him from the Rocket Crash of ’99…How a multitude of odd incidents saved him from a multitude of assorted catastrophes. No one realized he was a monster…yet.

At eighteen, he was a nice looking boy with seal brown hair, warm brown eyes and a wide grin that showed even white teeth. He was strong, healthy, intelligent. He was completely uninhibited in his quiet, relaxed way. He had charm. He was happy. So far, his monstrous evil had only affected the little Town Unit where he was born and raised.

He came to Harvard from a Progressive School, so when one of his many quick friends popped into the dormitory room and said: “Hey Oddy, come down to the Quad and kick a ball around.” Oddy answered: “I don’t know how, Ben.”

“Don’t know how?” Ben tucked the football under his arm and dragged Oddy with him. “Where you been, laddie?”

“They didn’t talk much about football back home,” Oddy grinned. “Thought it was old fashioned. We were strictly Huxley-Hob.”

“Huxley-Hob! That’s for hi-brows,” Ben said. “Football is still the big game. You want to be famous? You got to be on that gridiron before the Video every Saturday.”

“So I’ve noticed, Ben. Show me.”

Ben showed Oddy, carefully and with patience. Oddy took the lesson seriously and industriously. His third punt was caught by a freakish gust of wind, travelled seventy yards through the air, and burst through the third floor window of Proctor Charley (Gravy-Train) Stuart. Stuart took one look out the window and had Oddy down to Soldier Stadium in half an hour. Three Saturdays later, the headlines read: ODDY GAUL 57-ARMY O.

“Snell & Rumination!” Coach Hig Clayton swore. “How does he do it? There’s nothing sensational about that kid. He’s just average. But when he runs they fall down chasing him. When he kicks, they fumble. When they fumble, he recovers.”

“He’s a negative player,” Gravy-Train answered. “He lets you make the mistakes and then he cashes in.”

They were both wrong. Oddy Gaul was a monster.

With his choice of any eligible young woman, Oddy Gaul went stag to the Observatory Prom, wandered into a darkroom by mistake, and discovered a girl in a smock bending over trays in the hideous green safe-light. She had cropped black hair, icy blue eyes, strong features, and a sensuous boyish figure. She ordered him out and Oddy fell in love with her…temporarily.

His friends howled with laughter when he told them. “Shades of Pygmalion, Oddy, don’t you know about her? The girl is frigid. A statue. She loathes men. You’re wasting your time.”

But through the adroitness of her analyst, the girl turned a neurotic corner one week later and fell deeply in love with Oddy Gaul. It was sudden, devastating and enraptured for two months. Then just as Oddy began to cool, the girl had a relapse and everything ended on a friendly, convenient basis.

So far only minor events made up the response to Oddy’s luck, but the shock-wave of reaction was spreading. In September of his Sophomore year, Oddy competed for the Political Economy Medal with a thesis entitled: “Causes Of Mutiny.” The striking similarity of his paper to the Astraean Mutiny that broke out the day his paper was entered won him the prize.

In October, Oddy contributed twenty dollars to a pool organized by a crack-pot classmate for speculating on the Exchange according to ‘Stock Market Trends,’ a thousand year old superstition. The seer’s calculations were ridiculous, but a sharp panic nearly ruined the Exchange as it quadrupled the pool. Oddy made one hundred dollars.

And so it went… worse and worse. The monster.

Now a monster can get away with a lot when he’s studying speculative philosophy where causation is rooted in history and the Present is devoted to statistical analysis of the Past; but the living sciences are bulldogs with their teeth clamped on the phenomena of Now. So it was Jesse Migg, physiologist and spectral physicist, who first trapped the monster… and he thought he was an angel.

Old Jess was one of the Sights. In the first place he was young…not over forty. He was a malignant knife of a man, an albino, pink-eyed, bald, pointed-nosed and brilliant. He affected 20th Century clothes and 20th Century vices…tobacco and potations of C_2HsOH. He never talked … He spat. He never walked … He scurried. And he was scurrying up and down the aisles of the laboratory of Tech I (General Survey of Spatial Mechanics—Required for All General Arts Students) when he ferreted out the monster.

One of the first experiments in the course was EMF Electrolysis. Elementary stuff. A U-Tube containing water was passed between the poles of a stock Remosant Magnet. After sufficient voltage was transmitted through the coils, you drew off Hydrogen and Oxygen in two-to-one ratio at the arms of the tube and related them to the voltage and the magnetic field.

Oddy ran his experiment earnestly, got the proper results, entered them in his lab book and then waited for the official check-off. Little Migg came hustling down the aisle, darted to Oddy and spat: “Finished?”

“Yes, sir.”

Migg checked the book entries, glanced at the indicators at the ends of the tube, and stamped Oddy out with a sneer. It was only after Oddy was gone that he noticed the Remosant Magnet was obviously shorted. The wires were fused. There hadn’t been any field to electrolyse the water.

“Curse and Confusion!” Migg grunted (he also affected 20th Century vituperation) and rolled a clumsy cigarette.

He checked off possibilities in his comptometer head. 1. Gaul cheated. 2. If so, with what apparatus did he portion out the H_2 and 0_2? 3. Where did he get the pure gases? 4. Why did he do it? Honesty was easier. 5. He didn’t cheat. 6. How did he get the right results? 7. How did he get any results?

Old Jess emptied the U-Tube, refilled it with water and ran off the experiment himself. He too got the correct result without a magnet.

“Rice on a Raft!” he swore, unimpressed by the miracle, and infuriated by the mystery. He snooped, darting about like a hungry bat. After four hours he discovered that the steel bench supports were picking up a charge from the Greeson Coils in the basement and had thrown just enough field to make everything come out right.

“Coincidence,” Migg spat. But he was not convinced.

Two weeks later, in Elementary Fission Analysis, Oddy completed his afternoon’s work with a careful listing of resultant isotopes from selenium to lanthanum. The only trouble, Migg discovered, was that there had been a mistake in the stock issued to Oddy. He hadn’t received any U^235 for neutron bombardment. His sample had been a left-over from a Stefan-Boltsmann black-body demonstration.

“Frog in Heaven!” Migg swore, and double-checked. Then he triple-checked. When he found the answer … a remarkable coincidence involving improperly cleaned apparatus and a defective cloud-chamber, he swore further. He also did some intensive thinking.

“There are accident prones,” Migg snarled at the reflection in his Self-Analysis Mirror. “How about Good Luck prones? Horse Manure!”

But he was a bulldog with his teeth sunk in phenomena. He tested Oddy Gaul. He hovered over him in the laboratory, cackling with infuriated glee as Oddy completed experiment after experiment with defective equipment. When Oddy successfully completed the Rutherford Classic…getting 80^17 after exposing nitrogen to alpha radiation…but in this case without the use of nitrogen or alpha radiation, Migg actually clapped him on the back in delight. Then the little man investigated and found the logical, improbable chain of coincidences that explained it.

He devoted his spare time to a check-back on Oddy’s career at Harvard. He had a two hour conference with a lady astronomer’s faculty analyst, and a ten minute talk with Hig Clayton and Gravy-Train Stuart. He rooted out the Exchange Pool, the Political Economy Medal, and half a dozen other incidents that filled him with malignant joy. Then he cast off his 20th Century affectation, dressed himself properly in formal leotards, and entered the Faculty Club for the first time in a year.

A four-handed chess game in three dimensions was in progress in the Diathermy Alcove. It had been in progress since Migg joined the faculty, and would probably not be finished before the end of the century. In fact, Johansen, playing Red, was already training his son to replace him in the likely event of his dying before the completion of the game.

As abrupt as ever, Migg marched up to the glowing cube, sparkling with sixteen layers of vari-colored pieces, and blurted: “What do you know about accidents?”

“Ah?” said Bellanby, Philosopher in Res at the University. “Good evening, Migg. Do you mean the accident of substance, or the accident of essence? If, on the other hand, your question implies—”

“No, no,” Migg interrupted. “My apologies, Bellanby. Let me rephrase the question. Is there such a thing as Compulsion of Probability?”

Hrrdnikkisch completed his move and gave full attention to Migg, as did Johansen and Bellanby. Wilson continued to study the board. Since he was permitted one hour to make his move and would need it, Migg knew there would be ample time for the discussion.

“Compulthon of Probability?” Hrrdnikkisch lisped. “Not a new conthept, Migg. I recall a thurvey of the theme in ‘The Integraph’ Vol. LVIII, No. 9. The calculuth, if I am not mithtaken—”

“No,” Migg interrupted again. “My respects, Signoid. I’m not interested in the mathematic of Probability, nor the philosophy. Let me put it this way. The Accident Prone has already been incorporated into the body of Psychoanalysis. Paton’s Theorem of the Least Neurotic Norm settled that. But I’ve discovered the obverse. I’ve discovered a Fortune Prone.”

“Ah?” Johansen chuckled. “It’s to be a joke. You wait and see, Signoid.”

“No,” answered Migg. “I’m perfectly serious. I’ve discovered a genuinely lucky man.”

“He wins at cards?”

“He wins at everything. Accept this postulate for the moment…I’ll document it later…There is a man who is lucky. He is a Fortune Prone. Whatever he desires, he receives. Whether he has the ability to achieve it or not, he receives it. If his desire is totally beyond the peak of his accomplishment, then the factors of chance, coincidence, hazard, accident…and so on, combine to produce his desired end.”

“No.” Bellanby shook his head. “Too far-fetched.”

“I’ve worked it out empirically,” Migg continued. “It’s something like this. The future is a choice of mutually exclusive possibilities, one or other of which must be realized in terms of favorability of the events and number of the events …”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Johansen. “The greater the number of favorable possibilities, the stronger the probability of an event maturing. This is elementary, Migg. Go on.”

“I continue,” Migg spat indignantly. “When we discuss Probability in terms of throwing dice, the predictions or odds are simple. There are only six mutually exclusive possibilities to each die. The favorability is easy to compute. Chance is reduced to simple odds-ratios. But when we discuss probability in terms of the Universe, we cannot encompass enough data to make a prediction. There are too many factors. Favorability cannot be ascertained.”

“All thith ith true,” Hrrdnikkisch said, “but what of your Fortune Prone?”

“I don’t know how he does it…but merely by the intensity or mere existence of his desire, he can affect the favorability of possibilities. By wanting, he can turn possibility into probability, and probability into certainty.”

“Ridiculous,” Bellanby snapped, “You claim there’s a man far-sighted and far-reaching enough to do this?”

“Nothing of the sort. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He just thinks he’s lucky, if he thinks about it at all. Let us say he wants…Oh…Name anything.”

“Heroin,” Bellanby said.

“What’s that?” Johansen inquired.

“A morphine derivative,” Hrrdnikkisch explained. “Formerly manufactured and thold to narcotic addictth.”

“Heroin,” Migg said. “Excellent. Say my man desires Heroin, an antique narcotic no longer in existence. Very good. His desire would compel this sequence of possible but improbable events: A chemist in Australia, fumbling through a new organic synthesis, will accidentally and unwittingly prepare six ounces of Heroin. Four ounces will be discarded, but through a logical mistake two ounces will be preserved. A further coincidence will ship it to this country and this city, wrapped as powdered sugar in a plastic ball; where the final accident will serve it to my man in a restaurant which he is visiting for the first time on an impulse. …”

“La-La-La!” said Hrrdnikkisch. “Thith shuffling of hithtory. Thith fluctuation of inthident and pothibility? All achieved without the knowledge but with the dethire of a man?’’

“Yes. Precisely my point,” Migg snarled. “I don’t know how he does it, but he turns possibility into certainty. And since almost anything is possible, he is capable of accomplishing almost anything. He is God-like but not a God because he does this without consciousness. He is an angel.”

“Who is this angel?” Johansen asked.

And Migg told them all about Oddy Gaul.

“But how does he do it?” Bellanby persisted. “How does he do it?”

“I don’t know,” Migg repeated again. “Tell me how Espers do it.”

“What!” Bellanby exclaimed. “Are you prepared to deny the EK pattern of thought? Do you—”

“I do nothing of the sort. I merely illustrate one possible explanation. Man produces events. The threatening War of Resources may be thought to be a result of the natural exhaustion of terran resources. We know it is not. It is a result of centuries of thriftless waste by man. Natural phenomena are less often produced by nature and more often produced by man.”

“And?”

“Who knows? Gaul is producing phenomena. Perhaps he’s unconsciously broadcasting on an EK waveband. Broadcasting and getting results. He wants Heroin. The broadcast goes out—”

“But Espers can’t pick up any EK brain pattern further than the horizon. It’s direct wave transmission. Even large objects cannot be penetrated. A building, say, or a—”

“I’m not saying this is on the Esper level,” Migg shouted. “I’m trying to imagine something bigger. Something tremendous. He wants Heroin. His broadcast goes out to the world. All men unconsciously fall into a pattern of activity which will produce that Heroin as quickly as possible. That Austrian chemist—”

“No. Australian.”

“That Australian chemist may have been debating between half a dozen different syntheses. Five of them could never have produced Heroin; but Gaul’s impulse made him select the sixth.”

“And if he did not anyway?”

“Then who knows what parallel chains were also started? A boy playing Cops and Robbers in Montreal is impelled to explore an abandoned cabin where he finds the drug, hidden there centuries ago by smugglers. A woman in California collects old apothecary jars. She finds a pound of Heroin. A child in Berlin, playing with a defective Radar-Chem Set, manufactures it. Name the most improbable sequence of events, and Gaul can bring it about, logically and certainly. I tell you, that boy is an angel!”

And he produced his documented evidence and convinced them.

It was then that four scholars of various but indisputable intellects elected themselves an executive committee for Fate and took Oddy Gaul in hand. To understand what they attempted to do, you must first understand the situation the world found itself in during that particular era.

It is a known fact that all wars are founded in economic conflict, or to put it another way, a trial by arms is merely the last battle of an economic war. In the pre-Christian centuries, the Punic Wars were the final outcome of a financial struggle between Rome and Carthage for economic control of the Mediterranean. Three thousand years later, the impending War of Resources loomed as the finale of a struggle between the two Independent Welfare States controlling most of the known economic world.

What petroleum oil was to the 20th Century, FO (the nickname for Fissionable Ore) was to the 30th; and the situation was peculiarly similar to the Asia Minor crisis that ultimately wrecked the United Nations a thousand years before. Triton, a backward, semibarbaric satellite, previously unwanted and ignored, had suddenly discovered it possessed enormous resources of FO. Financially and technologically incapable of self-development, Triton was peddling concessions to both Welfare States.

The difference between a Welfare State and a Benevolent Despot is slight. In times of crisis, either can be traduced by the sincerest motives into the most abominable conduct. Both the Comity of Nations (bitterly nicknamed “The Con Men” by Der Realpolitik aus Terra) and Der Realpolitik aus Terra (sardonically called “The Rats” by the Comity of Nations) were desperately in need of natural resources, meaning FO. They were bidding against each other hysterically, and elbowing each other with sharp skirmishes at outposts. Their sole concern was the protection of their citizens. From the best of motives they were preparing to cut each other’s throat.

Had this been the issue before the citizens of both Welfare States, some compromise might have been reached; but Triton in the catbird seat, intoxicated as a schoolboy with newfound prominence and power, confused issues by raising a religious question and reviving a Holy War which the Family of Planets had long forgotten. Assistance in their Holy War (involving the extermination of a harmless and rather unimportant sect called the Quakers) was one of the conditions of sale. This, both the Comity of Nations and Der Realpolitik aus Terra were prepared to swallow with or without private reservations, but it could not be admitted to their citizens.

And so, camouflaged by the burning issues of Rights of Minority Sects, Priority of Pioneering, Freedom of Religion, Historical Rights to Triton v. Possession in Fact, etc., the two Houses of the Family of Planets feinted, parried, riposted and slowly closed, like fencers on the strip, for the final sortie which meant ruin for both.

All this the four men discussed through three interminable meetings.

“Look here,” Migg complained toward the close of the third consultation. “You theoreticians have already turned nine man-hours into carbonic acid with ridiculous dissensions …”

Bellanby nodded, smiling. “It’s as I’ve always said, Migg. Every man nurses the secret belief that were he God he could do the job much better. We’re just learning how difficult it is.”

“Not God,” Hrrdnikkisch said, “but hith Prime Minithterth. Gaul will be God.”

Johansen winced. “I don’t like that talk,” he said. “I happen to be a religious man.”

“You?” Bellanby exclaimed in surprise. “A Colloid-Therapeutist?”

“I happen to be a religious man,” Johansen repeated stubbornly.

“But the boy hath the power of the miracle,” Hrrdnikkisch protested. “When he hath been taught to know what he doeth, he will be a God.”

“This is pointless,” Migg rapped out. “We have spent three sessions in piffling discussion. I have heard three opposed views re Mr. Odysseus Gaul. Although all are agreed he must be used as a tool, none can agree on the work to which the tool must be set. Bellanby prattles about an Ideal Intellectual Anarchy, Johansen preaches about a Soviet of God, and Hrrdnikkisch has wasted two hours postulating and destroying his own theorems …”

“Really, Migg …” Hrrdnikkisch began. Migg waved his hand.

“Permit me,” Migg continued malevolently, “to reduce this discussion to the kindergarten level. First things first, gentlemen. Before attempting to reach cosmic agreement we must make sure there is a cosmos left for us to agree upon. I refer to the impending war…

“Our program, as I see it, must be simple and direct. It is the education of a God or, if Johansen protests, of an angel. Fortunately Gaul is an estimable young man of kindly, honest disposition. I shudder to think what he might have done had he been inherently vicious.”

“Or what he might do once he learns what he can do,” muttered Bellanby.

“Precisely. We must begin a careful and rigorous ethical education of the boy, but we haven’t enough time. We can’t educate first, and then explain the truth when he’s safe. We must forestall the war. We need a short-cut.”

“All right,” Johansen said. “What do you suggest?”

“Dazzlement,” Migg spat. “Enchantment.”

“Enchantment?” Hrrdnikkisch chuckled. “A new thienth, Migg?”

“Why do you think I selected you three of all people for this secret?” Migg snorted. “For your intellects? Nonsense! I can think you all under the table. No. I selected you, gentlemen, for your charm.”

“It’s an insult,” Bellanby grinned, “and yet I’m flattered.”

“Gaul is nineteen,” Migg went on. “He is at the age when undergraduates are more susceptible to hero-worship. I want you gentlemen to charm him. You are not the first brains of the University, but you are the first heroes.”

“I altho am inthulted and flattered,” said Hrrdnikkisch.

“I want you to charm him, dazzle him, inspire him with affection and awe … as you’ve done with countless classes of undergraduates.”

“Aha!” said Johansen. “The chocolate around the pill.”

“Exactly. When he’s enchanted, you will make him want to stop the war…and then tell him how he can stop it. That will give us breathing space to continue his education. By the time he outgrows his respect for you he will have a sound ethical foundation on which to build. He’ll be safe.”

“And you, Migg?” Bellanby inquired. “What part do you play?”

“Now? None,” Migg snarled. “I have no charm, gentlemen. I come later. When he outgrows his respect for you, he’ll begin to acquire respect for me.”

All of which was frightfully conceited but perfectly true.

And as events slowly marched toward the final crisis, Oddy Gaul was carefully and quickly enchanted. Bellanby invited him to the twenty foot crystal globe atop his house … the famous hen-roost to which only the favored few were invited. There, Oddy Gaul sunbathed and admired the philosopher’s magnificent iron-hard condition at seventy-three. Admiring Bellanby’s muscles, it was only natural for him to admire Bellanby’s ideas. He returned often to sunbathe, worship the great man, and absorb ethical concepts.

Meanwhile, Hrrdnikkisch took over Oddy’s evenings. With the mathematician, who puffed and lisped like some flamboyant character out of Rabelais, Oddy was carried to the dizzy heights of the haute cuisine and the complete pagan life. Together they ate and drank incredible foods and liquids and pursued incredible women until Oddy returned to his room each night, intoxicated with the magic of the senses and the riotous color of the great Hrrdnikkisch’s glittering ideas.

And occasionally … not too often, he would find Papa Johansen waiting for him, and then would come the long quiet talks through the small hours when young men search for the harmonics of life and the meaning of entity. And there was Johansen for Oddy to model himself after … a glowing embodiment of Spiritual Good … a living example of Faith in God and Ethical Sanity.

The climax came on March 15th…The Ides of March, and they should have taken the date as a sign. After dinner with his three heroes at the Faculty Club, Oddy was ushered into the Foto-Library by the three great men where they were joined, quite casually, by Jesse Migg. There passed a few moments of uneasy tension until Migg made a sign, and Bellanby began.

“Oddy,” he said, “have you ever had the fantasy that some day you might wake up and discover you were a King?”

Oddy blushed.

“I see you have. You know, every man has entertained that dream. The usual pattern is: You learn your parents only adopted you, and that you are actually and rightfully the King of..of…”

“Baratraria,” said Hrrdnikkisch who had made a study of Stone Age Fiction.

“Yes, sir,” Oddy muttered. “I’ve had that dream.”

“Well,” Bellanby said quietly, “it’s come true. You are a King.”

Oddy stared while they explained and explained and explained. First, as a college boy, he was wary and suspicious of a joke. Then, as an idolator, he was almost persuaded by the men he most admired. And finally, as a human animal, he was swept away by the exaltation of security. Not power, not glory, not wealth thrilled him, but security alone. Later he might come to enjoy the trimmings, but now he was released from fear. He need never worry again.

“Yes,” exclaimed Oddy. “Yes, yes, yes! I understand. I understand what you want me to do.” He surged up excitedly from his chair and circled the illuminated walls, trembling with joy and intoxication. Then he stopped and turned.

“And I’m grateful,” he said. “Grateful to all of you for what you’ve been trying to do. It would have been shameful if I’d been selfish … or mean…Trying to use this for myself. But you’ve shown me the way. It’s to be used for good. Always!”

Johansen nodded happily.

“I’ll always listen to you,” Oddy went on. “I don’t want to make any mistakes. Ever!” He paused and blushed again. “That dream about being a king … I had that when I was a kid. But here at the school I’ve had something bigger. I used to wonder what would happen if I was the one man who could run the world. I used to dream about the kind things I’d do…”

“Yes,” said Bellanby. “We know, Oddy. We’ve all had that dream too. Every man does.”

“But it isn’t a dream any more,” Oddy laughed. “It’s reality. I can do it. I can make it happen.”

“Start with the war,” Migg said sourly.

“Of course,” said Oddy. “The war first; but then we’ll go on from there, won’t we? I’ll make sure the war never starts, but then we’ll do big things…great things! Just the five of us in private. Nobody’ll know about us. We’ll be ordinary people, but we’ll make life wonderful for everybody. If I’m an angel…like you say…then I’ll spread heaven around me as far as I can reach.”

“But start with the war,” Migg repeated.

“The war is the first disaster that must be averted, Oddy,” Bellanby said. “If you don’t want this disaster to happen, it will never happen.”

“And you want to prevent that tragedy, don’t you?” said Johansen.”

“Yes,” answered Oddy. “I do.”

On March 20th, the war broke. The Comity of Nations and Der Realpolitik aus Terra mobilized and struck. While blow followed shattering counter-blow, Oddy Gaul was commissioned Subaltern in a Line regiment, but gazetted to Intelligence on May 3rd. On June 24th he was appointed A.D.C. to the Joint Forces Council meeting in the ruins of what had been Australia. On July 11th he was brevetted to command of the wrecked Space Force, being jumped 1,789 grades over regular officers. On September 19th he assumed supreme command in the Battle of the Parsec and won the victory that ended the disastrous solar annihilation called the Six Month War.

On September 23rd, Oddy Gaul made the astonishing Peace Offer that was accepted by the remnants of both Welfare States. It required the scrapping of antagonistic economic theories, and amounted to the virtual abandonment of all economic theory with an amalgamation of both States into a Solar Society. On January 1st, Oddy Gaul, by unanimous acclaim, was elected Solon of the Solar Society in perpetuity.

And today…still youthful, still vigorous, still handsome, still sincere, idealistic, charitable, kindly and sympathetic, he lives in the Solar Palace. He is unmarried but a mighty lover; uninhibited, but a charming host and devoted friend; democratic, but the feudal overlord of a bankrupt Family of Planets that suffers misgovernment, oppression, poverty and confusion with a cheerful joy that sings nothing but Hosannahs to the glory of Oddy Gaul.

In a last moment of clarity, Jesse Migg communicated his desolate summation of the situation to his friends in the Faculty Club. This was shortly before they made the trip to join Oddy in the palace as his confidential and valued advisers.

“We were fools,” Migg said bitterly. “We should have killed him. He isn’t an angel. He’s a monster. Civilization and culture…philosophy and ethics…Those were only masks Oddy put on; masks that covered the primitive impulses of his subconscious mind.”

“You mean Oddy was not sincere?” Johansen asked heavily. “He wanted this wreckage…this ruin?”

“Certainly he was sincere…consciously. He still is. He thinks he desires nothing but the most good for the most men. He’s honest, kind and generous … but only consciously.”

“Ah! The Id!” said Hrrdnikkisch with an explosion of breath as though he had been punched in the stomach.

“You understand, Signoid? I see you do. Gentlemen, we were imbeciles. We made the mistake of assuming that Oddy would have conscious control of his power. He does not. The control was and still is below the thinking, reasoning level. The control lies in Oddy’s Id … in that deep unconscious reservoir of primordial selfishness that lies within every man.”

“Then he wanted the war,” Bellanby said.

“His Id wanted the war, Bellanby. It was the quickest route to what his Id desires … to be Lord of the Universe and Loved by the Universe…and his Id controls the Power. All of us have that selfish, egocentric Id within us, perpetually searching for satisfaction, timeless, immortal, knowing no logic, no values, no good and evil, no morality; and that is what controls the power in Oddy. He will always get not what he’s been educated to desire but what his Id desires. It’s the inescapable conflict that may be the doom of our system.”

“But we’ll be there to advise him…counsel him…guide him,” Bellanby protested. “He asked us to come.”

“And he’ll listen to our advice like the good child that he is,” Migg answered, “Agreeing with us, trying to make a heaven for everybody while his Id will be making a hell for everybody. Oddy isn’t unique. We all suffer from the same conflict…but Oddy has the power.”

“What can we do?” Johansen groaned. “What can we do?”

“I don’t know.” Migg bit his lip, then bobbed his head to Papa Johansen in what amounted to apology for him. “Johansen,” he said, “you were right. There must be a God, if only because there must be an opposite to Oddy Gaul who was most assuredly invented by the Devil.”

But that was Jesse Migg’s last sane statement. Now, of course, he adores Gaul the Glorious, Gaul the Gauleiter, Gaul the God Eternal who has achieved the savage, selfish satisfaction for which all of us unconsciously yearn from birth, but which only Oddy Gaul has won.

*