Buy Jupiter and Other Stories Part 4

We worked each other to our feet and my uncle Otto found a flashlight.

He howled his anguish. "Fused. Fused. My machine in ruins is. It has to destruction devoted been."

"But the signatures?" I yelled at him. "Did you get them?"

He stopped in mid-cry. "I haven't looked."

He looked, and I closed my eyes. The disappearance of a hundred thousand dollars is not an easy thing to watch.

He cried, "Ah, ha!" and I opened my eyes quickly. He had a square of parchment in his hand some two inches on a side. It had three signatures on it and the top one was that of Rutton Gwinnett.

Now, mind you, the signature was absolutely genuine. It was no fake. There wasn't an atom of fraud about the whole transaction. I want that understood. Lying on my uncle Otto's broad hand was a signature indited with the Georgian hand of Rutton Gwinnett himself on the authentic parchment of the honest-to-G.o.d, real-life Declaration of Independence.

It was decided that my uncle Otto would travel down to Washington with the parchment sc.r.a.p. I was unsatisfactory for the purpose. I was a lawyer. I would be expected to know too much. He was merely a scientific genius, and wasn't expected to know anything. Besides, who could suspect Dr. Otto Schlemmelmayer of anything but the most transparent honesty.

We spent a week arranging our story. I bought a book for the occasion, an old history of colonial Georgia, in a secondhand shop. My uncle Otto was to take it with him and claim that he had found a doc.u.ment among its leaves; a letter to the Continental Congress in the name of the state of Georgia. He shrugged his shoulders at it and held it out over a Bunsen flame. Why should a physicist be interested in letters? Then he became aware of the peculiar odor it gave off as it burned and the slowness with which it was consumed. He beat out the flames but saved only the piece with the signatures. He looked at it and the name b.u.t.ton Gwinnett had stirred a slight fiber of memory.

He had the story cold. I burnt the edges of the parchment so that the lowest name, that of George Walton, was slightly singed.

"It will make it more realistic," I explained. "Of course, a signature, without a letter above it, loses value, but here we have three signatures, all signers.

My uncle Otto was thoughtful. "And if they compare the signatures with those on the Declaration and notice it is all even microscopically the same, won't they fraud suspect?"

Certainly. But what can they do? The parchment is authentic. The ink is authentic. The signatures are authentic. They'll have to concede that. No matter how they suspect something queer, they can't prove anything. Can they conceive of reaching through time for it? In fact, I hope they do try to make a fuss about it. The publicity will boost the price."

The last phrase made my uncle Otto laugh.

The next day he took the train to Washington with visions of flutes in his head. Long flutes, short flutes, ba.s.s flutes, flute tremolos, ma.s.sive flutes, micro flutes, flutes for the individual and flutes for the orchestra. A world of flutes for mind-drawn music.

"Remember," his last words were, "the machine I have no money to rebuild. This must work."

And I said, "Uncle Otto, it can't miss."

Ha!

He was back in a week. I had made long-distance calls each day and each day he told me they were investigating.

Investigating.

Well, wouldn't you investigate? But what good would it do them?

I was at the station waiting for him. He was expressionless. I didn't dare ask anything in public. I wanted to say, "Well, yes or no?" but I thought, let him him speak. speak.

I took him to my office. I offered him a cigar and a drink. I hid my hands under the desk but that only made the desk shake too, so I put them in my pocket and shook all over.

He said, "They investigated."

"Sure! I told you they would. Ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha?"

My uncle Otto took a slow drag at the cigar. He said, "The man at the Bureau of Doc.u.ments came to me and said, 'Professor Schlemmelmayer,' he said, 'you are the victim of a clever fraud.' I said, 'So? And how can it a fraud be? The signature a forgery is?' So he answered, 'It certainly doesn't look like a forgery, but it must be!' 'And why must it be?' I asked."

My uncle Otto put down his cigar, put down his drink, and leaned across the desk toward me. He had me so in suspense, I leaned forward toward him, so in a way I deserved everything I got.

"Exactly," I babbled, "why must it be? They can't prove a thing wrong with it, because it's genuine. Why must it he a fraud, eh? Why" Why"

My uncle Otto's voice was terrifyingly saccharine. He said, "We got the parchment from the past?"

"Yes. Yes. You know we did." "Over a hundred fifty years in the past. You said "

"And a hundred fifty years ago the parchment on which the Declaration of Independence was written pretty new was. No?"

I was beginning to get it, but not fast enough.

My uncle Otto's voice switched gears and became a dull, throbbing roar, "And if b.u.t.ton Gwinnett in 1777 died, you G.o.dforsaken dunderlump, how can an authentic signature of his on a new piece of parchment be found?"

After that it was just a case of the whole world rushing backward and forward about me.

I expect to be on my feet soon. I still ache, but the doctors tell me no bones were broken.

Still, my uncle Otto didn't have to make me swallow the d.a.m.ned parchment.

If I had hoped to be recognized as a master of humor as a result of these stories, I think I failed.

L. Sprague de Camp, one of the most successful writers of humorous science fiction and fantasy, had this to say about me in his science Fiction Handbook science Fiction Handbook (Hermitage House, 1953), which, as you see, appeared not long after these (in my opinion) successful forays into humor: (Hermitage House, 1953), which, as you see, appeared not long after these (in my opinion) successful forays into humor: "Asimov is a stoutish, youngish-looking man with wavy brown hair, blue eyes, and a bouncing, jovial, effervescent manner, esteemed among his friends for his generous, warm-hearted nature. Extremely sociable, articulate, and witty, he is a perfect toastmaster. This vein of oral humor contrasts with the sobriety of his stories."

Sobriety!

On the other hand, twelves [sic] years later, Groff Conklin included b.u.t.tON, b.u.t.tON, b.u.t.tON, in his anthology in his anthology 13 Above the Niqht 13 Above the Niqht (Dell, 1965) and he said, in part, "When the Good Doctor... decides to take a day off and be funny, he can be very funny indeed...." (Dell, 1965) and he said, in part, "When the Good Doctor... decides to take a day off and be funny, he can be very funny indeed...."

Now, although Groff and Sprague were both very dear friends of mine (Groff is now dead, alas), there is no question but that in this particular case I think Groff shows good taste and Sprague is nowhere.

Incidentally, before I pa.s.s on I had better explain that "generous, warm-hearted nature" crack by Sprague, which may puzzle those who know me as a vicious, rotten brute.

Sprague's prejudice in my favor is, I think, all based on a single incident.

It was back in 1942, when Sprague and I were working at the Philadelphia Navy Yard. It was wartime and we needed badges to get in. Anyone who forgot his badge had to buck the bureaucracy for an hour to get a temporary, was docked an hour's pay, and had the heinous misdeed entered on his record.

As we walked up to the gate on this particular day Sprague turned a pastel shade of green and said. "I forgot my badge!" He was up for a lieutenancy in the Navy and he was afraid that even a slight flaw in his civilian record might have an adverse effect on the whole thing.

Well, I wasn't up for anything at all, and I was so used to being sent to the princ.i.p.al's office during my school days that being yelled at by the authorities had no terrors for me.

So I handed him my badge and said, "Go in, Sprague, and pin this on your lapel. They'll never look at it." He went in, and they didn't, and I reported myself as having forgotten my badge and took my lumps.

Sprague has never forgotten. To this day, he goes around telling people what a great guy I am, despite the fact that everyone just stares at him in disbelief. That one impulsive action has given rise to a lifetime of fervent pro-Asimov propaganda. Cast your bread upon the waters But, let's move onward.

THE MONKEY'S FINGER.

"Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes," said Marmie Tallinn, in sixteen different inflections and pitches, while the Adam's apple in his long neck bobbed convulsively. He was a science fiction writer.

"No," said Lemuel Hoskins, staring stonily through his steel-rimmed gla.s.ses. He was a science fiction editor.

"Then you won't accept a scientific test. You won't listen to me. I'm outvoted, eh?" Marmie lifted himself on his toes, dropped down, repeated the process a few times, and breathed heavily. His dark hair was matted into tufts, where fingers had clutched.

"One to sixteen," said Hoskins.

"Look," said Marmie, "what makes you always right? What makes me always wrong?"

"Marmie, face it. We're each judged in our own way. If magazine circulation were to drop, I'd be a flop. I'd be out on my ear. The president of s.p.a.ce Publishers would ask no questions, believe me. He would just look at the figures. But circulation doesn't go down; it's going up. That makes me a good editor. And as for you-when editors accept you, you're a talent. When they reject you, you're a b.u.m. At the moment, you are a b.u.m."

"There are other editors, you know. You're not the only one." Marmie held up his hands, fingers outspread. "Can you count? That's how many science fiction magazines on the market would gladly take a Tallinn yarn, sight unseen."

"Gesundheit," said Hoskins.

"Look," Marmie's voice sweetened, "you wanted two changes, right? You wanted an introductory scene with the battle in s.p.a.ce. Well, I gave that to you. It's right here." He waved the ma.n.u.script under Hoskin's nose and Hoskin moved away as though at a bad smell.

"But you also wanted the scene on the s.p.a.ceship's hull cut into with a flashback into the interior," went on Marmie, "and that you can't get. If I make that change, I ruin an ending which, as it stands, has pathos and depth and feeling." cut into with a flashback into the interior," went on Marmie, "and that you can't get. If I make that change, I ruin an ending which, as it stands, has pathos and depth and feeling."

Editor Hoskins sat back in his chair and appealed to his secretary, who throughout had been quietly typing. She was used to these scenes.

Hoskins said, "You hear that, Miss Kane? He He talks of pathos, depth, and feeling. What does a writer know about such things? Look, if you insert the flashback, you increase the Suspense; you tighten the story; you make it more valid." talks of pathos, depth, and feeling. What does a writer know about such things? Look, if you insert the flashback, you increase the Suspense; you tighten the story; you make it more valid."

"How do I make it more valid?" cried Marmie in anguish. "You mean to say that having a bunch of fellows in a s.p.a.ceship start talking politics and sociology when they're liable to be blown up makes it more do I make it more valid?" cried Marmie in anguish. "You mean to say that having a bunch of fellows in a s.p.a.ceship start talking politics and sociology when they're liable to be blown up makes it more valid? valid? Oh, my G.o.d." Oh, my G.o.d."

"There's nothing else you can do. If you wait till the climax is past and then discuss your politics and sociology, the reader will go to sleep on you."

"But I'm trying to tell you that you're wrong and I can prove it. What's the use of talking when I've arranged a scientific experiment-"

"What scientific experiment?" Hoskins appealed to his secretary again. "How do you like that, Miss Kane. He thinks he's one of his own characters."

"It so happens I know a scientist."

"Who?"

"Dr. Arndt Torgesson, professor of psychodynamics at Columbia."

"Never heard of him."

"I suppose that means a lot," said Marmie, with contempt. "You "You never heard of him. You never heard of Einstein until your writers started mentioning him in their stories." never heard of him. You never heard of Einstein until your writers started mentioning him in their stories."

"Very humorous. A yuk. What about this Torgesson?"

"He's worked out a system for determining scientifically the value of a piece of writing. It's a tremendous piece of work. It's-it's-"

" And it's secret?"

"Certainly it's secret. He's not a science fiction professor. In science fiction, when a man thinks up a theory, he announces it to the newspapers right away. In real life, that's not done. A scientist spends years on experimentation sometimes before going into print. Publishing is a serious thing."

"Then how do you you know about it? Just a question." know about it? Just a question."

"It so happens that Dr. Torgesson is a fan of mine. He happens to like my stories. He happens to think I'm the best fantasy writer in the business."

" And he shows you his work?"

"That's right. I was counting on you being stubborn about this yam and I've asked him to run an experiment for us. He said he would do it if we don't talk about it. He said it would be an interesting experiment. He said-"

"What's so secret about it?"

"Well-" Marmie hesitated. "Look, suppose I told you he had a monkey that could type Hamlet Hamlet out of its head." out of its head."

Hoskins stared at Marmie in alarm. "What are you working up here, a practical joke?" He turned to Miss Kane. "When a writer writes science fiction for ten years he just isn't safe without a personal cage."

Miss Kane maintained a steady typing speed.

Marmie said, "You heard me; a common monkey, even funnier-looking than the average editor. I made an appointment for this afternoon. Are you coming with me or not?"

"Of course not. You think I'd abandon a stack of ma.n.u.scripts this high"-and he indicated his larynx with a cutting motion of the hand-"for your stupid jokes? You think I'll play straight man for you?"

"If this is in any way a joke, Hoskins, I'll stand you dinner in any restaurant you name. Miss Kane's the witness."

Hoskins sat back in his chair. "You'll buy me dinner? You, Marmaduke Tallinn, New York's most widely known tapeworm-on-credit, are going to pick up a check?"

Marmie winced, not at the reference to his agility in overlooking a dinner check, but at the mention of his name in all its horrible trysyllabicity. He said, "I repeat. Dinner on me wherever you want and whatever you want. Steaks, mushrooms, breast of guinea hen, Martian alligator, anything."

Hoskins stood up and plucked his hat from the top of the filing cabinet.

"For a chance," he said, "to see you unfold some of the old-style, large-size dollar bills you've been keeping in the false heel of your left shoe since nineteen-two-eight, I'd walk to Boston. ..."

Dr. Torgesson was honored. He shook Hoskin's hand warmly and said, "I've been reading s.p.a.ce Yarns s.p.a.ce Yarns ever since I came to this country, Mr. Hoskins. It is an excellent magazine. I am particularly fond of Mr. Tallinn's stories." ever since I came to this country, Mr. Hoskins. It is an excellent magazine. I am particularly fond of Mr. Tallinn's stories."

"You hear?" asked Marmie. "I hear. Marmie says you have a monkey with talent, Professor."

"Yes," Torgesson said, "but of course this must be confidential. I am not yet ready to publish, and premature publicity could be my professional ruin."

"This is strictly under the editorial hat, Professor."

"Good, good. Sit down, gentlemen, sit down." He paced the floor before them. "What have you told Mr. Hoskins about my work, Marmie?"

"Not a thing, Professor."

"So. Well, Mr. Hoskins, as the editor of a science fiction magazine, I don't have to ask you if you know anything about cybernetics."

Hoskins allowed a glance of concentrated intellect to ooze out past his steel-rims. He said, "Ah, yes. Computing machines-M.I.T.-Norbert Weiner-" He mumbled some more.