FINAL

WEAPON

BY EVERETT B. COLE

Man has developed many a deadly
weapon. Today, the weapon most
effective in destroying a man's
hopes and security is the file
folder ... and that was the weapon
Morely knew and loved. But there
was something more potent to come.

Illustrated by Leydenfrost

District Leader Howard Morely
leaned back in his seat, to glance
down at the bay. Idly, he allowed his
gaze to wander over the expanse of
water between the two blunt points
of land, then he looked back at the
skeletonlike spire which jutted upward
from the green hills he had just
passed over. He could remember
when that ruin had been a support
for one of the world's great bridges.

Now, a crumbling symbol of the
past, it stubbornly resisted the attacks
of the weather, as it had once
resisted the far more powerful blasts
of explosives. Obstinately, it pointed
its rusty length skyward, to remind
the observer of bygone conflict—and
more.

Together with the tangled cables,
dimly seen in the shoal water, the
line of wreckage in the channel, and
the weed-covered strip of torn concrete
which led through the hills, it
testified to the arrival of the air age.
Bridges, highways, and harbors alike
had passed their day of usefulness.

Not far from the ruined bridge
support, Morely could see the huge,
well maintained intake of one of the
chemical extraction plants. He shook
his head at the contrast.

"That eyesore should be pulled
down," he muttered. "Should have
been pulled down long ago. Suggested
it in a report, but I suppose it
never got to the Old Man. He depends
on his staff too much. If I had
the region, I'd—"

He shook his head. He was not
the regional director—yet. Some day,
the old director would retire. Then,
Central Coördination would be examining
the records of various district
leaders, looking for a successor.
Then—

He shrugged and turned his attention
to his piloting of the borrowed
helicopter. It was a clumsy
machine, and he had to get in to
Regional Headquarters in time for
the morning conference. There would
be no sense it getting involved in
employee traffic—not if he could
avoid it.

The conference, his informant had
told him, would be a little out of
the ordinary. It seemed that the Old
Man had become somewhat irritated
by the excess privileges allowed in
a few of the eastern districts. And
he was going to jack everyone up
about it. After that would come the
usual period of reports, and possibly
a few special instructions. Some of
the leaders would have pet projects
to put forward, he knew. They always
did. Morely smiled to himself.
He'd have something to come up
with, too.

And this conference might put a
crimp in Harwood's style. Morely
had carefully worded his progress report
to make contrast with the type
of report that he knew would come
from District One. George Harwood
had been allowing quite a few extra
privileges to his people, stating that
it was good for morale. And, during
the past couple of months, he'd
seemed to be proving his point. Certainly,
the production of the employees
from the peninsula had been
climbing. Harwood, Morely decided
would be the most logical person—after
himself—for the region when
the Old Man retired. In fact, for a
time, it had looked as though the
director of District One was going to
be a dangerous rival.

But this conference would change
things. Morely smiled slowly as he
thought of possible ways of shading
the odds.

He looked ahead. Commuters were
streaming in from the peninsula now,
to make for the factory parking lots.
His face tightened a little. Why, he
wondered, had the Old Man decided
to call the conference at this hour?
He could have delayed a little, until
commuter traffic was less heavy. He'd
been a district leader once. And before
that, under the old government,
a field leader. He should know how
annoying the employee classes could
be. And to force his leaders to mingle
with commuting employees in heavy
traffic!

For that matter, everyone seemed
to be conspiring to make things uncomfortable
today. Those heavy-handed
mechanics in the district motor
pool, for example. They'd failed
him today. His own sleek machine,
with its distinctive markings was still
being repaired. And he'd been forced
to use this unmarked security patrol
heli. The machine wasn't really too
bad, of course. It had a superb motor,
and it carried identification
lights and siren, which could be used
if necessary. But it resembled some
lower-class citizen's family carryall.
And, despite its modifications, it still
handled like one. Morely grimaced
and eased the wheel left a little. The
helicopter swung in a slow arc.

Helis were rising from the factory
lots, to interlace with incoming ships
before joining with the great stream
headed south. The night workers
were heading for home. Morely
hovered his machine for a moment,
to watch the ships jockey for position,
sometimes barely avoiding collisions
in the stream of traffic. He
watched one ship, which edged forward,
stopped barely in time to avoid
being hit, edged forward again, and
finally managed to block traffic for a
time while its inept driver fooled
with the controls and finally got on
course.

"Quarrelsome, brawling fools," he
muttered. "Even among themselves,
they can't get along."

He looked around, noting that the
air over the Administrative Group
was comparatively free of traffic. To
be sure, he would have to cross the
traffic lines, but he could take the
upper lanes, avoiding all but official
traffic. A guard might challenge, but
he could use his identifying lights.
He wouldn't be halted. He corrected
his course a little, glanced at the
altimeter, and put his ship into a
climb.

At length, he eased his ship over
the parklike area over Administrative
Square and hovered over the
parking entry. A light blinked on his
dash, to tell him that all the official
spaces were occupied. He grunted.

"Wonder they couldn't leave a
clear space in Official. They know I'm
coming in for conference."

He moved the control wheel, allowing
his ship to slide over to a
shopping center parking slot, and
hovered over the entry, debating. He
could park here and take the sub-surface
to Administrative, or he could
use the surface lot just outside of the
headquarters group. Of course, the
director frowned on use of the surface
lot, except in emergency. The
underground lots were designated
for all normal parking. Morely
thought over the problem, ignoring
the helis which hovered, waiting for
him to clear the center of the landing
area. Finally, his hand started for the
throttle. He would settle in the landing
slot, let the guards shove his heli
to a space, and avoid any conflict
with the director's orders regarding
the surface lot.

Suddenly, there was a sputtering
roar. Someone had become impatient
at the delay. A small sports heli
swept by, impellers reversed, and
dropped rapidly toward the entry to
the underground parking space.
Morely's ship rocked a little in the
air blast.

For an instant, Morely felt a sharp
pain which gnawed at the pit of his
stomach. His head was abruptly light,
and his hand, apparently of its own
volition, closed over the throttle
knob.

This joy boy was overdue for a
lesson.

Morely measured the distance
quickly, judging the instant when
the other pilot would have to repitch
his impellers and halt his downward
rush. He allowed his own heavy ship
to wallow earthward.

Scant feet from ground surface,
the sportster pilot flicked his pitch
control and pulled his throttle out
for the brief burst of power which
would allow him to drop gently to
the landing platform.

Morely grinned savagely as he saw
the impellers below him change pitch
and start to move faster. He twisted
his own impellers to full pitch and
pulled out the throttle for a sudden,
roaring surge of power, then swung
the control column, jerking his ship
up and away. As he steadied his heli
and cut power, he looked down.

The powerful downblast had completely
upset the sportster pilot's
calculations. The small ship, struck
by the gale from above, had listed
to the right and gone out of control,
grazing one of the heavy splinter
shutters at the side of the landing
slot. The ship lay on its side, amidst
the wreckage of its impellers.

Morely flicked on his warning
siren and lights, then feathered his
own impellers, dropping his ship in
free fall. He dropped to the grassy
area by the landing slot, ignoring
the other ships which scattered like
frightened chickens, to give him
room. At the last instant, he twisted
the impellers to full pitch again,
pulled out the throttle for a moment,
then slammed the lever to the
closed position. His ship touched
down on springy turf, its landing
gear settling gently to accept the
weight. A klaxon was sounding, and
warning lights flashed from the landing
slot, to warn ships away from
an attempted landing.

It would be a long time before the
shiny, new sportster would be in
condition to sweep into another
parking area. And, after paying his
fine and taking care of his extra
duties, it would be an even longer
time before the employee-pilot would
have much business in the luxury
shopping center, anyway.

Morely smiled bitterly as he closed
the door of his ship. It didn't pay to
cross Howard Morely—ever.

He walked slowly toward the landing
slot, motioning imperiously to
an approaching guard.

"Have someone place that ship for
me," he ordered, jerking a thumb
back toward his heli. "Then come
over to that wreck. I shall want words
with the pilot." He held out his
small identification folder.

The guard's glance went to the
folder. For an instant, he studied the
card exposed before him, then he
straightened and saluted, his face expressionless.

"Yes, sir." He signaled another
guard, then pointed toward Morely's
ship, and to the landing slot. "I can
go with you now."

The two went down in the elevator
and walked over to the wrecked
sportster. A slender man was crawling
from a door. When the man was
clear of his ship, Morely beckoned.

"Over here, Fellow," he commanded.

The sportster pilot approached,
the indignation on his face changing
to bewilderment, then dismay as he
noted Morely's insignia and the attitude
of the two men who faced
him.

Morely turned to the guard.

"Get me his name, identification
number, and the name of his leader."

"Yes, sir."

The guard turned to the man,
who grimaced a little with pain as
he slowly put a hand in his pocket.
Wordlessly, he extracted a bulky
folder, from which he took a small
booklet. He held out the booklet to
the guard.

Morely held out a hand. "Never
mind," he said. "Simply put him in
custody. I'll turn this over to his
leader myself."

He had noted the cover design on
the booklet. It was from District
One—Harwood's district. He flipped
the cover open, ascertaining that
there was no transfer notice. He'd
give this to Harwood all right—at
the right time. He looked at his
watch.

"I shall want my heli in about
three hours," he announced. "See to
it that it's ready. And have a man
check the fuel and see if the ship's
damaged in any way." He turned
away.

The district leaders sat before the
large conference table. Among them,
close to the director's place, was
Morely, his face fixed in an expression
of alert interest. His informant
had been right. The man must have
gotten a look at the Old Man's notes.
The regional director was criticizing
the laxity in inspection and control
of employee activities. He objected to
the excessive luxury activity allowed
to some members of the employee
classes, as well as to the overabundance
of leisure allowed in several
cases, some of which he described
in detail.

He especially pointed up the fact
that a recent heli meet had been almost
dominated by employee class
entries. And he pointed out the fact
that there was considerable rehabilitation
work to be done in bombed
areas. It could be done by employees,
during their time away from their
subsistence jobs. That was all community
time, he reminded.

It was all very well, he said, to
allow the second- and even third-class
citizens a certain amount of leisure
recreation. That kept morale up. But
they were certainly not to be allowed
any position of dominance, either
individually, or as a class. That, he
said, was something else again. It
was precisely the sort of thing that
had led to the collapse and downfall
of many previous civilizations.

"Keep 'em busy," he ordered. "So
busy they don't have time to think
up mischief to get into. Remember,
gentlemen, second- and third-class
citizens have no rights—only privileges.
And privileges may be withdrawn
at any time."

He rapped sharply on the table
and sat down, looking at the leader
of District One.

One by one, the district leaders
made their verbal reports of activity.
Occasionally, questions of production
or work quotas were brought up
and decided. Morely waited.

At last, he made his own report,
emphasizing the fact that his district
had exceeded its quotas—subsistence,
luxury, and rehabilitation—for the
fourth consecutive quarter. He cited
a couple of community construction
projects he had ordered and which
were well on the way to completion,
and brought out the fact that his
people, at least, were being inspected
constantly and thoroughly.

Also, he suggested, if any time remained
to be used, or if leisure activity
threatened to become excessive,
it might be well to turn some attention
outside of the old urban areas.
There was considerable bomb damage
in the suburban and former
farming areas, and the scrap from
some of the ruined structures could
be stockpiled for disposal to factories
and community reclamation plants.

Further, a beautification program
for the entire region might keep
some of the employee class busy for
some time. And some of the ex-farmers
among the lower classes might
find it pleasant to work once again
with the soil, instead of their normal
work in the synthetic food labs or
machine shops. With the director's
permission, he could start the program
by removing the useless tower
and wreckage at the bay channel, and
by salvaging the metal from it. Of
course, he admitted, it was a trifle
beyond his own authority, since most
of the channel was in District One.
The regional director cast him a
sharp glance, then considered the
suggestion. At last, he nodded.

"It might be well," he decided.
"Go ahead, Morely. Take care of that
detail." He looked over at his executive.
"Have Planning draw up
something on salvage and beautification
in the former rural areas," he
ordered. He looked about the room.

"And the rest of you might try
looking over your own districts. You
don't have to wait for a directive,
and every one of you can find some
improvement that could be made. If
it's a district line matter, submit some
plan for mutual agreement to my
office." He rose and went to the door.

Morely waited, watching George
Harwood. The leader of District
One gathered his papers, looked
down the table for an instant, then
went out. Morely followed him at a
discreet distance.

As Harwood neared the door to
the regional director's office, Morely
caught up with him.

"Oh, Harwood," he said loudly.
"Caught one of your people in a flagrant
case of reckless flying this morning.
Why don't you bear down a
little on those fellows of yours? This
one seemed to think he was winning
a heli meet."

He held out the folder he had
confiscated. "Here's his identification.
I had the guards hold him for
you. Second-class citizen. Must've
had a lot of spare time, to get the
luxury credits and purchase authorization
for that ship of his."

Harwood looked at him, a faint
expression of annoyance crossing his
face. Then, he glanced at the open
door nearby, and comprehension
grew on his face. He took the folder,
nodded wordlessly, and walked
rapidly past Morely, who turned to
watch him.

As Harwood swung through the
door to an elevator, Morely smiled
appreciatively. That had been a
smart trick, he thought. Have to remember
that one. No argument to
disturb the Old Man. Not even positive
proof that Morely hadn't been
talking to empty space. But there was
an answer to that, too, if one was
alert. He walked through the doorway
into the director's office.

The regional director looked up.

"Oh, Morely. You wanted to see
me?"

"Yes, sir." Morely stood at rigid
attention. "I just thought of all those
useless highways around the countryside.
Of course, a few of them
have been camouflaged and converted
to temporary and emergency heli
parking lots, but there's still a lot of
waste concrete about that could be
removed. It would improve the
camouflage of the groups. It could
be divided into community projects
for spare time work, sir."

"Very good idea. If this stalemate
we're in should develop into another
war, it would be well to have as few
landmarks as possible. And some of
these people do have too much time
on their hands. They sit around,
thinking of their so-called rights.
Next thing we know, some of the
second-class citizens'll be screaming
for the privilege of a vote. Set it up
in your district, Morely. We'll see
how it works out, and the rest of the
district leaders can follow your example."

He looked sharply at Morely.
"Heard a little disturbance in the hall
just before you came in."

"Oh, that." Morely contrived a
look of confusion. "I'm sorry, sir. I
didn't mean anyone to hear that. It
was just that I had a minor bit of
business with Leader Harwood. One
of his people nearly knocked me out
of the air this morning, over a parking
area, and I confiscated his identification.
I tried to give it to Harwood
after the conference, but he
must have been in a hurry. I caught
up with him and gave him the
folder."

"So I heard." The director smiled
wryly. "Anything more?"

"No, sir." Morely saluted and left.

"That," he told himself, "should
drop Harwood a few points."

He went to the parking area to
reclaim his helicopter. Better get
back to his district and start setting
up those community projects. Too,
he would have to run a check inspection
or so this evening. See to it his
sector men weren't getting lax. He'd
check on Bond tonight.

He flew back to District Twelve,
dropped his helicopter into the landing
area, and made his way to his
office.

Inside, he went to a file, from
which he took his spot-inspection
folder. Carrying it to his desk, he
checked it. Yes, Bond's sector was
due for a spot inspection. Might be
well to make a detailed check of
one of the employees in that sector,
too. Morely touched a button on his
desk.

Almost immediately, a clerk stood
in the doorway.

"Get me the master quarters file
for Sector Fourteen," Morely ordered.

The clerk went out, to return with
two long file drawers. Quickly, he
set them side by side on a small
table, which he pushed over to his
superior's desk.

Idly, Morely fingered through the
cards, noting the indexing and condition
of the file. He nodded in approval,
then gave the clerk a nod of
dismissal. At least, his people were
keeping their files in order.

He reached into a pocket, to withdraw
a notebook. Turning its pages,
he found a few of the entries he had
made on population changes, then
cross-checked them against the files.
All were posted and properly cross-indexed.
Again, he nodded in satisfaction.

Evidently, that last dressing down
he had given the files section had
done some good. For a moment, he
considered calling in the chief clerk
and complimenting him. Then, he
changed his mind.

"No use giving him a swelled
head," he told himself.

He drew a file drawer to him, running
his finger down its length. At
last, he pulled a card at random. It
was colored light blue.

He put it back. Didn't want to
check a group leader. He'd be a first-class
citizen, and entitled to privacy.
He pulled another card from a different
section of the file. This one
was salmon pink—an assistant
group leader. He examined it. The
man was a junior equipment designer
in one of the communications
plants. For a moment, Morely tapped
the card against his desk. Actually,
he had wanted a basic employee,
but it might be well to check
one of the leadmen. He could have
the man accompany him while he
made a further check on one of the
apartments in his sub-group. Again,
he looked at the card.

Paul Graham, he noted, was forty-two
years of age. He had three children—was
an electronics designer,
junior grade. His professional profile
showed considerable ability and
training, but the security profile
showed a couple of threes. Nothing
really serious, but he would be naturally
expected to be a second-class
citizen—or below. It was not an unusual
card.

Morely looked at the quarters
code. Graham lived in Apartment
7A, Group 723, which was in Block
1022, Sector Fourteen. It would be
well to check his quarters first, then
check, say, 7E. Morely went through
the numerical file, found the card
under 7E, and flipped the pages of
his notebook to a blank sheet, upon
which he copied the data he needed
from the two cards.

He put the notebook in his pocket
and returned the cards to their places
in the file, then riffled the entire file
once more, to be sure there would
be no clue as to which cards he had
consulted. Finally, he touched the
button on his desk again.

Once more, the clerk stood in the
doorway.

"This file seems to be satisfactory,"
he was told. "You may bring in the
correspondence now."

The correspondence was no heavier
than usual. Morely flipped
through the routine matter, occasionally
selecting a report or letter and
abstracting data. Tomorrow, he could
check performance by referring to
these. At last, he turned to the separate
pile of directives, production
and man-hour reports, and other
papers which demanded more attention
than the routine paper.

He worked through the stack of
paper, occasionally calling upon his
clerk for file data, sometimes making
a communicator call. At last, he
pushed away the last remaining report
and leaned back. He spun his
chair about, activated the large entertainment
screen, and spent some
time watching a playlet. At the end
of the play, he glanced at his watch,
then turned back to his desk. He
leaned forward to touch a button on
his communicator.

As the viewsphere lit, he flicked
on the two-way video, then spoke.

"Get me Sector Leader Bond." He
snapped the communicator off almost
before the operator could acknowledge,
then spun about, switching his
entertainment screen to ground surface
scan. A scene built up, showing
a view from his estate in the hills.

There were some buildings on the
surface—mostly homes of upper
grade citizens, who preferred the
open air, and could afford to have a
surface estate in addition to their
quarters in the groups. These homes,
for the most part, were located in
wooded areas, where their owners
could find suitable fishing and hunting.

Most of the traces of damage done
by the bombings of the Nineties were
gone from about the estate areas by
now, and the few which remained
were being eliminated. Morely increased
the magnification, to watch
a few animals at a waterhole. He
could do a little hunting in a few
weeks. Take a nice leave. He drew
a deep breath.

Those years after the end of the
last war had been hectic, what with
new organizational directives, the few
sporadic revolts, the integration of
homecoming fighters, and the final,
tight set-up. But it had all been worth
it. Everything was running smoothly
now.

The second- and third-class citizens
had learned to accept their
status, and some few of them had
even found they liked it. At least,
now they had far more security.
There was subsistence in plenty for
all producers, thanks to the war-born
advances in technology, and to the
highly organized social framework.
To be sure, a few still felt uneasy in
the underground quarters, but the
necessity for protection from bombing
in another war had been made
clear, and they'd just have to get
used to conditions. And, there were
a very few who, unable to get or
hold employment, existed somehow
in the spartan discomfort of the subsistence
quarters.

For most, however, there was
minor luxury, and a plenitude of
necessities. And there was considerable
freedom of action and choice
as well as full living comfort for the
full citizens, who had proved themselves
to be completely trustworthy,
and who were deemed fit to hold key
positions.

The communicator beeped softly,
and he glanced at the sphere. It
showed the face of Harold Bond,
leader of the fourteenth sector. The
district leader snapped on his scanner.

"Report to me here in my office
at eighteen hours, Bond."

"Yes, sir."

"And you might be sure your people
are all in quarters this evening."

Bond nodded. "They will be, sir."

"That's all." Morely flicked the
disconnect switch.

He got up, strode around the
office, then consulted his watch.
There would be time for a cup of
coffee before Bond arrived. Time for
a cup of coffee, and time for the
employees in Sector Fourteen to
scurry about, getting their quarters in
shape for an inspection. They would
have no way of knowing which quarters
were to be checked, and all
would be put in order.

He smiled. It was a good way, he
thought, to insure that there would
be no sloppiness in the homes of his
people. And it certainly saved a lot
of inspection time and a lot of direct
contact.

He went out of the office, and
walked slowly down to the snack bar,
where he took his time over coffee,
looking critically at the neat counter
and about the room as he drank.

The counter girls busied themselves
cleaning up imaginary spots
on the plastic counter and on their
equipment, casting occasional, apprehensive
glances at him. Finally, he
set his cup down, looked at the clock
over the counter, and walked out.

Bond was waiting in the office.
Morely examined the younger man,
carefully appraising his appearance.
The sector leader, he saw, was properly
attired. The neat uniform looked
as if freshly taken from the tailor
shop. The man stepped forward
alertly, to halt at the correct distance
before his superior.

"Good evening, sir. My heli is on
the roof."

"Very good." Morely nodded
shortly and took his notebook from
his pocket. "We'll go to Building
Seven Twenty-three."

He turned and walked toward the
self-service elevator. Bond hurried a
little to open the door for him.

Bond eased the helicopter neatly
through the entry slot and on down
into one of the empty visitor spaces
in the landing area at Block 1022.
The two men walked across the areaway
to an entrance.

As they went up the short flight
of stairs into the hall, Morely took
careful notice of the building. The
mosaic tile of the stairs and floor
gleamed from a recent scrubbing.
The plastic and metal handrails were
spotless. He looked briefly at his subordinate,
then motioned toward the
door at their right.

"This one," he ordered.

Bond touched the call button and
they waited.

From inside the apartment, there
was a slight rustle of motion, then
the door opened and a man stood
before them. For an instant, he looked
startled, then he straightened.

"Paul Graham, sir," he announced.
"Apartment 7A is ready
for inspection." He stepped back.

Morely looked him over critically,
saw nothing that warranted criticism,
and went inside, followed by Bond.

Cursorily, the district leader let
his gaze wander about the apartment.
The kitchen at his left, he saw,
was in perfect order, everything being
in place and obviously clean. He
went to the range and motioned
with his head.

"Pull the drip pan," he ordered.

Graham came forward and pulled
a flat sheet from the range, then
opened an access door at the front
of the stove.

Morely peered inside, then thrust
a hand in. For a moment, he groped
around, then he pulled his hand out
and looked at it. It was clean. He
sniffed at his fingers, then turned
away.

"You may replace the pan, Fellow."
He went into the living room,
noting that the woman and three
children were neat and in the proper
attitudes of attention. One of the
children was looking at him, wide-eyed.
He saw that the child was
clean and apparently healthy.

In addition to the usual chairs,
table, and divan, there were some
bookcases which formed a small alcove
around a combination desk and
drawing table. Morely circled the
bookcases, to stand before the desk.

"What's this?" he demanded. He
turned to a bookcase, to examine the
titles.

Most of the books were engineering
texts and reference works. There
were some standard works of philosophy
and a few on psychology. None
of the titles seemed to be actually
objectionable.

"I—" Graham started to speak, but
Morely silenced him with an upraised
hand.

"Later," he said coldly. "Bond,
has this been reported to you, and
have you investigated?"

Bond nodded. "Yes, sir," he said.
"Graham is a design engineer, sir,
and has been granted permission to
do some research in his quarters.

"He's commercially employed,
sir, and it was a routine matter. His
employer says he has been keeping
his production quotas, no alteration
to the apartment has been made, and
no community property has been defaced.
I'm told that several of Graham's
designs have been of value in
his plant. I didn't think—"

"I see you didn't. What is this
man working on now?"

"A new type of communicator,
sir. I don't know all the details."

"Get them, Bond. Get them all,
and give me a full report on his
project and its progress tomorrow.
Since this work is being done during
time when the man is not working
for his employer, he's using community
time and the community becomes
vitally interested in his
results." Morely paused, looking at
the bookcase again.

"And, while we are on the subject,"
he added, "get me details on
those previous designs you spoke of.
It's quite possible the community has
not been getting royalty payments
to which it's entitled." He picked
out a book, flipping over its pages
for a moment, then replaced it and
looked searchingly at Bond.

"And get me a full inventory of
this man's books and any equipment
he may have." He turned on Graham.

"Do you have purchase authorization
and receipts for all of this?"

"Yes, sir." Graham motioned toward
the desk.

"Very well. I shan't bother with
that now. An investigating team can
check that."

Morely took a final glance
at the half-finished schematic on
the drawing board, then circled
the bookcases again, to come out into
the main room.

"We'll inspect the rest of your
quarters."

At last, Morely left the quarters
area, followed by Bond. As they
reached the helicopter, Morely
turned, one hand on the door.

"Laxity, Bond, is something I
don't tolerate. You should know
that. Possibly this man, Graham, is
doing nothing illegal, or even irregular.
Possibly, he is not wasting community
time, but I have very serious
doubts. I'll venture to say the community
has a financial interest in several
of his recent designs, and I mean
to find out which ones and how
much. And it's certainly an unusual
situation. The man's a leadman, you
know, and could spend his time more
profitably in checking on the people
he's responsible for." He slid into
the seat.

"I'll concede," he continued,
"that employees are to be allowed a
certain amount of recreation of their
own choosing. They may have light
reading in their quarters, and they
may even work on small projects—with
permission, of course. But this
man seems to have gone much farther
than that. He has a small electronics
factory of his own, as well as a
rather extensive library. He's obviously
spending a lot of time at his
activities, and that time must come
out of his community performance.
This certainly is not routine, and I
can't condone your failure to make
a report on it."

"But, I—"

Morely held up a hand sternly.
"Let's not have a string of excuses,"
he said. "Give me a full report on
the man's possessions, his history,
and the progress of whatever work
he's doing in that private factory of
his. Get the details on his previous
designs, too. And bring your report
in to me in the morning, personally.
I shall want to determine whether
to make this new device a community
project, or whether to allow it to be
offered to his employer on a community
royalty agreement. And I
shall require details on his older designs
for Fiscal to examine into. Research,
you should know, is a community
function, not something to be
done in any set of quarters. I shall
want to talk to you further when
I've gone over this matter.

"Now, get me back to the district
offices. I want to get home, and
you've work to do tonight."

The report was a long one. Morely
smiled to himself as he thought
of the time it must have taken Bond
to assemble the data and to make up
his final draft. Possibly in the future,
that young man would be a
little less inclined to assume too
much authority, or to be too soft in
his dealings with the employee
classes. The spring in his swivel chair
twanged musically as the district
leader leaned back to read.

First, there was an inventory of
Graham's effects. It was a lengthy
list, followed by a certification by a
security inspector that all of the
equipment inventoried was covered
by authorizations and receipts held
by Graham, and that none of the
books and equipment were of improper
nature for possession by a
member of the employee classes.
Morely grunted and tossed that section
aside.

There was a detailed history of
Graham's activities, so far as known
to Security. Morely scanned through
it hurriedly. There was nothing here
of an unusual nature.

Graham had been graduated from
one of the large technical colleges
during the early nineties. Morely
noted that it was one of those schools
which had been later closed as a result
of one of the post-war investigations.

The subject had been employed by
Consolidated Electronics as a junior
engineer, and had designed several
improvements for Consolidated's
products. There was a record of promotions
and a few awards. He had
held a few patents, which had been
taken over by the Central Coördination
Products Division during the
post-war reorganization. He had also
belonged to the now proscribed Society
of Electronic Engineers, had
contributed articles to that organization's
journal, and had taken an active
part in some of its chapter meetings.

During the war, he had worked
on radio-controlled servos, doing acceptable
work. When the professional
and trade societies and other
organizations were outlawed, he had
promptly resigned from his society,
and made the required declarations.
But he had been reported as privately
remarking that it was "a sad thing
to see the last vestiges of personal
freedom removed."

Morely pursed his lips. Not an
unusual history, he decided. Of
course, the man was completely ineligible
for full citizenship—bad
risk. He was barely qualified for second-class
citizenship, his obvious
ability being the only qualifying factor.
Unlike many, he had no record
of any effort to shirk duty, or do
economic damage during the critical
period. The district leader tossed the
dossier aside and picked up the report
on Graham's present activities.

There were a series of complex
schematics, and several machine
drawings which he shuffled to the
back of his report. Those could be
interpreted later, if necessary. He
was interested in the description of
function.

The device Graham was working
on was described as a communicator
which operated by direct mind-to-mind
transfer. Morely sat up
straighter, reading the paragraph
over again. Either this man was a
true genius, who had discovered a
new principle, or he was completely
a crackpot.

"Telepathy!"

Morely snorted and went over to
the descriptions of the device, reading
carefully. Finally, he read the
comments of a senior engineer, who
cautiously admitted that the circuits
involved, though highly unconventional,
were not of a type to cause
spurious radiation, or to interfere
with normal communication in any
way.

The engineer also noted that it
was possible that the device might
be capable of radiation effects outside
of the electromagnetic spectrum,
and that the power device was capable
of integration into standard
equipment—in fact, might be well
worth adoption. He carefully declined,
however, to give any definite
opinion without an actual model to
run tests on. And he added the comment
that the first model was as yet
incomplete.

Morely tossed the last sheet to his
desk and leaned forward, tapping
idly on the dull-finished plastic.
Finally, he touched his call button
and waited till the clerk came in.

"You may send Mr. Bond in
now," he directed.

He picked up the section of the
report dealing with Graham's past
designs, and started scanning it. He
would have the Fiscal chief go over
this and set up the necessary royalty
agreements with Consolidated. Some
of them might generate worth-while
amounts of funds.

He made no sign of recognition
or awareness when Bond entered the
office, but continued with his reading.
At last, he pulled a notepad to
him, wrote a brief indorsement to
the Fiscal chief, and clipped it to the
part of the report dealing with Graham's
older designs. He replaced his
pen in its stand and leaned back, to
stare at his junior, who stood at rigid
attention.

"Yes?"

"Sector Leader Bond, sir, reporting
as ordered." Bond saluted.

Negligently, Merely returned the
salute, then picked up Bond's report.

"I have gone through this, Bond,"
he announced. "Very interesting.
And you thought it too unimportant
to report on before?"

"I didn't want to bother you with
some idle fantasy, sir. Until the
man's experiments showed definite
results of some sort, I—"

"And then, you hoped to spring
a completed device on me? Take
credit for it yourself, eh?"

"Not at all, sir. I—"

Morely raised a hand. "Never
mind. I don't need any kind of aid
to read your intentions. They're
quite plain, I see. It would have been
quite a credit to you, wouldn't it?

"'Look what I worked out, with
a little, minor help from one of the
employees in my sector.'

"But I've seen that line worked
before, Bond, and worked smoothly.
You don't catch the Old Man napping
so easily as that." He paused.

"Of course we don't know
whether or not this device is going
to be of any real use. But we do
know that this man, Graham, has
developed one thing which can be
profitably incorporated into conventional
equipment. That power source
of his appears to be quite practical,
and we'll adopt it. Offer it to the
man's employer, subject to community
royalty. And see if you can
get Graham a little time off work in
compensation. Then, keep a close
watch on his work on the rest of his
device. He'll probably use his time
off to work on it—at least, he'll be
a lot better off if he does.

"I want frequent reports on his
progress—daily reports, if any significant
developments occur. And I
want a model of that device as soon
as it's developed and has had preliminary
tests. If it works, it might
be valuable for community defense."
He waved a hand.

"That's all."

Bond turned to go, and almost got
to the door before Morely called him
back.

"Oh, one more thing, Bond. Keep
a closer watch on the rest of your
people. If any more of them decide
to do extra work of any unusual nature,
I shall expect an immediate report
in full. Don't fail me again. Is
that clear?"

"Yes, sir." Bond saluted again
and made his escape.

Morely watched him disappear,
then turned to his communicator.
"Get me Field Leader Denton," he
ordered.

The pause was slight, then the
face of a middle-aged man appeared
in the viewsphere.

"Denton," said the district leader,
"I want you to keep closer watch on
your sector men. Last night I spot-checked
Bond, in Fourteen, and I
found an irregularity. I'll expect you
to endorse the report back, and I'll
expect you to tighten down. Keep an
especially close eye on this man,
Bond."

The field leader's eyebrows raised
a little. "Bond, sir? He's one of—"

"Bond. Yes." His superior interrupted
forcefully. "And tighten
down on all your men. You know
how I feel about laxity."

He snapped the communicator off
and gathered Bond's report together.
For a few seconds, he looked at the
neat stack of paper, then he slipped
a paper clamp on it and punched his
call button.

"There!" Paul Graham straightened
from his hunched-over position
at the desk. He laid his soldering
iron down and massaged the small
of his back, grimacing slightly.

"Oh, me! I'll swear my back'll
never be the same again. But that
ought to do it, at last." He looked
at the equipment before him and
grinned ruefully.

"Of all the haywire messes. It
started out so nice. And it ended up
so awful."

The device had started out as a
fairly neat assembly, using a headband
as a chassis. But the circuitry
seemed to have gone out of control.
Miniature sub-assemblies hung at all
angles from their wires and tiny components
were interlaced through the
unit, till the entire assembly looked
like a wig from a horror play. Graham
shook his head, picked up the
band; and carefully fitted it, being
careful that the contacts touched his
forehead and temples properly.

For an instant, he looked a little
dazed. Then, he reached up and fumbled
for a moment with the controls
at the front of the headband. Suddenly,
he stopped, an expression of
pleasure on his face. He stood for a
time, looking at the wall, then looked
up at the ceiling. He frowned
and looked at his wife, who was
anxiously watching him. A smile
grew on his face, and she was clearly
conscious of the projected thought.

"I told you, Elaine, it can't possibly
hurt anyone. Stop worrying
about me."

Elaine Graham looked startled. "I
didn't, say anything, darling."

Her husband looked at her with
an impish grin. She frowned a little,
then her eyes widened and her
mouth opened a little. She ran at him
indignantly.

"It simply isn't decent! You take
that thing off, Paul Graham, right
now. I won't have you reading my
mind!"

Graham laughingly fended her off
with one hand as he carefully removed
the headband with the other.
He set the device gently on the desk,
then seized his wife about the waist.

"It works, honey," he said jubilantly.
"It really works." He waltzed
her away from the desk, to the middle
of the living room.

"Of course, I couldn't get anything
from anyone but you. It seems to
work just as I thought it might—only
if you can see the person you
want to contact. But I'll bet two
people who were acquainted could
use two of these things to communicate
with each other at any distance.
And it may be possible to
work out the problem of single-device
communication at distance and
through obstacles. But that'll have to
come later. Right now, this thing
works."

"But Paul. I'm afraid. What will
they do with something like this?
We have so little freedom left now.
Why, they won't even let us think
privately." She paused, her head
turning from side to side as she looked
about the apartment.

"You know, Paul, I hardly ever
dare go out of this apartment now,
they upset me so. And if they're able
to read my thoughts, I shan't be safe,
even here."

Graham frowned. "True," he admitted.
"But somehow, when I had
the thing on, I got some funny ideas.
I wonder if anyone could really oppress
someone he fully understood.
I wonder if two people who could
fully comprehend each other's point
of view could have a really serious
disagreement." He picked up the
headband, looking at it searchingly.

"And there's another thing," he
added. "Unless both parties are
wearing the things, vision seems to
be essential to any reaction, at least
in this model. I tried to get thoughts
from the kids and from the Moreno's,
upstairs. But there wasn't a
thing. And yet, I could get you clearly.
Apparently this thing won't work
out as a spy device."

"But, are you sure?"

Graham shrugged wryly. "Well
... no," he admitted. "I'll have to
finish wiring the other set and try
'em both out before I'll be sure of
anything. And it'll take a lot of tests
before I'm sure of very much. Now,
I've just got some ideas." He
frowned thoughtfully.

"Anyway, I can't stop now. They
know about the thing, and I've got
to finish it—or furnish definite proof
it's impractical." He turned back to
the desk. "Should be through with
the other band in a few minutes.
Just have to put in a couple of filters."

He picked up the completed device
and turned around again. "Here,
Elaine, put this on, will you? See
what you get. Try to catch a thought
from outside the room."

Dutifully, Elaine Graham accepted
the headband. She eyed it doubtfully
for a moment, then adjusted it over
her hair, setting the contacts on her
skin as she had seen her husband do.
For a few seconds, she stared at her
husband, wide-eyed. Then, she looked
away, her eyes focused on infinity.

Graham busied himself with the
soldering iron and another headband.

At last, Elaine took the headband
off. "It's weird, Paul," she said.
"When I was looking at you, I knew
everything you were thinking. But
when I looked away, there was nothing.
It was almost as though I didn't
have it on. Only, I seemed to be able
to think so much more clearly."

Graham looked up from his work,
squinting thoughtfully. "Yeah," he
muttered. "Yeah, I noticed that, too,
come to think of it. Feedback effect
of some sort, I suppose. Have to
experiment with that, too, I expect."
He turned back to his work.

Elaine put the headband back on
and watched him. She felt a complete
familiarity with everything he
was working on. For the first time,
she felt she fully understood this
man with whom she had lived for so
many years. And the understanding
was pleasant. She could comprehend
the mysteries of the circuits he was
working on. She had always felt
slightly neglected when he worked
with his equipment, especially since
the bureaucracy, who took his results
without recompense. Now, she could
feel his interest in his work for its
own sake. She could sympathize with
it. And, with a little study, she felt
she could join with him.

Graham straightened again. "It's
done," he said. He picked the second
headband from the desk and put
it on. Abruptly, both he and his wife
were aware of a fuzziness in their
thoughts and senses. The walls, the
floor, and the furniture seemed to
blur and waver, like the fantasy
world of delirium. He put his hand
up and adjusted the controls. The
room returned to normal, and their
senses were abruptly sharp and clear
again. He dropped his hand.

"Outside. See if it'll work when
we can't see each other."

"Almost curfew time."

"Only a couple of minutes. Then
lights out and sleep."

Elaine walked to the door. She
stepped out into the corridor and
walked down the steps.

"All right?"

"Perfect! Try the parking lot.
Close the door."

She went out of the quarters,
crossed the areaway, and stood under
the landing slot. Far overhead,
a segment of sky appeared between
the open bomb shutters. Stars shone
coldly. She was conscious of a movement
and looked down, toward a
shadow which moved among the
parked helicopters.

"What's that?"

She looked more closely at the
shadow, then shuddered a little.

"Never mind." The thought was
urgent. "Come inside. I got him,
too."

Quickly, Elaine walked back into
the apartment. She closed the door
and walked to the desk, removing
the headband as she approached.
Her husband put his headband beside
it.

"We'd better get to bed," he said
quietly. "I'll notify them tomorrow."

"No, Paul. It would be harder
then. And there would be so many
questions. Call the sector leader tonight.
We'll have to get it over."
Elaine shivered.

"But what will they do with it?"
She asked the question almost despairingly.

Graham shook his head. "I'm not
sure," he admitted. "I started with
the idea of simply building a really
effective communicator. But this is
more than that. To you and I, it
meant full understanding. But to
that person out there ... I don't
know."

"His thoughts were flat—almost
lifeless. And he made my skin crawl.
Paul, do you remember how you
used to feel when you came close to
a snake? There's something wrong
with that man."

"I know. I felt it, too. And it
made the blood rush into my ears."
Graham moved toward the communicator,
placing his hand on the
switch. "And you're right. I'll have
to report immediately. They don't
really need telepathy. And certainly,
they never required real evidence. A
suspicion is sufficient, and they'd be
very suspicious if I didn't notify the
sector leader tonight."

He depressed the switch deliberately,
like a man firing a weapon.
Then, he dialed a number, and
waited.

The sphere lit, to show the face
of Harold Bond.

"Oh, Graham." Bond frowned a
little. "It's late. Do you have something
to report?"

"Yes, sir." Graham's face was expressionless.
"The mental communicator
is finished. Do you wish to test
it, sir?"

Bond opened his eyes a little more
and nodded. "It's really done, then?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'll be there in a few minutes."
The sphere darkened.

Graham looked at it. De-energized,
the communicator seemed to be
merely a large ball of clear material.
It stood on its low pedestal, against
its black background, reflecting a distorted
picture of the chiaroscuro of
the room. He leaned toward it, and
saw a faint, deformed reflection of
his own head and shoulders.

He spread his hands a little, and
turned around. Elaine had crossed to
the divan, where she sat, looking
apathetically at the door, her hands
folded in her lap. He smiled apprehensively,
coughed, and held up a
hand, two fingers crossed.

Elaine glanced at him, nodded,
and resumed her watch of the door.
Graham shrugged and walked over
to his desk, where he stood, aimlessly
looking down at the two headbands.

They both jumped convulsively
when the buzzer sounded. Graham
strode rapidly to the door, opened
it, and stood back as the sector leader
came in. Elaine had come to her feet,
and stood rigidly, facing the door.

Sector Leader Bond closed the
door, then looked from one of them
to the other. He shook his head a
little sadly, and waved a hand gently
back and forth.

"Relax, you two," he said. "I'm
alone this time." He turned to Graham.
"Let's see what we've got."

Graham walked to his desk and
picked up the two headbands.

"They're a little rough-looking,
sir," he apologized. "But they
work."

Bond tossed his head back with
a little laugh. "They do look a little
rugged, don't they?" he chuckled.
"Well, we'll worry about appearance
later. Right now, I'm curious. I want
to see what these things do."

Graham handed over one of the
bands and slowly adjusted the other
to his head. For a moment, he looked
searchingly at the sector leader, then
his face relaxed into a relieved expression.

"Hear me?"

Bond had been examining the device
in his hands. He looked up,
puzzled.

"Of course I hear you," he said.
"I'm not deaf."

Graham smiled a little, then placed
a hand tightly over his mouth.

"Still get me?"

Bond cocked his head to one side,
looked down at the device in his
hands, then looked up again. "Well,"
he commented. "So that's the way
they work. I thought you spoke."

Graham shook his head. "Didn't
have to. Try it on."

Bond shrugged. "Well, here we
go." He pulled off his cap, tossed it
to a chair, and replaced it with the
headband. For a moment, he looked
around the apartment, then he
glanced at Mrs. Graham. He blinked,
ducked his head, and looked
more closely at her.

"Ow! Nobody could be as bad as
that!" He looked at Graham. "What
do you think?"

"There's one outside." Graham
inclined his head a little.

Elaine Graham sprang to her feet.
"I'm terribly sorry," she apologized
contritely. "It's just that I—"

Bond took off the headband
abruptly. "I'm sorry, too," he said.
"I was prying." He looked down at
the device. "I'm not too sure about
this thing," he added. "It works. I
can see that much. But I'm almost
afraid it works too well. What's it
going to cause?"

Graham pulled off his own headband
and extended his hand for the
other. "I'm not sure," he admitted.
"I'm not sure of anything at all."
He frowned. "Wish I hadn't—" He
looked at the sector leader quickly.

"I'm sorry, sir," he apologized.
"Forgot my training, I guess."

Bond waved a hand. "Look," he
said, "there are times, and there are
places. Right now, I'm in your home,
and I'm just as worried about this as
you are. I'm just another person."
He looked down at his neat uniform.

"Once," he mused, "we were all
just people. Now—" He shrugged.
"And then, these things come
along." He looked at the two headbands,
then at the man holding them.

"Wonder how many people feel
like that?"

Graham held out the headbands.
"I know one way to find out."

Bond nodded. "I see what you
mean," he admitted. "But it could
be pretty bad." He walked over to
the chair and picked up his cap.

"Well," he added with a sigh, "I
suppose I'd better grab these things
and take them over to Research.
Have to find out all we can about
them. I've still got to report on
them." Again, he looked at Graham.
"You'd better come along, too. Research
people might have a lot of
questions, and I could never answer
them."

Graham nodded and went to the
hall closet. He took his coat from
the hanger, put it on, and reached
for his hat, then hesitated.

"You know," he said, "we might
try one experiment, right here."

"Oh?" Bond raised his eyebrows.

"There's a man out in the parking
lot. I believe he's detailed to keep
watch on me. You might try him
with one of the headbands. Then,
see what he'll do with one on."

"Any special reason?"

Graham twisted his face uneasily.
"I can't describe it," he said almost
inaudibly. "You'd have to see for
yourself."

Bond looked at him speculatively
for a moment, then held out his cap
and one of the headbands.

"Here, hold these."

He put the other headband on, accepted
the first, and walked out of
the apartment, followed by Graham,
who still carried the cap.

As they came out and started
across the parking lot, a man approached
them.

Bond looked at him, frowned,
then cast a sidelong look at Graham.

"That what you meant?" His
thought carried an undercurrent of
incredulity.

Graham nodded wordlessly, and
Bond looked toward the approaching
man again. Once more, his face wrinkled
distastefully, then he spoke
aloud.

"Oh, Ross. Want you to try some
thing." He held out the headband
he was carrying in his left hand.

Ross came up, accepted the device,
and looked at it curiously. "You
mean this is the thing he's been
working on?" He jerked a thumb at
Graham. "Saw his wife come out a
while ago. Guess she had one of 'em
on. She went right back in again."

Bond nodded. "This is it," he said.
"Let's see how it works for you."

Ross shrugged. "Try anything
once, I guess." He adjusted the band
to his head, then stood, looking at
the two men.

"Notice anything?" Bond looked
at him sharply.

Again, Ross shrugged. "Nothing
special," he said with a slight grunt.
"Seems as though this guy's pretty
nervous."

"You don't have to say anything,
just think it. And see if you can communicate
with Graham."

"Huh?" Ross had been looking
directly at Bond. He frowned.

"You mean, this thing—" He
paused, looking for a moment at Graham,
then took the headband off.
"Thing doesn't feel good," he complained.
He held the device out to
Bond, who accepted it.

"But it works? You could communicate
both ways with it?"

"Oh, sure." Ross nodded grudgingly.
"I got you, all right. But I
couldn't get a thing out of this guy."
He wagged his head toward Graham.
"Except he was jittery about
something."

"I see. Thanks." Bond accepted
the headband. "We're going to take
these to Research," he added. "Let
the technicians there find out how
good they are." He turned away and
led Graham to his helicopter.

As Graham settled in the seat, he
turned to the sector leader. "He just
couldn't use it properly," he remarked.
"Maybe only certain people can
use them."

Bond nodded as he started the
motor. "Or maybe only certain people
can't." He busied himself in getting
the machine up through the
landing slot, then turned as they
climbed into the night sky.

"Maybe you've got to be able to
understand and like people before
you can establish full contact with
them. Maybe ... Maybe a lot of
things." He was silent for a moment.
"You know, this thing might become
far more valuable than you
thought, Graham."

Howard Morely looked up from
a memo as the clerk tapped on the
door.

"Come in."

The man opened the door and
stepped inside.

"Sector Leader Bond is here, sir.
He has some gentlemen with him."

"And what does he want?"

"He said it was about that new
communicator, sir."

"Oh." Morely turned his attention
back to the memo. "Have them
wait." He waved a hand in dismissal
and went on with his reading.

The beautification program was
progressing well. Twenty miles of
the old main highway through the
valley had been completely cleared
and planted. Crews were working on
another stretch. The foreman of the
wrecking crew down at the point, in
Sector Nine, reported that the last
bit of scrap had been removed from
the old bridge support. Underwater
crews had salvaged the cables and
almost all of the metal from the
fallen bridge itself, and the scrap
was on the beach, ready for delivery
to the reclamation mills in District
One.

Morely smiled sourly. Harwood
would have a storage problem on
his hands in a day or so. The delay
in delivery could be explained and
justified. Morely had seen to that.
Now, all the material was ready and
could be delivered in one lot.

Harwood would have to raise his
production quota in his community
mills to use up the excess material,
and that would slow down the clean-up
in District One. The Old Man
couldn't help but notice, and he'd
see who was efficient in his region.
The district leader pushed the memo
sheets aside and placed his hands behind
his head.

Slowly, he pivoted his chair, to
look at the entertainment screen. He
started to energize it, then drew his
hand back.

So that crackpot, Graham, had
finally come up with something definite.
Morely smiled again. It had almost
seemed as though the man had
been stalling for a while. But the
pressure and the veiled threats had
been productive—again.

To be sure, the agents covering
that project had reported that the
device seemed to be merely another
fairly good means of communication—nothing
of any tremendous importance.
But results had been obtained,
and a communicator which was
reasonably free from interception
and which required relatively low
power might be of some value to
the community. He might be able to
get a commendation out of it, at
least.

And even if it were unsuitable for
defense, there'd be a new product
for one of the luxury products plants
in the district, and the district would
get royalties from the manufacturer.
Too, it would keep people busy and
make 'em spend more of their
credits.

He grimaced at his vague reflection
in the screen before him, and
spoke aloud.

"That's the way to get things
done. Make 'em know who's in
charge. And let 'em know that no
nonsense will be tolerated. Breathe
down their necks a little. They'll
produce." He cleared his throat and
spun around, to punch the button on
his desk.

The door opened and the clerk
stood, respectfully awaiting orders.

"Send in Bond and the people
with him."

The clerk stepped back, turning
his head.

"You may go in now, sir." He
disappeared around the door.

Harold Bond stepped through the
doorway, followed by two men.
Morely looked at them closely. Engineers,
he thought.

"What have you got?" he demanded.

One of the men opened a briefcase
and removed a large, dully
gleaming band. Apparently, it was
made of plastic, or some light alloy,
for he handled it as though it
weighed very little.

As the man laid it on the desk,
Morely examined the object closely.
It was large enough to go on a man's
head, he saw. It had adjustable
straps, which could be used to hold
it in place, and there were a few
spring-loaded contacts, which apparently
were meant to rest against a
wearer's forehead and temples.

A few tiny knobs protruded from
one side of the band, and a short
wire, terminated by a miniature plug,
depended from the other.

The engineer dipped into his brief
case again, to produce a small, flat
case with a long wire leading from
it. He put this by the headband, and
connected the plugs.

"The band, sir," he explained, "is
to be worn on the head." He pointed
to the flat case. "To save weight
in the band, we built a separate
power unit. It can be carried in a
pocket. We've tested the unit, sir,
and it does provide a means of private
communication with anyone
within sight, or with a group of people.
Two people, wearing the headbands,
can communicate for considerable
distances, regardless of obstacles."

"I see." Morely picked up the
headband. "Do you have more than
one of these?"

"Yes, sir. We made four of the
prototypes and tested them thoroughly."
Bond stepped forward. "I sent
a report in on them yesterday."

"Yes, yes. I know." Morely
waved impatiently. He examined the
headband again. "And you say it
provides communication?"

"Yes, sir."

"No chance of interception?"

Bond shook his head. "Well," he
admitted, "if two people are in contact,
and a third equipped person
wishes to contact either one, he can
join the conversation."

"So, it's easier to tap than a cable
circuit, or even a security type radio
circuit." Morely frowned. "Far
from a secure means of communication."

"Well, sir, if anyone cuts in on a
communication, both parties know it
immediately."

Morely grunted and shook his
head. "Still not secure," he growled.
He looked at the papers on his desk.
"Oh, put one on. We'll see how
they work." He leaned back in his
chair.

Bond turned to the man with the
brief case, who held out another
headband. The sector leader fitted it
to his head, plugged in the power
supply and looked around the room.
Finally, he glanced at his superior.
A shadow of uncertainty crossed his
face, followed by a quickly suppressed
expression of distaste.

Morely watched him. "Well?" he
demanded impatiently, "I don't feel
or see anything unusual."

"Of course not, sir," explained
Bond smoothly. "You haven't put on
the other headband yet."

"Oh? I thought you could establish
communication with only one
headset, so long as you were in the
same room."

Bond smiled ingratiatingly. "Only
sometimes, sir. Some people are more
susceptible than others."

"I see." Morely looked again at
the headband, then set it on his head.
One of the engineers hurried forward
to help him with the power
pack, and he looked around the
room, becoming conscious of slight
sensations of outside thought. As he
glanced at the engineers, he received
faint impressions of anxious interest.

"Can you receive me, sir?"

Morely looked at Bond. The
younger man was staring at him with
an intense expression on his face.
The district leader started to speak,
then remembered and simply thought
the words.

"Of course I can. Didn't you expect
results?"

"Oh, certainly, sir. Do you want
me to go outside for a further test?"

The headband was bothering
Morely a little. Unwanted impressions
seemed to be hovering about,
uncomfortably outside the range of
recognition. He took the device off
and looked at it again.

"No," he said aloud. "It won't be
necessary. It's obvious to me that
this thing will never be any good for
practical application in any community
communications problem. It's
too vague. But it'll make an interesting
toy, I suppose. Some people
might like it as a novelty, and it'll
give them some incentive to do extra
work in order to own one. That's
what luxury items are for. And the
district can use any royalty funds it
may generate."

He laid the headband on his desk.
"Go ahead and produce a few samples.
Offer the designs to Graham's
employer. He can offer them on the
luxury market, if he wishes, and
we'll see what they do. If people
want them, it might be profitable,
both for the district and for Consolidated."
He shrugged.

"No telling what'll make people
spend their credits." He started to
nod a dismissal, then hesitated.

"Oh, yes. I think I'll keep this
one," he added. "And you might
leave a couple more. The regional
director might be amused by them."

He accepted the two headbands
and their power packs, put them in
a desk drawer, and sat back to watch
the three men leave the office.

After the door closed, he still sat,
idly staring at the headband on his
desk. He put it on his head again,
then sat, looking about the room.
There was no unusual effect, and he
took the band off again, looked at
it sourly, and laid it down.

Somehow, when Bond and those
other two had been in the room, he
had sensed a vague feeling of expectancy.
Those three had seemed to
be enthusiastic and hopeful about
something, he was sure. But he failed
to see what. This headband certainly
showed him nothing.

He stared at the band for a while
longer, then put it back on and
punched the call button on his desk.
As his clerk came into sight, he
watched the man closely. There was
a slight effect. He could sense a vague
fear. And a little, gnawing hatred.
But nothing was definite, and no
details of thought came through. He
shrugged.

Of course the man was fearful.
He probably was reviewing his recent
mistakes, wondering which one
he might be called upon to explain.
Too bad his mind wasn't clear
enough to read. But what could you
expect? Possibly, he could drive Research
into improving the device
later.

"Anyway," he told himself,
"everyone has something they're
afraid of. It's natural. And everyone
has their pet hates, too." For
an instant, he thought of Harwood.

He focused his mind on a single
thought. "Get me the quarters file
for Sector Nine."

There was a definite effect this
time. There was a sharp radiation
of pained surprise. Then, there was
acquiescence. The clerk started to
say something, then backed toward
the door. The impression of fear
intensified. Morely smiled sardonically.
The thing was an amusing
toy, at that. He might find uses
for it.

He sat back, thinking. He could
use it as a detector. Coupled with
shrewd reasoning, well-directed questions,
and his own accurate knowledge
of human failings, it could tell
him a great deal about his people
and their activities.

For instance, a question about
some suspicious circumstance would
cause a twinge of fear from the
erring person. And that could be
detected and localized. Further questions
would produce alternate feelings
of relief and intensified fear.
He nodded complacently. Very little
had ever gotten by him, he thought.
But from now on, no error would
remain undiscovered or unpunished.

The clerk returned to place the
file drawers convenient to his superior's
desk. He hesitated a moment,
his eyes on the headband, then picked
up the completed papers from
the desk and went out.

Morely riffled through the cards,
idly checked a few against his notes,
and leaned back again. The file section
seemed to be operating smoothly.
He looked at his desk. Everything
that had to be done immediately was
done. And the morning was hardly
more than half over.

He rose to his feet. Surely, somewhere
in the headquarters, there must
be some sort of trouble spot. Somewhere,
someone was not producing
to the fullest possible. There must
be some loose end. And he'd find it.
He went out, jerking a thumb back
at his office as he passed his clerk's
desk.

"You can pick up those files again,
Roberts. And see to it that my office
gets cleaned up a little. I won't be
back for a while."

He went out, to walk down the
corridor to the snack bar.

There were a few girls there. He
walked by their table, glancing at
their badges. Communications people.
He nodded to himself, ordered
coffee, and chose a table.

As he glanced at the girls' table,
he could detect a current of uneasiness.
They'd probably been fooling
away more time than they should.
Too bad he couldn't get more definite
information from their thoughts.
Like to know just how long they had
been there. He tilted his wrist, taking
a long look at his watch. The
current of uneasiness increased. No
doubt to it, they'd been more than
ten minutes already.

The girls hurriedly finished their
coffee and left. Morely sipped at his
own cup.

At last, he got up and went out.
Might be a good idea to visit the
Fixed Communications Section. Looked
as though there might be a little
laxity there.

As he walked down the corridor,
he mentally reviewed the operation
of communications. There was Fixed
Communications, responsible for
communicator service to all the
offices and quarters in the district, as
well as to the various commercial organizations.
There were also Mobile
Comm, Warning, Long Lines, and
Administrative Radio.

Of these, the largest was Fixed
Communications, with its dial equipment,
its banks of video amplifiers,
the network of cables, and the substation
equipment. It would take days
to thoroughly check all their activities.
But the office was the key to the
entire operation. He could check
their records, and get a clue to their
efficiency. And he could question the
section chief.

He took the elevator to the communications
level and walked slowly
along the hallway, glancing at the
heavy steel door leading to Warning
as he passed it. That could be checked
later, though there would be little
point to it.

It had always annoyed him to
think of the operators in that section.
They simply sat around, doing
nothing but watch their screens and
keep their few, piddling records.
They did nothing productive, but
they had to be retained. Actually, he
had to admit, they were a necessity
under present conditions. War was
always a possibility and the enemy
was building up his potential. He
might strike at any time, and he'd
certainly not send advance notification.
If he did strike, the warning
teams would perform their brief mission,
alerting the active, working
members of the defense groups.
Then, they would be available for
defense. And the defense coördinators
required warning teams and
equipment in prescribed districts. His
was one of these.

He grumbled to himself. Even the
number of operators and their organization
were prescribed. This was
a section, right within his own district,
where he had little authority.
And it was irritating. Drones, that's
what they were.

He continued to the Fixed Communications
office. Here, at least, he
had authority.

He walked through the door, casting
a quick glance at the office as he
entered. The section chief got up
from his chair, and came forward.
Morely felt a little glow of satisfaction
as he detected the now familiar
aura of uneasiness. Again, he wished
this device he wore were more effective.
He would like to know the details
of this man's thoughts.

"Good morning, sir." The Fixed
Communication chief saluted.

Morely returned the salute perfunctorily,
then examined the man
critically.

"Morning," he acknowledged.
"Kirk, I want you to get some new
uniforms. You look like a rag bag."

A little anger was added to the
uneasiness. Kirk looked down at his
clothing. It wasn't new, but there
was actually little wrong, other than
the slight smudge on a trouser leg,
and a few, small spots of dullness on
his highly polished boots.

"I've been inspecting some cable
vaults, sir," he explained. "We had
a little trouble, due to ground seepage."

"It makes no difference," the district
leader snorted, "what you've
been doing. A man in your position
should be properly attired at all
times." He paused, looking Kirk over
minutely. "If your cable vaults are
in such bad condition, get them
cleaned up. When I look your installations
over, I shall expect them
to be clean. Clean, and in order."

He looked beyond Kirk. "And
get that desk cleared. A competent
man works on one thing at a time
and keeps his work in order. A place
for everything, and everything in its
place, you know. You don't need all
that clutter. Is the rest of your office
as disorderly as this?"

He looked disparagingly about the
small room, then turned toward the
door to the main communications
office. Kirk moved to open the door.

At one side of the large office was
a battery of file cabinets. Four desks
were arranged conveniently to them.
Morely looked at this arrangement.

"What's this?"

"Billing and Directory, sir. These
are the master files of all fixed communication
subscribers. From them,
we make up the semiannual directory,
its corrective supplements, and the
monthly bills."

Morely frowned at the desks and
files, then looked at the clerks, who
were bent over their desks. As one
of the girls straightened momentarily,
he recognized her. He'd seen her
earlier, in the snack bar. He looked
more closely at her desk. She had
reason, he thought for that radiation
of uncertain fear he could sense.

"What's in those files?" he demanded.

"It's a complete index to all subscribers,
sir." Kirk looked a little
surprised. Morely recognized that the
man thought the question a little
foolish. He cleared his throat growlingly.

"Let's see one of those cards."

Kirk walked to the file, pulled a
small envelope at random, and held
it out. The district leader examined
it.

"Hah!" he snorted. "I thought
so. Duplication of effort. This has
nothing on it that isn't in my quarters
and locator files."

"There's billing information on
the back, sir," Kirk, pointed out.
"And current charge slips are kept
in the envelope. We use these to
prepare the subscriber bills, as well
as to maintain the directory service.
It's a convenience file, to speed up
our work."

Morely turned the envelope over
in his hands. "Oh, yes." He opened
the envelope, to look at the slips inside.
"How do you get the information
for these?"

"The charge slips come from Long
Lines, sir." Kirk paused. "We get
billing information for basic billing
from the counters in the dial machine.
The other information comes
from installation reports and from
the quarters file section and the locator
files."

Morely handed the envelope back.

"I can see, Kirk," he said, "that
you've built up a whole subsection
of unnecessary people here." He
stepped over to the file cabinets, examined
their indices, then pulled a
drawer open. He pulled his notebook
out, consulted its entries, and searched
out an envelope. For a moment,
he compared it with the notebook.
Then, he turned, holding out the
envelope.

"And you don't even keep your
information current," he accused.
"This man was transferred yesterday
afternoon, to another sector. You
still show him at his old quarters,
with his old communicator code."

"We haven't that information
from Files yet, sir," protested Kirk.
"They send us a consolidated list of
changes daily, but it generally doesn't
come in till thirteen hundred."

Morely dropped the envelope on
one of the desks.

"Quarters Files can handle this
entire operation," he declared, "with
a little help from Fiscal. And they
can handle it far better than your
people here." He stopped for a moment,
thinking, then continued.
"Certainly," he decided, "Fiscal can
take care of your billing. They
handle the funds anyway, in the final
analysis. And you can coördinate your
directory work with the chief clerk
at Files. You've got excess people
here, Kirk. We don't need any of
them."

He looked at the desks and felt a
wave of consternation. Kirk spread
his hands.

"But we have the information we
need close at hand, sir. Our directory
has been coming out on time, and
in accurate condition. And our billing
is well organized. The directory
and billing are my respons—"

Morely waved a hand, then tapped
himself on the chest with a long forefinger.
"The entire operation of this
headquarters is my responsibility,
Kirk," he said positively, "and mine
alone. And I mean to take care of
it. You're responsible to me that
Fixed Communications are kept in
order, and I don't mean to relieve
you of a bit of that responsibility.
But I won't have you making jobs
and wasting funds on excess personnel."
He snorted. "Convenience
files are all right. But they're meant
to save work, not make it."

Kirk shook his head. "A decentralization
will make it difficult," he
began.

Again, Morely cut him off. "Don't
start telling me why you can't do
something," he snapped. "Work out
a way you can do it. Make up plans
for transferring this filing function
to Quarters Files, and work up a
plan for transferring your billing to
Fiscal. That's their business, and they
know how to handle it. Submit your
study to me this afternoon." He looked
around the office again.

"The people in Files and Fiscal
can handle this workload without
adding a single person. And they
will. You're using four clerks to
swing it. Kirk, I want this organization
to run efficiently, and excess
personnel don't lead to economic
operation." He stared at the section
chief.

"Give these four people their notices
today, and I'll expect some suggestions
from you as to further
streamlining of your section within
the next two days. And be sure
they're sound suggestions, which result
in personnel savings. Otherwise,
I'll be looking for a new section chief
up here."

For a few seconds, he stood, enjoying
the waves of consternation
and futile anger which beat about
him. Almost, he could pick up some
of the despairing thoughts in detail.
The clerks, of course, were second-class
citizens. And without employment,
they'd soon lose their luxury
privileges. Unless they were fortunate
enough to find other employment
very soon, they'd have to move to
subsistence quarters, and learn to do
without all but the most meagre of
food, clothing, and shelter. When
they did get employment again,
they'd appreciate it. He looked majestically
around the office once more,
then turned and strode away.

He went through the corridor to
the elevator, and stepped in, smiling
contentedly. The morning hadn't
been entirely wasted.

As he got out of the elevator on
executive level, he glanced at his
watch. It wasn't quite time for lunch,
but there would be little point in
spending the few remaining minutes
in his office. He walked slowly toward
the executive cafeteria.

After lunch, he returned to his
office. A few matters awaited his examination
and decision, and he
busied himself for a short time, disposing
of them. He paused over the
last.

It was a request from Kirk for
more cable construction. The justification
showed figures which indicated
an increase in executive type communications
during the past few
months. This, coupled with new
quarters construction, necessitated
additions to the cable trunks from
the main exchange. There was added
a short survey of necessary repair to
existing cable facilities.

Morely leaned back. If he approved
the request, he would be helping
Kirk increase his section. On the
other hand, if he disapproved it, and
the communicator lines became congested,
he might find himself open
to criticism later. Some of his satisfaction
evaporated. He looked sourly
at the paper.

Suddenly, he thought of Bond's
new project. The man had claimed
this device could serve as a communication
means between its wearers,
and had demonstrated that his
claim had some truth. After noting
the slight fatigue the device seemed
to cause in this application, and the
vagueness of the device's operation,
Morely had disregarded the claim.
But junior executives could put up
with a little fatigue and inconvenience.
And he could see that they
did. It might even cut down the
time they were always wasting, talking
with one another. He rubbed his
chin with one hand.

"Well," he told himself, "let's see
how it works."

From the way Bond had acted in
his office, the sector leader might be
still wearing his headband. In fact,
he probably was. Morely concentrated
on the man, then concentrated
on a single, peremptory thought.

"Bond! Can you receive me?"

The answer was prompt. "Yes, sir.
You wanted me?"

"Of course, Idiot. Why do you
think I called? Do you really believe
these things would be suitable for
routine communication? Could they
supplement our normal system?"

"Certainly, sir. They should be
very effective."

"Have you offered them to Consolidated
yet?"

"Yes, sir. They've accepted them.
They're beginning to tool up for production."

Morely winced. He had given the
order, to be sure—and before creditable
witnesses. Bond had been right
in taking immediate action, and his
speed would have been commendable
in most cases. But this time,
Morely regretted his subordinate's
efficiency. It was possible the devices
might have a practical use after all.
Possibly he had been hasty in releasing
them to the open market. He
shrugged away his thoughts. After
all, an administrator had to make
quick decisions. He returned to his
unusual conversation.

"Set up a line in research and
make up sufficient of those communicators
to outfit the executive personnel
of this district."

"Yes, sir."

"And give me delivery as soon as
you possibly can. How soon will that
be?"

"We can do it in five days, sir."

"Make it three. That's all."

Morely took off his headband. It
wasn't as good as a communicator
sphere, but it would be good enough.
He looked at the request from Communications.
Possibly, he would be
able to cut Kirk down still more.
He scrawled a "disapproved" on the
sheet and initialed it. He started to
toss the sheet to the corner of his
desk, then hesitated.

Drawing the request back to him,
he added: "Two subjects on same
request. Resubmit as separate requests."
He tossed the sheet to the
desk corner, for the clerk to pick
up. Let Kirk make up new requests,
then worry about why his new construction
request was still disapproved.
He could always be advised
to resubmit later, if the headbands
didn't work out.

Miles away, Bond turned to an
engineer.

"Tool up and start producing
these communicators as fast as you
can make 'em, Morris. I'll tell you
when to stop. The Old Man just
ordered a batch of 'em, and this is
one order I want to comply with, and
fast!"

He walked toward the small production
office. Let's see, he had to
produce enough for all the exec personnel
in the district. Have to start
finding out just how many of those
guys there were.

"Make delivery as soon as possible,
huh? Cut my estimate by two days?
I'll have 'em out over night, if I
have to start driving people to do
it."

Morely looked up as the communicator
beeped. He reached to the
control panel and touched the switch.
The face of his deputy appeared in
the sphere.

"The section chiefs and field leaders
are in the conference room, sir."

"Very good." Morely pushed back
his chair. "I'll be right in."

He stepped through the door and
crossed the outer office to the conference
room. As he entered, there was
a rustle of motion. The section
chiefs and field leaders stood at attention
around the table, waiting. At
each place at the table was a blank
notepad. The district leader went
immediately to the head of the table
and sat down.

"Gentlemen," he began, "I'll
make this short. I've called you in
to try out a new device which I intend
to use to help solve the ever-present
problem of communication."
He looked toward Ward Kirk, who
had glanced up in surprise.

"From time to time," he continued,
"requests for more and more
communicator lines have been coming
in to my office. Since no one else
seemed to be able to do anything
about it, I decided it was time for
me to step in. After all, we can't
expand our cables indefinitely. We
haven't unlimited funds at our disposal
and there are other projects
demanding attention. Important
projects.

"A new electronic development
has come to my attention, and it
promises to relieve the load on our
communicators. Each of you will be
issued one of these devices, which
I believe are called 'mental communicators,'
or something of the
sort. And you will draw sufficient of
them to outfit those of your people
who have occasion to use communication
to any large degree. You will
use them for all routine communications."
He nodded to his deputy,
who stepped to the door and beckoned.

Two men came in, carrying cartons,
which they distributed around
the room. Morely waited until one
of the cartons was in the hands of
each of the men before him, then
he reached up to touch the headband
he was wearing.

"This is the device I'm speaking
of," he said. "Each of you will wear
one of these at all times while you
are on duty. You will find, after a
little practice, that you will be able
to call any associate who is similarly
equipped. And you will use them in
place of the conventional communications
whenever possible." He
cleared his throat raspingly.

"Sufficient of these devices have
been produced to outfit all the key
people of this district. I shall leave
it to you to distribute them to your
subordinates, and to instruct those
subordinates in their use. And I shall
expect the load on our communicator
cables to be appreciably diminished."
He looked to one side of the room.

"Bond."

"Yes, sir."

"You will instruct those present
in the use of this new communicator."
Morely rose and left the room.

As the district leader disappeared
through the door, Harold Bond
walked to the front of the room. In
his hands, he held one of the headbands
and a power pack.

"Gentlemen," he said, "this is a
form of communicator. I don't pretend
to understand precisely how it
operates, though I watched its development
and set up a production
line for it. All I know is that it
works. And I know how to use it—to
some extent.

"The district leader remarked that
one could learn to use it with a little
practice, and he's right. Basically,
anyone can use it as soon as he puts
it on for the first time. But it's like
so many other tools. The more you
use it, the more proficient you get
with it. And I suspect it has capabilities
I haven't found yet." He
shrugged.

"Operation is simple in the extreme.
Since the first model, refinements
have been added, and it's unnecessary
now for an operator to
make any adjustments, other than
intensity."

He picked up the power pack.

"This is the power pack, which is
plugged into the headband, thus."
He paused as he connected the two
plugs.

"If you gentlemen will perform
the operations as I do, this will take
only a short time."

There was a crackling in the room
as cartons were opened. Power packs
and headbands rattled against the
table for a moment, then Bond continued.

"Having plugged in the power
pack, you turn this small knob very
slightly in a clockwise direction, then
place the headband on your head.
The knob is the switch and intensity
control, and it's quite sensitive. Most
people need very little intensity. If
you have difficulty with communication,
raise the intensity a little at a
time, till thoughts come through
clearly." He paused, as the men before
him adjusted the headbands to
their heads.

"The power pack," he continued,
"may be placed in a pocket." He
reached down. "Personally, I carry
mine in my shirt, since I find that
convenient."

He looked around the room. Men
were turning to stare at their neighbors.
Bond could detect a current of
uncertainty, then a sensation of
pleased surprise. Snatches of thought
drifted to him. He ignored them for
the moment. Time enough to become
acquainted with people later.
He placed a hand over his mouth,
so everyone could see he was not
speaking.

"Can everyone receive me?"

There was a wave of affirmation,
and Bond nodded.

"Simple, isn't it? Are there any
questions?"

A jumble of thoughts made him
waver. Most of them could have
been phrased, "How does this thing
work? What does it do? Am I
dreaming?" Bond smiled in real
amusement. He held up a hand.

"I felt the same way," he thought
reassuringly. "Sometimes. I still do.
All I can tell you is what you've already
found out for yourselves. It
works. I'm told it's a sort of telepathic
amplifier and radiator. But as I
told you, I don't understand its principles.
As to practice? I'm still meeting
interesting people. So will you."
He took off the headband.

"If anyone has any further questions
on operation, I'll try to answer
them," he thought quickly. He
glanced around the room. Three men
were looking at him blankly. He
took careful note of them, and mentally
shook hands with himself. They
were the ones he'd thought would
blank out. He spoke aloud.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen," he apologized.
"I forgot I might be out of
communication. I'm not completely
used to this mentacom, myself." He
looked toward the deputy leader.

"Do you have anything to add,
sir?"

The deputy shook his head. "No,"
he said thoughtfully. "I think the
demonstration was adequate. He cast
a quizzical look at Bond, then looked
around the room.

"You gentlemen will find a supply
of these devices in the outer
office. You may draw one for each
person you wish outfitted. If any of
you have further questions, I would
suggest you get in touch with Community
Research. They understand
this thing." He waved toward the
door. "This meeting is adjourned."

He watched as the men filed from
the room, then turned on Bond.

"What was that business after you
took off your headband?" he demanded.
"I received you perfectly,
and so did practically everyone here.
Why the apology?"

Bond grimaced. "We found out
something peculiar while we were
making preliminary tests on this device,
sir," he explained. "Some people
don't seem to be able to pick up
clear thoughts with it, unless another
person uses the mentacom to
drive in to them. Most of us can
pick up thoughts from anyone we
look at, whether they have a band
on or not. Definite, surface thoughts,
that is."

"And?" The deputy's expression
was still questioning. He reached up
to point at the band he was still
wearing. "I'm getting some mighty
peculiar secondary thoughts right
now," he added.

"And the people who can't use the
device fully have other peculiarities,
sir. I'd rather not go into detail. You
can find out the whole story for yourself
with a very short bit of experimentation,
and you have a subject
right at hand. If I simply told you,
you probably wouldn't believe me
anyway."

The deputy nodded slowly. "For
the moment," he said, "I'll take your
words—and your thoughts—as true.
Now, one more question: Can a person,
using one of these things, successfully
lie to another person who
wears one?"

"No, sir." Bond was positive. "It's
impossible."

"I got that impression. Thanks."
The deputy turned and walked out
of the door. Bond looked after him,
a slight smile growing on his lips.

"Old Man wanted 'em," he told
himself. "He's got 'em."

The Fiscal chief glanced through
the letter in his hands, then canted
his head a little and read again. He
lowered it to his desk, then sat for
a moment, to stare into space. Finally,
he looked down once more.

The Fiscal chief shook his head.
This one spelled trouble—in capitals.
The royalty payments from Consolidated
had become one of the major
sources of income for the district.
And Morely had ordered project after
project, using those funds to pay
for them. Some of the projects were
still outstanding. The Old Man
would blow his top.

He looked again at the small scrap
of paper which was clipped to the
letter. On it was scrawled: "DeVore—See
me—HRM."

For a moment, DeVore considered
using his own mentacom, then
he discarded the idea. To be sure,
the leader had insisted that his subordinates
use the devices for their
own communications, and he'd cut
Fixed Communications to the bone.
But he still insisted on either communicator
calls or personal contact
when he wished to talk to any of his
people. And he discouraged any but
essential use of the communicator
system, generally demanding that
people come in to see him.

DeVore wrinkled his face disgustedly.
It was hard to communicate
with the district leader by means of
a headband. There was a repellent
characteristic about the man's mental
emanations, and he seemed to
fail to comprehend nuances of meaning.
Similes, he ignored completely.
Thoughts had to be completely and
clearly detailed, then phrased into
normal, basic wordage before he
would acknowledge them. None of
the short-cuts used by other members
of the administrative staff
seemed to work out in his case. He
apparently didn't notice visualizations,
and he never made one. His
transmission was as stiff and labored
as the type of communication he required
from others—more so, if anything.
DeVore scratched his neck.

"How," he asked himself, "does
one define a telepathic monotone?"

There were a few others with
whom DeVore had experienced similar
difficulties, but most people, he
had found, picked up meanings and
concepts without difficulty—even
seemed to anticipate at times. And
since the new induction mentacoms
had come on the market, with the
annoying contacts and headstraps removed,
virtually everyone seemed to
be either in possession of one of the
devices, or about to get one. And,
they were worn everywhere.

He smiled as he thought of the
young father-to-be, who had bored
through the evening traffic rush yesterday.
The youngster had been so
intent on getting his wife to the
hospital that he'd probably failed to
see half the ships that clawed out of
his way. And his visualization had
been almost painfully clear. He'd
probably be apologizing for weeks
to everyone he contacted.

DeVore straightened in his chair.
What would happen, he wondered, if
the leader ever ran into one of those
situations?

"Yipe!" he muttered. "What a
row that would be."

He shrugged, got out of his chair,
and walked out into the corridor.

"Better get it over with," he told
himself.

As he approached the leader's
door, it opened, and Ward Kirk
came out. He closed the door with
a careful gentleness, then faced it
for an instant. DeVore was conscious
of a wave of hopeless fury, and a
fleeting glimpse of Morely's face,
framed by brilliant flame. Then, Kirk
faced around and saw him.

"Careful," DeVore thought.
"You're broadcasting. He'll pick you
up."

Kirk grimaced and DeVore saw
a faint image of a tyrannosaur, which
reared up, jaws agape. Blood dripped
from the human figure gripped
in the creature's talons.

"The old ... wouldn't understand
if he did."

DeVore grinned. "See what you
mean. Well, guess I'm the next victim."

He stepped to the door and tapped.

"Come in."

Morely looked up as his Fiscal
Chief entered, then swept some
papers aside. "Well, what do you
want?"

DeVore held out the letter. "You
wanted to see me, sir, about this."
He placed the paper within the reach
of his superior, who snatched at it,
held it up for a moment, then dropped
it to his desk.

"Yes, I did. What can we do about
it?"

"Why," DeVore spread his hands
slightly, "we'll have to comply."

"That isn't what I meant, Idiot!
How can we continue to receive the
payments from Consolidated?"

"I don't think we can, sir. If Central
Coördinating wants to put the
device on a national basis, we can't
do anything about it."

Morely looked down at the letter,
then glared searchingly at DeVore.
"The way I read this," he declared,
"they want to distribute manufacturing
rights on the communicator to
plants in other regions than this.
Right?"

"Yes, sir."

"But they don't say anything
about our continuing the Consolidated
payments on an overwrite basis,
for the sale of devices they may
make. Now, do they?"

"No, sir. But that's implied. In
cases like this, Central always takes
over all rights." DeVore hesitated.
"I believe regulations—"

"I don't care what's implied, DeVore.
And I don't care what you
believe. All I see is what's in this
letter. They want to distribute the
manufacturing load, and I'm quite
willing that they should. I want to
continue receiving the payments
from Consolidated. Now, you arrange
it so that they're satisfied and
I'm satisfied."

"But that'll mean Consolidated
will have to pay double. We can't—"

"Don't say 'can't' to me!" Morely
held up a hand angrily. "DeVore,
I'm not going to tell you how to do
this. I want it done. The details are
your affair, and if I have to teach
you your business, I'll get someone
who can do things without having
to have them spelled out to him."
He leaned back, to glare at DeVore.

"Now, get on the job. I told you
to make arrangements for me so
that we will retain our payments
from Consolidated. And I'm not interested
in what arrangements you
make with them, or what arrangements
they make with Central. Is
that a simple enough order for you
to understand?"

"Yes, sir. I understand all right.
But—"

"Good! I'm glad I managed to get
at least one simple idea into your
head." The spring in the chair
twanged as Morely came forward,
to poke his head at DeVore. "Now,
get to work on it."

He jerked his head down for a
quick look at the letter on his desk,
then looked up again.

"And I'll expect a report from you
by tonight that you've got the matter
taken care of."

DeVore looked at his superior expressionless
for a heartbeat. He had
been given peculiar orders before,
and he'd always managed to work
out the problems involved. But this
was the ultimate. This one seemed
to be just plain illegal. And there
was no point in arguing further.
There was just the barest chance that
there might be some legitimate way
out. If he challenged the Old Man
on an illegal order, he just might
get his ears pinned back. He'd simply
have to go back to his office and try
to hunt out a technicality. He
nodded.

"Yes, sir. I'll get on it immediately."

He saluted and started to leave the
office. But he didn't make it.

"And, DeVore!"

The Fiscal chief halted abruptly,
and turned.

"Sir?"

"I'm getting tired of the negative
thinking you people seem to have
fallen into lately. I'm sick of going
into every routine detail with you.
When you got that letter, you should
have immediately worked out a
method of retaining the royalties.
Then, you could have come in and
presented it for my approval. That
is the kind of work I want. And
that's the kind of work I mean to
get in the future. Do you understand?"

Sternly, DeVore suppressed a sarcastic
thought. He held his mind
and face blank and nodded with a
semblance of respect.

"Yes, sir."

"Very well." Morely waved a
hand. "Now get something done."

As DeVore walked through the
corridor, he thought over the situation.
Of course, the easy way out
would be to force Consolidated to
continue the payments in addition to
their license fees from Central. That
could be done. There were all kinds
of methods by which pressure could
be brought to bear on any company
by the district leader's office. And
from Consolidated's point of view,
double payments could offer a cheap
means of keeping out of difficulties.
They would be able to pass most of
the cost to the consumer by a slight
price increase, justified by a minor
modification of the devices.

But they wouldn't be happy about
it, and there would come a day when
an auditing team from Central would
be checking in the district. And that
would be the day of days!

DeVore turned in at the door to
his own office, crossed the room, and
sat down at his desk.

To be sure, he could request a
share of the fees from Central, and
they'd make an award. But they'd
never award more than fifty per cent,
and it'd be hard to get that much.
That was no good. The Old Man
would want the same payments he'd
been getting.

Or, he could try to negotiate a
new agreement with Consolidated,
double the royalties, and then request
fifty per cent from Central.
He grinned wryly. That would be
within legal limits, he was sure, but
Central knew the present arrangement,
and he knew that they knew.
And so would most of the interested
manufacturers in other regions. The
first-class citizens who owned the
plants had their own liaison. They'd
all balk. Then, Central would invalidate
both old and new agreements
and refuse compensation of any kind
to district. That would be a suicidal
course.

He looked up, thinking of one of
the girls out in the legal crew.

"Fiscal regulations, please. And
Markowitz on royalties, too."

The girl turned half around, and
he could see a faint impression of
her view of office details. Then, she
went to a book rack. For a few seconds,
she glanced over the books,
then selected two large volumes.

"Shall I look it up, or do you want
the books?"

"I'll take them. Might need quite
a bit of research."

Shortly, the girl appeared in his
doorway. Quickly, she laid the two
volumes on his desk.

DeVore nodded his thanks and
opened regulations. Some of the
paragraphs were delightfully vague,
and could be subject to more than
one interpretation. But one paragraph
was clear and explicit. And that was
the one he was concerned with.

A royalty agreement with, or
manufacturing license from Central
Coördination definitely abrogated any
agreement with, or payment to, any
lesser headquarters. Such an agreement
or license barred any further
negotiation between any lesser headquarters
and a manufacturer, relating
to the product concerned. Double
royalties were prohibited in any case.

He pushed the books aside. There
was no need of looking in Markowitz.
That regulation paragraph took
care of this exact situation, and disposed
of it neatly. For an instant, he
thought of taking the volume in to
the leader's office. Then, he remembered
the threatening note in the
authoritative voice and the flat, deadly
thoughts he had noted as secondaries.

That wouldn't work either. He
thought of the undercurrent in
Kirk's thoughts. Kirk had been
carrying a regulation book, he remembered.
He contacted the Fixed
Communications chief.

"Don't," he was told. "I tried it.
Know what happened?"

"Go ahead."

"He got the regional director on
the communicator. I've been transferred
to Outpost. They seem to
need a cable maintenance chief up
there. And I was lucky at that. I
started to protest, and they nearly
had me for insubordination."
Abruptly, Kirk cut away.

DeVore stared unseeingly across
the desk. He'd been at Outpost for
a short time once, on an inspection
trip, and he still remembered the
place. At one time, it had been a
well supplied, well organized post.
At that time, observational duty had
been regarded more highly than
now, and the place had been desirable
for any single officer, though
the married men had objected to being
separated from their families by
the many miles of frozen waste. But
that had changed.

Now, Outpost was the end of the
line. The dilapidated surface quarters
offered poor protection from the
fierce cold. Supply ships were rarely
scheduled to the place, and were
often held up by storms when they
were scheduled. Half rations—even
quarter rations—were commonplace.
He shook his head. Kirk was in real
trouble, and there would be no point
in joining him. That would help
neither of them.

This, he thought, was a situation.
Then, he realized something else.
From Morely's point of view, it was
a perfectly safe situation, with nothing
to lose. The district leader could
easily disclaim any responsibility for
his Fiscal chief's actions in this matter.
After all, he hadn't given any
detailed instructions. He had made
no direct suggestion of any illegal
course. He'd merely consulted his
Fiscal expert on a technical matter,
and if DeVore had seen fit to use an
illegal method of solving a problem,
it was DeVore's responsibility
alone.

To be sure, Morely had been a
little emphatic in his order, but that
was simply because he was well
aware of his Fiscal chief's disinclination
to make exhaustive technical
research.

DeVore pursed his lips and looked
thoughtfully at the regulation
book. He might be able to use the
same tactic Morely was following—if
he were so inclined. He could issue
verbal instructions to the sector leader
concerned, and Bond might fail
to see the trap. Then, he could report
to the leader that the matter was
taken care of, indorse the letter back
to Central, with the agreement copy,
and let Bond turn in funds under one
of the "miscellaneous received" accounts.
In fact, he realized, that was
just about what the district leader
expected him to do.

He smiled and shook his head. A
few months ago, it was possible he
could have done that, but even then,
he wouldn't have. And now, with
the mental communicators in use, it
would be a flat impossibility. The
trap would be as obvious to Bond as
it had been to him. He leaned back
in his chair and tapped his fingertips
against each other.

The mentacoms, he knew, were
in common use by this time, in virtually
every office of district, regional,
and national administration, as well
as by most citizens. And he'd served
under Marko Keller once—known
him fairly well, too. He shrugged.

It would be a little irregular for
a district Fiscal chief to make direct
contact with the Coördination
Agency's comptroller, but there was
nothing like getting the most expert
and authoritative advice available.
He relaxed, trying to recreate his
memories of the man who was now
National Comptroller.

Marko Keller strode purposefully
into the filing section. He could
easily get the data he needed by
simply contacting one of the clerks,
he knew, but he felt an urgent need
for personal activity. That conversation
with DeVore, way out in Region
Nine, had upset him more than he
liked to admit, even to himself.

It wouldn't be so bad if it were
an isolated incident. Such things
could be taken care of by administrative
action, and a single instance
would cause little disturbance. But
there were too many, happening too
often. He pulled a file drawer open,
violently.

One of the clerks approached.
"Can I help, sir?"

Keller turned to look at him. The
man, he noted, was wearing one of
the late model inductive headbands
that had been sold in such quantities
lately. Deluxe model, too. Must have
cost him at least two months' pay.
Like almost everyone else, he was
vitally concerned in this latest affair.
Keller frowned. He, himself, he realized,
was acting childishly. He would
simply be wasting time by trying to
do this by himself.

"Yes," he growled. "Get me a
brief on a few cases like this one."
He made full contact with the man,
rapidly summarizing his conversation
with DeVore, and including DeVore's
short flash of his own conversation
with Ward Kirk.

"And get a rundown from personnel.
Dig up something on their angle,
too. Several representative cases. Get
a few people to help you—many as
you need. I'm going to take this
whole mess in to the Chief tomorrow
morning."

Paul Graham swept into the
apartment, seized his wife about the
waist and swung her into the air, to
set her on top of one of his bookcases.

"They've done it, honey," he
shouted.

Elaine kicked her heels in a rapid
tattoo against the back of the case.

"Paul Graham, you get me down
this instant," she ordered indignantly.
"Who's done what?"

Graham stepped back and beat on
his chest. "Meet the new production
manager, Mentacom Division, Consolidated
Electronics."

"Production manager? But, Paul,
only first-class citizens can hold supervisory
positions."

"Not any more. Didn't you have
the communicator on for the news?
It all came in."

Elaine shook her head and jumped
to the floor. "I've a confession to
make, Paul. Ever since they stopped
the compulsory notices, I haven't had
the thing on at all. It bothered me."

Her husband shook his head in
mock dismay. "So now, I'm married
to an ignoramus." He spread his
hands. "She doesn't know what's going
on in the great, big world." He
shook a finger at her.

"It all busted this afternoon, darling.
While you sat around in your
splendid isolation, everything turned
upside down."

She looked at him indignantly for
an instant, then turned toward the
kitchen.

"Paul, if you don't stop raving,
I'm going to get my mentacom and
pry it out of you," she threatened.
"Now, you just settle down. Stop
talking in circles and tell me what
this is all about."

"Oh, all right. If you insist." Graham
sank into a chair, looking like
a small boy caught in a prank. "First,
there are no more first-class citizens—no
second-class citizens—not even
third-class citizens. Everyone's a citizen
again. Period." He threw his
hands up.

"You mean—?"

"That's exactly what I mean. No
more restrictions. No more compulsory
community work. No more
quarters inspections. And no more
privileges. We've got rights again!

"If you want a dress, you buy it.
You don't worry about whether it
suits your station. If I can hold a
job, I get it. And I did!" He got
out of the chair and strode across the
room, to sit on the arm of the divan.
"And I can do this, if I want to. If
I break this thing down, so help me,
George, I'll go out and buy a new
one." He bounced up and down a
little.

"The administrators are going back
to their original jobs. They're responsible
for defense, in case of
enemy attack, and that's all." He
paused. "Of course, until sector and
district elections can be held, they'll
still take care of some of the community
functions—some of them,
that is. But the elections'll be set up
in a few weeks, and we'll be able to
choose our own officials for community
government."

He bounced to his feet again,
strode around the bookcases, and
looked down at his desk. Then, he
looked around again.

"Corporations are being set up to
take over home construction." He
held up a hand. "Home construction,
I said, not quarters. They're commercializing
helicopter manufacture,
all kinds of repair work, and a lot
of other services. And they're going
to restore patent rights. That means
plenty to us, darling, believe me."

"But, but why? What happened?"

Graham turned on her. "Elaine,"
he cried, "haven't you noticed how
many people are wearing mentacoms
now, all the time? Haven't you noticed
the consideration people have
been giving each other for the past
weeks? Remember what I told you
once? If you fully understand a person,
you simply can't kick him
around. It's too much like taking
slaps at yourself. With the exception
of a few empathic cripples, who can't
use the mentacom properly anyway,
everyone, inside the administrative
offices, as well as out, recognized
that the bureaucracy was simply unworkable
as it stood. So, they
changed it. Effective immediately."

Elaine stamped her foot. "You
know I haven't been out of this apartment,"
she cried. "And you know
why. I simply couldn't stand the
treatment I got. I'd have gotten into
serious trouble in minutes. So, I've
stayed in. I've done my shopping by
communicator, and contented myself
right here." She paused.

"But how is the new administration
going to be supported? What
are people going to do? How are
they taking it? It's all so sudden, I
should think—"

Graham held up a hand.

"Hey," he protested. "One at a
time, please! First—remember taxes?
Remember how we used to growl
about them? They're back. And I
love 'em. Second—nobody is going
to do anything. Anything drastic or
unusual, that is. And finally? Everyone
I've seen is taking it in their
stride. Seems as though they've been
sort of expecting it, ever since they
started mind-to-mind communication.

"You'd be surprised how good
most people are at it, now that they're
used to it. You start into a line of
helicopters. All at once, you realize
that the guy coming is really in a
hurry. He's got to get somewhere,
fast. So, you let him go by. The next
fellow's not going to be in any tearing
rush. He'll let you in, and cheer
you on your way.

"You feel like being left alone?
Nobody'll even notice you. But if
you feel like talking, half a dozen
total strangers'll find something in
common with you. And they'll discuss
it. Honey, you'll be surprised
how much you've missed. Get your
mentacom. Let's take a little shopping
trip."

"And here's one of our more difficult
cases. But he's coming along
nicely." Dr. Moran pointed through
the one-way window.

"Name's Howard Morely. He
used to be a district leader, under the
bureaucracy. But along in the last
few weeks, just before the change,
he got into some sort of scrape. They
questioned him, and declared him
unfit for service. Put him out on a
pension." He pulled at an ear.

"Matter of fact, I understand his
case had quite a deal to do with the
change—sort of triggered it. They
tell me it sort of pointed up the
fallacies of the bureaucracy." He
shrugged.

"But that's unimportant now, I
guess. He almost receded into complete
paranoia. Had a virtually complete
case of empathic paralysis when
he came to us. Simply no conception
of any other person's point of view,
and a hatred of people that was fantastic.
But he's nearly normal now."

The visiting psychiatrist nodded.
"I've seen the type, of course. We
have a number of them, too. You
say this new technique was successfully
used in his case?"

"Yes. We had doubts of it, too.
Seemed too simple. Sure, we're all
familiar with the mentacoms by now.
Wouldn't be without my own. But
the idea of a field generator so powerful
as to force clear impressions
into a crippled mind like his, without
completely destroying that mind,
seemed a little fantastic." He
shrugged.

"In this case, though, it was a
last resort, so we tried it. He resisted
the field for days. Simply sat in his
cell and stared at the walls. We were
almost ready to give up when one
of the operators finally got through
to him. Know what his first visualization
was?"

The visitor shook his head and
laughed. "I could try a guess, I suppose,"
he said, "but my chances
would be something less than one in
a thousand million."

Moran grinned. "You're so right.
There was a whole bunch of kids
standing around. Looked like dozens
of 'em. And they were all chanting
at the top of their voices. You know
that old jingle? 'Howie's got a gir-rul?'
Chanted it over and over." The
grin widened. "Operator said his
face stung for ten minutes. That girl
must have packed one sweet wallop!"

THE END

Transcriber's Note:


This etext was produced from Astounding Science Fiction June
1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.