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

down a man’s entire life. He answered frankly, feeling he had nothing to hide. Of course, there had been his roommate at M.I.T., and the roommate had had a girl friend one of whose other friends was a Communist, and⁠ ⁠…

“I see. Now, when you graduated⁠—”

Elizabeth entered from the kitchen with a tray. “Pardon me,” she smiled. “I think refreshments are in order.”

Sagdahl’s face didn’t change, but his eyes bugged slightly. Elizabeth put a coffee cup in his hand and a plate of cake on one knee. He looked unhappy, but mumbled dutiful thanks.

“Oh, it’s a pleasure,” said Elizabeth blandly. “You boys are doing your duty, and really, this is very exciting.”

Sagdahl got down a mouthful of cake. Valiantly, he tried to resume the staccato flow: “Now, when you graduated, Dr. Arch, you took a vacation, you say. Where was that?”

“Up in Quebec. About three months. Just driving around and⁠—”

“I see. Then you returned to school for a master’s degree, right? Did you at this time know a Joseph Barrett?”

“Well, yes, I shared an office with him.”

“Did you ever discuss politics with him?”

“Drink your coffee before it gets cold,” said Elizabeth. “There’s plenty more.”

“Oh⁠—thanks. Now, about this Barrett?”

“We argued a lot. You see, I’m frankly a reactionary⁠—”

“Were you associated with any political-action group?”

“Mr. Horrisford,” said Elizabeth reproachfully, “you haven’t touched your cake.”

“No, I wasn’t that interested,” said Arch. “Didn’t even bother to vote in ’50.”

“Here, Mr. Sagdahl, do have some more cake.”

“Thanks!⁠—You met some of Barrett’s friends?”

“Yes, I was at some parties and⁠—”

“Excuse me, I’ll just warm your coffee.”

“Did you at this time know anyone who had worked in the Manhattan Project?”

“Of course. They were all over the place. But I never was told anything restricted, never asked for⁠—”

“Please, Mr. Horrisford! It’s my favorite recipe.”

“Ummm. Thank you, but⁠—”

“You met your future wife when?”

“In⁠—”

“Excuse me, there’s the phone⁠ ⁠… Hello. Mrs. Arch speaking⁠ ⁠… Oh?⁠ ⁠… Yes, I’ll see⁠ ⁠… Pardon me. There’s a man from the Associated Press in town. He wants to see you, dear.”

Sagdahl flinched. “Stall him off,” he groaned. “Please.”

“Can’t do that forever,” said Arch. “Not under the circumstances.”

“I realize that, Dr. Arch.” Sagdahl clenched his jaw. “But this is unprecedented. As an American citizen, you’ll want to⁠—”

“Certainly we’ll cooperate,” said Elizabeth brightly. “But what shall I tell the AP man? That we’re not supposed to say anything to anyone?”

“No! That won’t do, not now. But⁠—are all the technical details of this public?”

“Why, yes,” said Arch. “Anybody can make capacitite.”

“If you issued a denial⁠—”

“Too late, I’m afraid. Somebody’s bound to try it anyway.”

Sagdahl looked grim. “You can be held incommunicado,” he said. “This is a very serious matter.”

“Yes,” said Elizabeth. “The AP man will think so too, if he can’t get a story.”

“Well⁠—”

“Oh, dear! My Russell Wright coffee cup!”

Nothing happened overnight. That was the hardest thing to believe. By all the rules, life should have been suddenly and dramatically transformed; but instead, there were only minor changes, day by day, small incidents. Meanwhile you ate, slept, worked, paid bills, made love and conversation, as you had always done.

The F.B.I. held its hand as yet, but some quiet men checked into the town’s one hotel, and there was usually one of them hanging around Arch’s house, watching. Elizabeth would occasionally invite him in for a snack⁠—she grew quite fond of them.

The newspapers ran feature articles, and for a while the house was overrun with reporters⁠—then that too faded away. Editorials appeared, pointing out that capacitite had licked one of the Soviet Union’s major problems, fuel; and a syndicated columnist practically called for Arch’s immediate execution. He found some of his neighbors treating him coldly. The situation distressed him, too. “I never thought⁠—” he began.

“Exactly,” rumbled Culquhoun. “People like you are one reason science is coming to be considered a Frankenstein. Dammit, man, the researcher has to have a social conscience like the rest of us.”

Arch smiled wearily. “But I do,” he said. “I gave considerable thought to the social effects. I just imagined that they’d be good. That’s been the case with every major innovation, in the long run.”

“You’ve committed a crime,” said Culquhoun. “Idealism. It doesn’t fit the world we inhabit.”

Arch flushed angrily. “What was I supposed to do?” he snapped. “Burn my results and forget them? If the human race is too stupid to use the obvious advantages, that’s its own fault.”

“You’re making a common error, dear,” said Elizabeth. “You speak of the human race. There isn’t any. There are only individual people and groups of people, with their own conflicting interests.”

For a while, there was a big campaign to play down the effects of capacitite. It wasn’t important. It meant nothing, as our eminent columnist has so lucidly shown. Then the attempt switched: capacitite was dangerous. So-and-so had been electrocuted working with it. There was cumulative poisoning⁠ ⁠… Such propaganda didn’t work, not when some millions of people were seeing for themselves.

Petroleum stock began sagging. It didn’t nosedive⁠—the S.E.C. and a valiantly buying clique saw to that⁠—but it slipped down day by day.

Arch happened to drop in at Hinkel’s garage. The old man looked up from a car on which he was laboring and smiled. “Hello, there,” he said. “Haven’t seen you in a long time.”

“I⁠—well⁠—” Arch looked guiltily at the oil-stained floor. “I’m afraid⁠—your business⁠—”

“Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ve got more business than I can handle. Everybody in town seems to want his car converted over to your type of engine. That young Bob is turning out the stuff like a printing press gone berserk.”

Arch couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “But⁠—aren’t your gasoline sales dropping?”

“To be sure. But cars still need lubrication and⁠—Look, you know the old watermill down by Ronson’s farm? I’m buying that, putting in a generator and a high-voltage transformer and rectifier. I’ll be selling packaged power. A lot easier than running a gas pump, at my age.”

“Won’t the power company be competing?”

“Eventually. Right now, they’re still waiting for orders from higher up, I guess. Some people can charge their capacitors right at home, but most would rather not