Buy Jupiter and Other Stories Part 2

He was in the air when the Waves landed, seven thousand five hundred tear-drop ships covering the airfield like a descending net. Plat drove his ship upward, watching And Atlantis went dark. It was like a candle over which a mighty hand was suddenly cupped. One moment it blazed the night into brilliance for fifty miles around; the next it was black against blackness.

To Plat the thousands of screams blended into one thin, lost shriek of fear. He Red, and the shock vibrations of Atlantis's crash to Earth caught his ship and hurled it far.

He never stopped hearing that scream.

Fulton was staring at Plat. He said, "Have you ever told this to anyone?"

Plat shook his head.

Fulton's mind went back a quarter century, too. "We got your message, of course. It was hard to believe, as you expected. Many feared a trap even after report of the Fall arrived. But well, it's history. The Higher Ones that remained, those on the Surface, were demoralized and before they could recover, they were done.

"But tell me," he turned to Plat with sudden, hard curiosity. "What was it you did'! We've always a.s.sumed you sabotaged the power stations."

"I know. The truth is so much less romantic, Fulton. The world would prefer to believe its myth. Let it."

"May I have the truth?"

"If you will. As I told you, the Higher Ones built and built to saturation. The antigrav energy beams had to support a weight in buildings, guns, and enclosing sh.e.l.l that doubled and tripled as the years went on. Any requests the technicians might have made for newer or bigger motors were turned down, since the Higher Ones would rather have the room and money for their mansions and there was always enough power for the moment.

"The technicians, as I said, had already reached the stage where they were disturbed at the construction of single buildings. I questioned them and found exactly how little margin of safety remained. They were waiting only for the completion of the new theater to make a new request. They did not not realize, however, that, at my suggestion, Atlantis would be called upon to support the sudden additional burden of a division of Wave cavalry in their ships. Seven thousand five hundred ships, fully rigged! realize, however, that, at my suggestion, Atlantis would be called upon to support the sudden additional burden of a division of Wave cavalry in their ships. Seven thousand five hundred ships, fully rigged!

"When the Waves landed, by then almost two thousand tons, the antigrav power supply was overloaded. The motors failed and Atlantis was only a vast rock, ten miles above the ground. What could such a rock do but fall."

Plat arose. Together they turned back toward their ship.

Fulton laughed harshly. "You know, there is a fatality in names." "What do you mean?"

"Why, that once more in history Atlantis sank beneath the Waves."

Now that you've read the story, you'll notice that the whole thing is for the purpose of that final lousy pun, right? In fact, one person came up to me and, in tones of deep disgust, said, "Why, SHAH GUIDO G. SHAH GUIDO G. is nothing but a s.h.a.ggy-dog story." is nothing but a s.h.a.ggy-dog story."

"Right," I said, "and if you divide the t.i.tle into two parts instead of three, you get SHAHGUI DOG, SHAHGUI DOG, so don't you think I know it?" so don't you think I know it?"

In other words, the t.i.tle is a pun, too.

With David on his way, we obviously couldn't remain in that impossible Somerville apartment. Since I could now drive a car, we were no longer bound to the bus lines and could look farther afield. In the spring of 1951 we moved into an apartment in Waltham, Ma.s.sachusetts, therefore. It was a great improvement over the earlier apartment, though it, too, was pretty hot in the summer.

There were two very small built-in bookcases in the living room of the apartment and I began using that for a collection of my own books in chronological order. I got up to seventeen books while I was in that apartment. When my biochemistry textbook came out in 1952 I placed it with the rest in its proper order. It received no preferential treatment. I saw no way in which a scientific textbook could lay claim to greater respectability than a science fiction novel.

If I had ambitions, in fact, it was not toward respectability. I kept wanting to write funny material.

Humor is a funny thing, however All right, humor is a peculiar peculiar thing, if you have a prejudice against a witty play on words. There is no way of being almost funny or mildly funny or fairly funny or tolerably funny. You are either funny or not funny and there is nothing in between. And usually it is the writer who thinks he is funny and the reader who thinks he isn't. thing, if you have a prejudice against a witty play on words. There is no way of being almost funny or mildly funny or fairly funny or tolerably funny. You are either funny or not funny and there is nothing in between. And usually it is the writer who thinks he is funny and the reader who thinks he isn't.

Naturally, then, humor isn't something a man should lightly undertake; especially in the early days of his career when he has not yet learned to handle his tools. And yet almost every beginning writer tries his hand at humor, convinced that it is an easy thing to do.

I was no exception. By the time I had written and submitted four stories, and had, as yet, sold none, I already felt it was time to write a funny story. I did. It was Ring Around the Sun, Ring Around the Sun, something I actually managed to sell and which was eventually included in THE EARLY ASIMOV. something I actually managed to sell and which was eventually included in THE EARLY ASIMOV.

I didn't think it was successfully funny even at the time it was written. Nor did I think several other funny stories I tried my hand at, such as Christmas on Ganymede Christmas on Ganymede (also in (also in THE EARLY ASIMOV) THE EARLY ASIMOV) and and Robot AL-76 Goes Astray Robot AL-76 Goes Astray (included in (included in THE REST OF THE ROBOTS, THE REST OF THE ROBOTS, Doubleday, 1964) were really funny. Doubleday, 1964) were really funny.

It wasn't till 1952 that (in my own mind only; I say nothing about yours) I succeeded. I wrote two stories, b.u.t.tON, b.u.t.tON b.u.t.tON, b.u.t.tON and and THE MONKEY'S FINGER, THE MONKEY'S FINGER, in which I definitely thought I had managed to do it right. I was giggling all the way through each one, and I managed to unload both on in which I definitely thought I had managed to do it right. I was giggling all the way through each one, and I managed to unload both on Startling Stories, Startling Stories, where they appeared in successive issues, where they appeared in successive issues, b.u.t.tON, b.u.t.tON b.u.t.tON, b.u.t.tON in the January 1953 issue and in the January 1953 issue and THE MONKEY'S FINGER THE MONKEY'S FINGER in the February 1953 issue. in the February 1953 issue.

And, Gentle Reader, if you don't think they're funny, do your best not to tell me so. Leave me to my illusions.

b.u.t.tON, b.u.t.tON.

It was the tuxedo that fooled me and for two seconds I didn't recognize him. To me, he was just a possible client, the first that had whiffed my way in a week and he looked beautiful.

Even wearing a tuxedo at 9:45 A.M. A.M. he looked beautiful. Six inches of bony wrist and ten inches of k.n.o.bby hand continued on where his sleeve left off; the top of his socks and the bottom of his trousers did not quite join forces; still he looked beautiful. he looked beautiful. Six inches of bony wrist and ten inches of k.n.o.bby hand continued on where his sleeve left off; the top of his socks and the bottom of his trousers did not quite join forces; still he looked beautiful.

Then I looked at his face and it wasn't a client at all. It was my uncle Otto. Beauty ended. As usual, my uncle Otto's face looked like that of a bloodhound that had just been kicked in the rump by his best friend.

I wasn't very original in my reaction. I said, "Uncle Otto!" Otto!"

You'd know him too, if you saw that face. When he was featured on the cover of Time Time about five years ago (it was either '57 or '58), 204 readers by count wrote in to say that they would never forget that face. Most added comments concerning nightmares. If you want my uncle Otto's full name, it's Otto Schlemmelmayer. But don't jump to conclusions. He's my mother's brother. My own name is Smith. about five years ago (it was either '57 or '58), 204 readers by count wrote in to say that they would never forget that face. Most added comments concerning nightmares. If you want my uncle Otto's full name, it's Otto Schlemmelmayer. But don't jump to conclusions. He's my mother's brother. My own name is Smith.

He said, "Harry, my boy," and groaned.

Interesting, but not enlightening. I said, "Why the tuxedo?"

He said, "It's rented."

"All right. But why do you wear it in the morning?"

"Is it morning already?" He stared vaguely about him, then went to the window and looked out.

That's my uncle Otto Schlemmelmayer. I a.s.sured him it was morning and with an effort he deduced that he must have been walking the city streets all night.

He took a handful of fingers away from his forehead to say, "But I was so upset, Harry. At the banquet "

The fingers waved about for a minute and then folded into a quart of fist that came down and pounded holes in my desk top. "But it's the end. From now on 1 do things my own way."

My uncle Otto had been saying that since the business of the "Schlemmelmayer Effect" first started up. Maybe that surprises you. Maybe you think it was the Schlemmelmayer Effect that made my uncle Otto famous. Well, it's all how you look at it.

He discovered the Effect back in 1952 and the chances are that you know as much about it as I do. In a nutsh.e.l.l, he devised a germanium relay of such a nature as to respond to thoughtwaves, or anyway to the electromagnetic fields of the brain cells. He worked for years to build such a delay into a flute, so that it would play music under the pressure of nothing but thought. It was his love, his life, it was to revolutionize music. Everyone would be able to play; no skill necessary only thought.

Then, five years ago, this young fellow at Consolidated Arms, Stephen Wheland, modified the Schlemmelmayer Effect and reversed it. He devised a field of supersonic waves that could activate the brain via a germanium relay, fry it, and kill a rat at twenty feet. Also, they found out later, men.

After that, Wheland got a bonus of ten thousand dollars and a promotion, while the major stockholders of Consolidated Arms proceeded to make millions when the government bought the patents and placed its orders.

My uncle Otto? He made the cover of Time. Time.

After that, everyone who was close to him, say within a few miles, knew he had a grievance. Some thought it was the fact that he had received no money; others, that his great discovery had been made an instrument of war and killing.

Nuts! It was his flute! That was the real tack on the chair of his life. Poor Uncle Otto. He loved his flute. He carried it with him always, ready to demonstrate. It reposed in its special case on the back of his chair when he ate, and at the head of his bed when he slept. Sunday mornings in the university physics laboratories were made hideous by the sounds of my uncle Otto's flute, under imperfect mental control, flatting its way through some tearful German folk song.

The trouble was that no manufacturer would touch it. As soon as its existence was unveiled, the musicians' union threatened to silence every demiquaver in the land; the various entertainment industries called their lobbyists to attention and marked them off in brigades for instant action; and even old Pietro Faranini stuck his baton behind his ear and made fervent statements to the newspapers about the impending death of art.

Uncle Otto never recovered.

He was saying, "Yesterday were my final hopes. Consolidated informs me they will in my honor a banquet give. Who knows, I say to myself. Maybe they will my flute buy." Under stress, my uncle Otto's word order tends to shift from English to Germanic.

The picture intrigued me.

"What an idea," I said. "A thousand giant flutes secreted in key spots in enemy territories blaring out singing commercials just flat enough to "

"Quiet! Quiet!" My uncle Otto brought down the flat of his hand on my desk like n pistol shot, and the plastic calendar jumped in fright and fell down dead. "From you also mockery? Where is your respect?"

"I'm sorry, Uncle Otto."

"Then listen. I attended the banquet and they made speeches about the Schlemmelmayer Effect and how it harnessed the power of mind. Then when I thought they would announce they would my flute buy, they give me this!"

He took out what looked like a two-thousand-dollar gold piece and threw it at me. I ducked.

Had it hit the window, it would have gone through and brained a pedestrian, but it hit the wall. I picked it up. You could tell by the weight that it was only gold plated. On one side it said: "The Elias Hancroft Sudford Award" in big letters, and "to Dr. Otto Schlemmelmayer for his contributions to science" in small letters. On the other side was a profile, obviously not of my uncle Otto. In fact, it didn't look like any breed of dog; more like a pig.

"That," said my uncle Otto, "is Elias Bancroft Sudford, chairman of Consolidated Arms!"

He went on, "So when I saw that was all, I got up and very politely said: 'Gentlemen, dead drop!' and walked out." out."

"Then you walked the streets all night." I filled in for him, "and came here without even changing your clothes. You're still in your tuxedo."

My uncle Otto stretched out an arm and looked at its covering. "A tuxedo?" he said.

"A tuxedo!" I said.

His long, jowled checks turned blotchy red and he roared, "I come here on something of first-rate importance and you insist on about nothing but tuxedos talking. My own nephew!"

I let the fire burn out. My uncle Otto is the brilliant one in the family, so except for trying to keep him from falling into sewers and walking out of windows, we morons try not to bother him.

I said, "And what can I do for you, Uncle?"

I tried to make it sound businesslike; I tried to introduce the lawyer-client relationship.

He waited impressively and said, "I need money."

He had come to the wrong place. I said, "Uncle, right now I don't have "

"Not from you," he said.

I felt better.

He said, "There is a new Schlemmelmayer Effect; a better one. This one I do not in not in scientific journals publish. My big mouth shut I keep. It entirely my own is." He was leading a phantom orchestra with his bony fist as he spoke. scientific journals publish. My big mouth shut I keep. It entirely my own is." He was leading a phantom orchestra with his bony fist as he spoke.

"From this new Effect," he went on, "I will make money and my own flute factory open."

"Good," I said, thinking of the factory and lying.

"But I don't know how."

"Bad," I said. thinking of the factory and lying.

"The trouble is my mind is brilliant. I can conceive concepts beyond ordinary people. Only, Harry, I can't conceive ways of making money. It's a talent I do not have."

"Bad," I said, not lying at all.

"So I come to you as a lawyer."

I sn.i.g.g.e.red a little deprecating sn.i.g.g.e.r.

"I come to you," he went on, "to make you help me with your crooked, lying, sneaking, dishonest lawyer's brain."

I filed the remark, mentally, under unexpected compliments and said, "I love you, too, Uncle Otto."

He must have sensed the sarcasm because he turned purple with rage and yelled, "Don't be touchy. Be like me, patient, understanding, and easygoing, lumphead. Who says anything about you as a man? As a man, you are an honest dunderkopf, but as a lawyer, you have to be a crook. Everyone knows that."

I sighed. The Bar a.s.sociation warned me there would be days like this.

"What's your new Effect, Uncle Otto?" I asked.

He said, "I can reach back into Time and bring things out of the past."

I acted quickly. With my left hand I s.n.a.t.c.hed my watch out of the lower left vest pocket and consulted it with all the anxiety I could work up. With my right hand I reached for the telephone.

"Well, Uncle," I said heartily, "I just remembered an extremely important appointment I'm already hours late for. Always glad to see you. And now, I'm afraid I must say good-bye. Yes, sir, seeing you has been a pleasure, a real pleasure. Well, good-bye. Yes, sir "

I failed to lift the telephone out of its cradle. I was pulling up all right, but my uncle Otto's hand was on mine and pushing down. It was no contest. Have I said my uncle Otto was once on the Heidelberg wrestling team in '32?

He took hold of my elbow gently (for him) and I was standing. It was a great saving of muscular effort (for me).

"Let's" he said, "to my laboratory go."

He to his laboratory went. And since I had neither the knife nor the inclination to cut my left arm off at the shoulder, I to his laboratory went also....

My uncle Otto's laboratory is down a corridor and around a corner in one of the university buildings. Ever since the Schlemmelmayer Effect had turned out to be a big thing, he had been relieved of all course work and left entirely to himself. His laboratory looked it.

I said, "Don't you keep the door locked anymore?"

He looked at me slyly, his huge nose wrinkling into a sniff. "It is is locked. With a Schlemmelmayer relay, it's locked. I think a word and the door opens. Without it, n.o.body can get in. Not even the president of the university. Not even the locked. With a Schlemmelmayer relay, it's locked. I think a word and the door opens. Without it, n.o.body can get in. Not even the president of the university. Not even the janitor. janitor."

I got a little excited, "Great guns, Uncle Otto. A thought-lock could bring you "

"Hah! I should sell the patent for someone else rich to get? After last night? Never. In a while, I will myself rich become."