Short Fiction, Poul Anderson [simple e reader .TXT] 📗

at the quietness of the machine, but the interest it attracted was compensation. He began to build another: twenty-five dollars for an old chassis, another twenty-five or so for materials, tack on a hundred for labor and profits⁠—the clunk might not look like much, but it would run for a year without fuel worries and would never need much repair or replacement. He also discovered, more or less clandestinely, that such a car would go up to 200 miles an hour on the straightaway. After selling it, he realized he could command a much bigger price, and set happily to work on another.

The physics journal to which Arch sent his manuscript was interested enough to rush printing. Between the time he submitted it and the time it came out some five weeks later, he found himself in lively correspondence with the editor.

“College will soon be letting out all over the country,” said Elizabeth. “Stand by to repel boarders!”

“Mmmm⁠ ⁠… yes, I suppose so.” Arch added up the cost of entertaining a rush of colleagues, but his worry was only a flicker across a somewhat bashful glow of pride. After all⁠—he had done a big thing. His polarization theory cut a deep swath into what mystery remained about the atom. There might even be a Nobel Prize in it.

It was on the day of publication that his phone rang. He looked up from his stamps, swore, and lifted it. “Hello?”

“Dr. Arch?” The voice was smooth and cultivated, just a trace of upper-class New York accent. “How do you do, sir. My name is Gilmer, Linton Gilmer, and I represent several important corporations in the electricity field.” He named them, and Arch barely suppressed a whistle. “Dr. Bowyer of the Journal staff mentioned your work to one of his friends in an industrial research lab. He was quite excited, and you can understand that we are too. I believe I have some good news for you, if I may come to see you.”

“Eh⁠—oh. Oh, sure!” Visions whirled across Arch’s eyes. Money! It represented a hi-fi set, a threepenny black, an automatic dishwasher, a reliable car, a new oscilloscope, a son and heir. “Come on up, b-by all means⁠—Yes, right away if you like⁠—Okay, I⁠—I’ll be seeing you⁠—” He set the receiver down with a shaking hand and bawled: “Betty! Company coming!”

“Oh, damn!” said his wife, sticking a grease-smudged face in the door. She had been tinkering with the lab oven. “And the house in such a mess! So am I, for that matter. Hold the fort when he comes, darling.” She still didn’t know who “he” was, but whirled off in a cloud of profanity.

Arch thought about putting on a decent suit and decided to hell with it. Let them come to him and accept him as he was; he had the whip hand, for once in his life. He contented himself with setting out beer and clearing the littered coffee table.

Linton Gilmer was a big man, with a smooth well-massaged face, wavy gray hair, and large soft hands. His presence seemed to fill the room, hardly leaving space for anyone else.

“Very pleased to meet you, Dr. Arch⁠ ⁠… brilliant achievement.⁠ ⁠… We borrowed proof sheets from the Journal and made tests for ourselves, of course. I’m sure you don’t mind. Thank you.” He seemed just a trifle shocked at being offered beer rather than Johnny Walker Black at four o’clock in the afternoon, but accepted gracefully. Arch felt excessively gauche.

“What did you want to s-see me about?” asked the physicist.

“Oh, well, sir, let’s get acquainted first,” said Gilmer heartily. “No rush. No hurry. I envy you scientific fellows. The unending quest, thrill of discovery, yes, science was my first love, but I’m afraid I sort of got steered off into the business administration end. I know you scientists don’t think much of us poor fellows behind the desks, you should hear how our boys gripe when we set the appropriations for their projects, but somebody has to do that, ha.” Gilmer made a bridge of plump fingers. “I do think, though, Dr. Arch, that this hostility is coming to an end. We’re both part of the team, you know; scientist and businessman both work inside our free enterprise system to serve the American public. And more and more scientists are coming to recognize this.”

Arch shifted uneasily in his chair. He couldn’t think of any response. But it was simple to converse with Gilmer: you just sat back, let him flow, and mumbled in the pauses.

Some data began to emerge: “⁠—we didn’t want to trouble you with a dozen visitors, so it was agreed that I would represent the combine to, ah, sound you out, if I may so phrase it.”

Arch felt the stir of resentment which patronizing affability always evoked in him. He tried to be courteous: “Excuse me, but isn’t that sort of thing against the antitrust laws?”

“Oh, no!” Gilmer laughed. “Quite the opposite, I assure you. If one company tried to corner this product, or if all of them went together to drive the price up, that would be illegal, of course. But we all believe in healthy competition, and only want information at the moment. Negotiations can come later.”

“Okay,” said Arch. “I suppose you know I’ve already applied for a patent.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Very shrewd of you. I like to deal with a good businessman. I think you’re more broadminded than some of your colleagues, and can better understand the idea of teamwork between business and science.” Gilmer looked out the French doors to the building in the rear. “Is that your laboratory? I admire a man who can struggle against odds. You have faith, and deserve to be rewarded for it. How would you like to work with some real money behind you?”

Arch paused. “You mean, take a job on somebody’s staff?”

“Not as a lab flunky,” said Gilmer quickly. “You’d have a free hand. American business recognizes ability. You’d plan your own projects, and head them yourself. My own company is