Title: The penultimate trump
Author: Ettinger, R. C. W.
Language: English
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                         The Penultimate Trump

                         By R. C. W. ETTINGER

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                    Startling Stories, March 1948.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


Harley D. Haworth had been a doughty warrior in the American manner.
Many a powerful Wall Street foe had bowed to his strength and thousands
of innocent victims had cursed his name. But that was many a misty year
ago.

Now even his son was an aged philanthropist and H.D. himself was
relegated almost to legend. But at ninety-two the old battler was
locked in his most desperate struggle, vainly trying with his failing
strength to beat off the grimmest, most relentless of all antagonists.

If the man in the street ever heeded or mentioned this struggle, it was
to disinter a corny, dog-in-the-manger joke.

"Old Harley D. Haworth," he would say patronizingly, "is such a guy--if
he can't take it with him, he just don't _go_."

But he was going all right, battle by battle, losing his war. Not that
his forces were small--two billion greenbacked stalwarts comprised his
army. The resources of the planet were his. Only his generals, the
world's fanciest physicians, were incompetent to maneuver these forces
to advantage.

They gave him gland extracts, they gave him vitamins, they gave
him blood transfusions. They gave him false teeth, eyeglasses,
arch-supports. They cut out his varicose veins, his appendix, one of
his kidneys. And in the end the learned doctors held a conference and
this was the sum of their wisdom--eat crackers-and-milk.

At this juncture there was a shake-up in the high command. The new
Chief of Staff was not a physician but an engineer named Jones.

"What man can imagine, man can do." So runs the optimistic saw. The
boy, Garibaldi Jones, had had firm faith in said saw, and imagined
himself a great lawyer and famous statesman. With the passage of time,
however, there gradually came to Garibaldi, as to many another before
and since, the suspicion whoever said that was kidding.

Now Baldy Jones had long since conceded that _his_ imagination, at
least, far outran his capabilities. He had settled down, when he
realized he lacked the persuasive gift, to being a reasonably competent
mechanical engineer.

An ordinary slip-stick jockey, that was the work-a-day
Jones. But sometimes, on a Sunday, Jones the
general-statesman-scientist-prophet-and-all-around-wiseacre would
hold forth from his armchair on life, love, art, literature, science,
religion, politics and various other manifestations of nature that are
dignified by names.

On a certain portentous Sunday in the summer of 1947, about the time
the doctors were prescribing crackers-and-milk as a specific for senile
debility, Garry had found a particularly depressing article in his
Supplement. Goodwife Nancy was relaxed with the Women's Section.

Garry wiped the perspiration from his gleaming head of skin and
proceeded to her instruction.

"Listen, dear, it says here some scientist thinks the human race is
going to be wiped out. It's too dumb to survive, or too smart. I think
that's crazy but he's got a lot of points. Listen, he says--

"'To date there has been no indication whatever of any barrier to the
indefinite extension of the frontiers of science. It is breath-taking
to think what this means. It means that so far as we know the
scientific method is capable of carrying humanity to any conceivable
heights and beyond.'"

"Garry, stop talking so loud and let me read this, 'Fun With
Fish--Hints for the Hurried Housewife.' You're always saying, 'Give me
something different.' Science. What do I know about science?"

"You should know something beyond the kitchen. Listen--'But reflection
turns hope to alarm, with this thought--In the vast and ancient
universe surely some races must have had time already to attain godlike
power and yet they have not manifested themselves. Many answers are
offered to this riddle, but none very satisfactory.'"

"Garry, will you be quiet?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Nancy's question was sharp. "I will not," said Garry. "'One answer
is that our civilization is very young, and the hypothetical
super-civilization somewhere just hasn't found us yet. But that is a
contradiction in terms, because it takes most of the "super" out of the
super-civilization, considering that a technological culture advances
on an exponential curve.'"

"Garry, are you going to let me read in peace?"

"I am not," said Garry. "'Another is that a super-civilization would
have advanced beyond any concern about us or our petty problems. This
is an uneasy possibility, but rather thin for this reason--

"'From all indications our mastery of the physical world is proceeding
much faster than our mental evolution, and while this condition may
change I am inclined to think we would be flitting about the galaxy
before we would have lost our humanity.'"

"Garibaldi Jones, if you don't stop with that crazy stuff I'll go out
of my _mind_!"

"You will not," said Garry remorselessly. "'We are thus led to the
proposition that there is no super-civilization and to the corollary
that intelligence, at least technological intelligence, has no survival
value. This is a sobering thought, and we ask--

"'Why? Aside from metaphysical hypotheses vain to pursue, there is one
outstanding answer. Someone, someday, will find a chain reaction for
one of the light elements like oxygen and silicon, or perhaps some
other even deadlier agent will be loosed upon the world--for as science
progresses more and more power is more and more often concentrated in
fewer and fewer hands.'"

"Garry, do you intend to _ever_ stop talking?"

"I do not," said Garry. "'There is, sadly, no indication of an
abatement of the spirit of irresponsibility that has kept the world,
especially in recent years, in turmoil, at war or in fear of war.

"'The only real remedy, perhaps, is fear of God, but the materialist
knows that when he dies his rotting carcass is beyond punishment,
beyond hope, beyond recall. Thus the only restraint on beastliness is
the ineffectual one of conscience, and in consequence--'"

"_Why_ beyond recall?" interrupted Nancy, surprisingly.

"What?"

"Well, if science can do anything, like he says, why can't they
bring the dead people back some day? Now you just read that tripe to
yourself, if that 'scientist' knew anything he wouldn't have to write
for trashy Sunday Supplements, and let me read in peace, _do you hear
me_?"

"How can I help it?" muttered Garry, who had already conceived the germ
of a notion.

The notion grew into an idea, and the idea hardened into a resolve.
And in the natural course of events he went to H.D. Haworth with his
proposition and there was a meeting of minds.

But a third talent was needed for their project, and the logical
candidate was Ellsworth Stevens, M.D., Ph.D.

The seduction of Ellsworth Stevens made a temporary stir in certain
lofty circles, shocking all but the most cynical.

A brilliant bio-chemist, a few months previously Stevens had reported
some attempts at suspending animation in mammals by a method involving
preliminary partial dehydration of the living tissue through
starvation, followed by freezing.

The technique exploited the newly-discovered tendency of very minute
quantities of radioactive phosphorus in certain phospholipids to
counteract the degenerative anti-gelation effect of low temperatures on
the colloidal phases of protoplasm.

He had not succeeded in reviving any of the animals, since none of
the nerve tissue had lived through the freezing, but results had
been nonetheless promising. Now Stevens was employed by the Cancer
Institute, consecrated to this most important work.

Until one evening a Tempter called at his modest home. His name, of
course, was Jones.

"Dr. Stevens," said Garry, "I want you to quit your job and go back to
work on suspended animation."

Stevens blinked rapidly behind his bifocals and smiled deprecatingly.

"Well, Mr. Jones, I could hardly do that. You see, I've been doing some
work with radioactive tracers and I'm beginning to get significant
results. Can't very well quit now, can I? That other matter isn't very
important--I hardly think it could be done, anyway."

"Dr. Stevens," said Garry, "the Cancer Institute doesn't pay you very
much. You have a daughter who is getting to the age where she would
like to be dressed up. I will give you a ten year contract at ten
thousand dollars a years."

"Mr. Jones, do you realize that cancer is responsible for more deaths
than any other ailment except heart disease? Maybe I sound sentimental
but I actually think of myself as taking an important part in the
world's greatest crusade."

"Dr. Stevens, I will give you a ten year contract at one hundred
thousand dollars a year."

Blankness in the shy, blinking eyes, then mounting anger. "Look, you,
who the heck d'you think you're kidding? If you--"

"Dr. Stevens," Garry said hastily--an enraged sheep is an appalling
spectacle--"I have a power of attorney from Harley D. Haworth."
Ellsworth Stevens gaped like a fish, and was pure no more.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Pacific lay stagnant, having decided it was too hot a day to do
anything except evaporate. But there was the suggestion of a breeze
in the garden and ample shade for three men. The dried-up little old
man was speaking, and the big bald man and the lean bespectacled man
listened with respectful attention.

"I'm a hard-headed business man, and I'm not easy to fool, as many
a smart-aleck's learned, hrumph! It would surprise you the number
of quacks that try to sell me miracle water and yoga systems and
such-like. Blasted parasites!

"But I know a good investment when I see one," the thin, complaining
voice went on, "and you gentlemen have a sound idea." He paused
benevolently to let them look gratified.

_This is ridiculous_, thought Gary, _the old boy's a caricature._

"A sound idea--don't depend on these pill-rolling fools that call
themselves doctors nowadays to keep you hanging around a year or two
more, but just go to sleep in a nice refrigerator until people _really_
know something about the body." He shook a bony forefinger.

"And they'll do it, too. I don't believe in much, but I believe in
science. It will take a lot of money, but that's what I've got. And
you can have all you need, Mr. Jones, all you need, as I've told you
before. Blank check. You came to the right man when you came to H.D.
Haworth." He sank back into his nylon deck chair, exhausted by the long
speech.

Garry seized the opportunity to air some of his ideas. He was all
enthusiasm.

"We'll put the vault in Michigan, Mr. Haworth, not here in
California--too many earthquakes. Might be a long time before they know
enough about bio-chemistry to revive a dead man and restore his youth.
Not that you'll be dead," he amended hastily, "just in a state of
suspended animation. I'm sure Dr. Stevens can work _that_ out.

"Anyway, we'd better put the vault in Michigan--very safe country,
geologically. We'll make the vault and the coolers of the very best,
of course, granite and stainless steel and quartz that will never wear
out. And then," he added, coyly, "I have a little idea for a power
plant that will be really _dependable_, if I _am_ the one that says it."

"It better be!" snapped H.D., suddenly ferocious.

"Yes--of course. There's the problem of keeping everything secret but
I'm sure we can manage it. The workers won't know what they're doing,
Dr. Stevens, and I can do all the really technical work. And there'll
be only one trustee each generation to keep his eye on things, starting
with me."

Stevens was leaning forward, wearing a somewhat bewildered expression.

"But I thought--but surely after we demonstrate that suspended
animation is feasible and we've verified our results, we'll publish?"
Seeing the odd-faces the other two were pulling, he repeated
plaintively, "I always publish."

H.D. Haworth pronounced a certain four-letter word. Garibaldi
Jones cast his eyes to the heavens and tore his hair, coming away
empty-handed, of course.

"Well, what's wrong with that?" Stevens snapped, a little color in his
face. "Don't the people have a right to know?"

"Young man," quavered H.D., tottering to his feet and shaking the bony
forefinger, "what you know about people I could stick in my--"

"Wait a minute, Mr. Haworth," Garry soothed. "Let me explain to Dr.
Stevens how it is. Please don't excite yourself. Remember," he coaxed,
"we don't want a heart attack _now_, do we?" The old man collapsed into
his chair with a feeble curse.

"Look, Ellsworth, old man," Garry said kindly. "The last thing in
the world we want to do is keep anything from humanity. _You_ know
Mr. Haworth is the biggest philanthropist in the world. But in this
case--well, it's dangerous.

"What do you think would happen if people found out a few rich men were
sleeping in quartz coolers while they had nothing but mouldy graves to
look forward to? Why, man, they'd tear our vault down with their bare
hands!"

H.D. was nodding, muttering something about blasted riff-raff, but
Garry saw Stevens' look of contempt.

"But that's not the main thing," he said hastily. "It wouldn't be good
for the country--in fact the world couldn't stand it. Once people were
convinced, everybody would demand a frigidaire instead of a coffin.
Not many could be made and people would plot and steal and kill to get
theirs and religious people would fight against it.

"There'd be fakers and stock promotions all over. The nation's economy
would be wrecked. People would take their money with them or leave it
as savings at compound interest while they slept for a few centuries.
Think of the harm it would do, man--think of the people who are happy
now, whose lives would be embittered with vain hopes!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Haworth's head was bobbing on his scrawny neck. "That's right, young
fellow, and that ain't the half of it!" He cackled. "Almost like to get
a finger in that pie myself.

"The insurance companies would be the ones for it, of course.
Twenty-year endowment and, instead of paying you, they pickle you. But
it's too risky, too risky--you see that, don't you, my boy?"

Stevens sighed unhappily. "I suppose so," he said, defeated.

"Good, good!" Garry boomed, rubbing his hands briskly. "I knew Dr.
Stevens would see the point. He has a head on his shoulders.

"Now, as I was saying, Mr. Haworth, we'll have space in the vault
for a hundred or so. That should be enough, I think, but we'll rush
yours through first, of course, and have it ready in jig time, just in
_case_.... And after that...."

And so their plans were laid and something new was born under that sun
which shone with such ridiculous indiscrimination on H.D. Haworth and
on the common people.

According to the outline sketched that afternoon, the vault was
to be safeguarded and the sleepers' interests looked after by the
establishment of a Haworth Trust, with Garibaldi Jones the first
Administrator. Only one person in each generation, the Administrator,
would know all about the vault.

Of each generation the Administrator and one or two of his closest
relatives would join the ranks of the sleepers. The Administrator's
responsibilities and discretion would include all measures necessary
for the safety of the sleepers and the trust funds would be ample, to
allow for unforeseen future contingencies.

A number of experimental animals closely duplicating H.D.'s condition
would be included for the future biologists first to try their skill
on--because if Stevens should not perfect a practicable method of
suspending animation in time, and H.D. should actually die, his
resuscitation would be a ticklish matter.

H.D. did not want to wake up blind, for instance, or with an altered
personality--although Stevens, for one, thought _any_ change in the
old pirate's personality would be a step in the right direction.
The blasted Washington administration wouldn't let a citizen buy
radioactives without a lot of busybody questions, but Garry had an idea
for a reliable source of power for the coolers.

An improvement on the new "heat pumps," his design dispensed entirely
with moving parts, providing a large safety factor. Successfully
reversing the refrigeration cycle, the device utilized the heat
potential between sub-frost level ground and surface to produce power,
using buried coils of a common refrigerant gas.

Caches of treasure were to be tucked away in unlikely places, the key
to their location securely hidden in H.D.'s mind. No Tut-ankh-amen he,
to invite grave-robbers by foolish ostentation.

And so it came to pass, and H.D.'s last months, despite the physical
pain his increasing debilitation caused him, were light-hearted ones.

He was sustained by the bubbling knowledge that he tottered down life's
highway toward--not that great, silent abyss that the common folk's
imagination called Heaven or Hell and peopled with childish gods and
demons anxiously waiting to take him to task for his many "sins"--but
merely a bend in the road beyond which lay unknown, but surely
friendly, lands.

In course of time Harley D. Haworth was carefully laid away in his
ice-cold "coffin," and those who read the obituaries did not suspect
that he was the first of men to die a qualified death.

       *       *       *       *       *

He lay on his back, staring at the white ceiling--it had not occurred
to him yet to move. His uncoördinated muscles left his face blank but
he was frowning mentally. There was something he wanted to remember,
something....

He struggled laboriously to pin down those elusive shapes, but the
_words_ wouldn't come. It's hard to think when the words won't come.
His eyes sharpened their focus a little and he perceived that he was in
_bed_. _Hospital_, he thought clearly, _I'm in a hospital, of course._

He felt more and more secure now and, after a moment's relaxation,
tried again to remember.

A man's voice said clearly, "What am I?"

A feminine voice said pleasantly, "You're a man, and your name is
Haworth. Feeling all right?"

Thousands of little relays clicked in H.D.'s brain and he sat up
quickly. This room was white and windowless, but it was not the vault
in Michigan--and that tall, clear-eyed brownette with the grave eyes
and tender lips was certainly not Dr. Stevens.

The man's voice said, "I guess so," and this time H.D. realized that
_he_ had spoken. The blood rushed to his head and pounded in his ears,
for it had been a strong, _young_ voice.

He ripped away the sheet that covered him, careless of his nakedness,
and it was true.

These limbs were firmly rounded, the smooth skin pink with the warm
blood coursing beneath. His wildest hopes were realized. He snatched
the mirror smilingly proffered him and there it was, that face of youth
once lost to faded photographs! Then a great wave swept in with a
rush, a roar, a dazzling sparkle of spray.

He emerged from his faint to find the head of his bed elevated, the
woman in white holding his wrist to count his pulse. _Well, this is
it_, H.D. thought jubilantly, _it actually panned out. I did it, I did
it!_

Now to plunge into the great adventure--millions of questions to ask,
millions of things to do--a new world to conquer. H.D. rubbed his hands
briskly together in his habitual getting-down-to-business gesture.

Loosing his hand, the brownette looked up from her watch. Her eyes were
dark blue, and....

Bells rang in the back of H.D.'s head, his skin tingled and he forgot
what he wanted to say. Her faint, sweet perfume was in his nostrils; a
long-forgotten stimulus performed its ancient function. Being a direct
man by nature and training, H.D. decided that the shortest distance
between two points was to seize this delicious creature. Without more
ado he lunged.

But she had stepped back, shaking her head and smiling reprovingly, and
H.D. almost fell out of bed. He recovered and collected himself, and
laughed to show that he was a good sport.

"Oh, well, more important things to think of now, anyway--or _are_
there more important things? Well, get me some clothes and call the
head man around here, and I'll look you up later, Miss...."

"Lorraine, _Dr._ Lorraine. I'll get you some pajamas--here they
are--and you won't see the Supervisor unless you show some pretty
unusual symptoms. He's a busy man and I'm a married woman."

H.D. sputtered.

"Now really, Mr. Haworth, I'm not just being mean. You have to stay
here under observation for three days as a final check before you're
sent to--well, and the supervisor doesn't speak English anyway. I'm the
only one here at the hospital that does, which is why I'm here. Now
there'll be some nice lunch for you in a few minutes, so relax like a
good boy and--"

H.D. exploded. "Young woman," he shouted, "_Doctor_ young woman, as you
value your job, I demand to see the person in charge!" He practically
foamed. "Boy indeed! I am Harley D. Haworth and I am ninety-four years
old--and then some," he added thoughtfully.

"Three hundred and twenty years in the vault and two years we've been
working on you," Dr. Lorraine said helpfully.

"Eh? Yes. Well, get me--"

"No," she said very firmly. "You've had enough excitement for the first
time in so long. When you've had a nice lunch and a nice nap I'll talk
to you again, although you won't really find out very much until you go
to--"

A door had opened and shut, and a huge male orderly came in pushing a
metal cabinet. The orderly and Dr. Lorraine exchanged a few words that
H.D. could identify with no language, although the sounds were easy and
musical--a little like Hawaiian, perhaps.

"What's that?" H.D. asked suspiciously. "Where are we?"

"Why, we're in Chicago. Oh, the language--Hominine, we call it. It
was adopted only about fifty years after you died, at the time of the
Union, when the U.S. sort of took over the world and a universal
language became necessary." The orderly had gone out, and she set a
dish before H.D. on a sliding bed-tray. "Here, eat your lunch while
it's hot."

H.D. let out a yelp. "Lunch! A plate of soup! Woman, I'm hungry!
Haven't had a bite for three hundred twenty-two years!"

"That's just why you must go easy for a bit. Here's your spoon. Now,
doesn't it smell good?"

It did, and H.D. grumblingly took some. It tasted good, too--beefy--and
he went at it. Between slurps he tried to get a little more
information. "You say the U.S. conquered the world fifty years after I
died?"

"Oh, no! Just absorbed it, you might say. You had something to do with
that in a way."

"Eh? How's that?"

"Well, your idea of putting yourself on ice to wait for better times
gradually got around and, after awhile, it got pretty common in the
States. The insurance companies did most of it. But they couldn't do it
in Europe, being, _you_ know, bureaucratic and half decayed and all,
and so poor from all the wars. Couldn't afford it. Guess I'm not much
of a historian."

Snort from H.D.

"Oh, eat your soup! Well, it got hard for the European leaders to
keep their people satisfied with their poverty but there were still
plenty of ugly things here they could point to. Then Farbenstein came
along with his Probe, and the Constitution was amended to adopt the
Ascension Code--and a lot of things changed."

       *       *       *       *       *

By this time H.D. had finished his soup, and Dr. Lorraine took his
plate away and flipped the switch above him that lowered the head of
his bed. H.D. objected testily.

"I don't _want_ to lie down! Quit that, will you. What about this
confounded Code?"

The doctor shook her head. "Sorry, it's time for your nap now."

"_Nap!_ Are you out of your mind? Millions of questions! I'm not the
least bit sleepy!" This was a lie. There must have been something in
the soup, because his eyelids were becoming very, very heavy.

"Well, you can't argue with a woman," he complained peevishly. "Who
ever heard of a woman doctor--a pretty woman doctor...?"

Dr. Lorraine did something to a lever, and the room darkened.

H.D. awoke refreshed and full of vigor, the conversation with Dr.
Lorraine fresh and clear in his mind. He jumped out of bed, and
stumbled, cursing, around in the dark until he finally figured out
where the light would be.

He pushed a lever above the head of his bed, the first of several in a
panel, and light filled the room, varying in strength with the position
of the lever. He did not see the source.

The room was unremarkable in appearance, although he could not identify
the smooth, creamy, _soft_ material of the walls. Of two doors the
outer, to his cursing disgust, was locked. The other opened into a
Rube Goldberg bathroom. After admiring the array of buttons, switches,
cranes and slings, after a little cautious experimentation, H.D. saw
that the design was intended to permit cripples the luxury of a real
bath and toilet.

Wandering back into the bedroom, he idly fiddled with the other levers
in the wall panel with no perceptible results until the last. Then the
entire end wall vanished and he was looking at Chicago.

At where Chicago should have been, at any rate--he could hardly have
said what he expected but what he saw was merely a jungle. From what
seemed a considerable height he could make out little detail in the
mass of growing things.

He could see no other tall buildings, but he was looking toward the
lake and his view was limited. As he strained his eyes he could see a
little of bright winding paths, and graceful little houses buried in
greenery and blossom. No movement caught his eye.

These people must conduct their business elsewhere, he
thought--underground, perhaps, leaving the surface for leisure and
recreation. Garden City indeed! Life must be pleasant here--and it
would soon be his! He fairly itched to make his mark on this Brave New
World.

He turned from his contemplation when he heard the door open. There was
that woman, smiling and inquiring how he'd slept. He'd soon straighten
her out.

"Dr. Lorraine," he said grimly, "why was I locked in?"

The smile faded just a little. "Three days observation, remember?"

H.D. was patient. "Look," he said carefully, "I don't think you quite
understand. I'm H.D. Haworth. From the little you've said I gather
there's been no Bolshevik revolution, common sense be praised, so the
Haworth Trust must be worth hundreds of millions. You still use money,
don't you?"

She nodded slowly.

"And I have millions hidden away where no one can ever find them but
myself--don't think I came an empty-handed beggar, even if something
happened to the Trust funds. Millions, I tell you--gold and jewels,
rare old books and art, everything of value.

"And besides that I'm the oldest sleeper--what's the matter with you
people?" he demanded fretfully: "Don't you know what news is? Why am I
met by one insignificant woman doctor?"

Dr. Lorraine did not seem put out by the upbraiding and this in itself
was subtly exasperating. It was her attitude, her air, in which
he sensed--sympathy, yes, and a sort of embarrassment. He did not
understand it but it was absolutely offensive!

"Well," H.D. snarled, beside himself, "confound it, woman, say
something!"

"Three days observation," said Dr. Lorraine, almost stupidly. Then she
visibly readjusted the mantle of her professional cheerfulness and
spoke briskly.

"It won't be so bad. I'll be making tests every day and that will pass
the time and you can play the 'visor." She went over to his bedside
table and pulled out the drawer holding the instrument.

"I hate radios," H.D. said sullenly. "I'd like to jam every one down
Marconi's throat, first breaking the tubes. Confounded trashy programs,
changing every five minutes!"

"Is that how they were? How awful for you! See, you just dial, like
this, and one station has nothing but dance music, another nothing but
Jimmurian dissonances. See? Anything you like.

"And if you first dial "0" you can then dial for any number or any
entire program that's ever been recorded. Here's the index. Too bad we
don't have one in English."

H.D. yielded a snicker. "Where's the screen?" he asked, slightly
mollified.

"Oh. I did say 'visor,' didn't I? Well, you see, this is a modified
visor. No visual, no talking programs, just music. It's too bad, in
a way, but we had to have you here for some of the tests. This is a
neuro-psychiatric ward, you see. Yes, soft walls and all. It can be
stripped down for violents."

H.D. showed signs of becoming that way himself and the doctor smilingly
stepped to the door and opened it.

"See you tomorrow."

"_Wait!_" H.D. roared. "What happens then? What--"

"Three days observation." She nodded, and the door was closing. He
reached it in a bound but the lock clicked first.

       *       *       *       *       *

Late in the afternoon of the third of those maddening days that
loathsome woman--the part of her that wasn't phonograph must have been
clam--brought him some clothes. And the word that she spoke as she
quietly left was music--Goodby.

He vaguely remarked the clothes as he pulled them on--socks, thin-soled
shoes, a loosely draped one-piece garment of a closely woven sky-blue
material resembling silk but duller--a light cape of darker blue. Just
as he was appraising the quite satisfactory effect in the wall mirror a
sound turned him toward the door.

They stood a little awkwardly in the doorway, pulling rather solemn
faces. The black-haired man, who would have been big by ordinary
standards, was mopping his red face in a nervous gesture and the
seven-foot giant who dwarfed him was stroking his platinum-blond beard.

H.D. stared at the giant gape-mouthed. _He looks exactly like God, if
God were in the shape of a man_, he thought.

Teeth flashed in a smile through the silvery brush and God said,
haltingly, "Hello, Grampaw."

H.D. started violently. The black-haired man came forward with a
jovial, if forced, laugh and a deprecating wave of the hand.

"You _are_ his grandfather, you know, Mr. Haworth. Fourteen times
removed, that is. He's the Administrator now. Don't you know me? Guess
the bird looks different with all this plumage, eh?"

There was, at that, something familiar about this coarse, good-natured
fellow, something....

"Jones!" It was the delighted cry of a homesick sailor sighting the old
church steeple.

"Garibaldi Jones! It's good to see you, man! When did they dig you up?"

"About twenty years ago." Garry grinned.

For a moment H.D. thought he discerned in his grin a trace of that
expression he had so come to hate in the last three days, that tinge of
something like embarrassment. Nonsense!

He rushed on, "Now I'll find out about this new-fangled world and
pretty soon we'll set 'er by the ears. Once I get my...."

The giant said something to Jones, who nodded uncomfortably. H.D.
frowned.

"What's that? Why don't you speak English, Mr.--uh--Mr. Haworth? I
guess you're a Haworth?" The giant smiled politely.

"He don't know any English, Mr. Haworth, except those words I taught
him. Guess you might as well call him Junior--same name as yours. He
says we better get going. Have to be in Washington by six. Your flyer's
waiting."

_Your flyer!_ This was more like it. Well, after all, he was H.D.
Haworth, and they named demigods after him! In the exuberance of the
thought he forgot to ask why they had to go to Washington. He swirled
his cape about him and strode out. The demigod stepped aside for him.

The corridor was a surprise. It was not merely long--it was shockingly
long. It must have been _miles_ long. And it was broad. A truck could
have easily passed and it was lined with doors and little signs in a
wavy lettering. No one seemed to be about.

They hurried along, H.D. gawking to all sides, almost trotting as
Junior set the pace. At the great double door of an elevator shaft
Junior touched the signal button.

Big--everything around here was _big_! The elevator could have
accommodated several pianos and the pretty red-head operating the lift
had to look down at H.D. She winked and made a laughing remark.

"She says you're cute."

H.D. did not know whether to be pleased or offended and before he could
decide the acceleration took his breath away. They went up, up, a
ridiculous distance, and at last he stepped out into another corridor.

_Corridor!_ The floor must have been forty yards across and most of it
was moving, a series of horizontal escalators with three speeds in each
direction, adjacent strips moving at different speeds.

       *       *       *       *       *

While H.D. stared, Junior and Garry Jones had stepped aboard the
nearest strip and were moving away. Now Jones came trotting back,
making little headway against the conveyor's motion. He had to chuckle.

_In my country, said the queen, you have to run like the devil to stay
in the same place._

"Come on, Mr. Haworth," Garry called. H.D. waited for the next opening
in the rail to oppose him, took hold and stepped on. When he had come
up, Garry explained, "This is Chicago--this building--this is the whole
city, the business part, that is. This is one of the transport levels."

"Hmm." The place didn't look right--too bare, too empty. "Where are the
stores? Where are the signs? Where are the people?"

"Stores? Oh, this is just a garage. Working day's over. Just about
everybody's gone home."

"Garage?"

"Sure, for flyers--remember? Here we are."

The door Junior unlocked let them into a space sufficiently garage-like
in its bareness, but the thirty feet of gold-and-crystal grace it
sheltered was a thing of beauty, enough to warm the cockles of any
limousine-lover's heart. As H.D. gave himself up to the upholstery's
caress he felt his old confidence return.

[Illustration: The thirty feet of gold-and-crystal grace the garage
held was a thing of beauty.]

The wall rolled away as Junior made some unperceived signal. With the
slightest of vibration the flyer wafted out into the shadowed evening.
As the wingless craft emerged into space H.D.'s hands instinctively
tightened their grip on the arms of his chair. Then he relaxed with a
smile. He looked around with appreciation, ready to accept each new
thrill with easy complacency.

When the mounting flyer finally cleared the shadow of that Everest of
a building they must have been six thousand feet up. In the western
distance the dipping sun shed its fire on a doll's garden of patched
green, with here and there a spot of cheerful early autumn color.
_Charming_, he thought patronizingly, _charming!_

"Let's go down closer and have a good look at those suburbs," he
exclaimed on sudden impulse.

Garry shook his head. "Too late. We'd never make it to Washington by
six." The flyer was gaining speed and altitude.

"What's all this about Washington? What happens there?"

Garry hesitated. "You have to take a trip, Mr. Haworth."

H.D. leaned forward, unable to hear the last words. With their mounting
speed the whine of violated air was becoming a scream. Garry reached
back over Junior's shoulder and hit a toggle at the right end of the
instrument board. It was like shutting off a radio.

He repeated, "You have to take a trip, Mr. Haworth."

"Trip. By heaven, you're as mysterious as that woman. Why don't you
speak up? Well, never mind that." His eyes narrowed. "To whom does this
airship belong?"

Garry sighed. "To you, Mr. Haworth."

"Tell that oaf to turn around and go back."

Garry sighed again and shook his head. "He won't, Mr. Haworth." The
flyer was arching through a dark swirling cumulus layer, still gaining
speed.

H.D.'s jaw set hard. He gritted his words.

"I don't know just what this is," he said slowly, "but I know this. You
won't get away with it. Nobody fools with me. I'll break you and that
great goon of a great-great-grandson. Money still counts here--that
woman said so."

"Yes."

"Yes. I suppose you know to whom the Haworth Trust reverts now?"

"To you, Mr. Haworth."

"Yes. And that means I'm one of the richest men in the world again."

"No, sir."

H.D.'s cold tone deepened. "What do you mean, no?"

"Well, sir, times have changed, you might say."

"Inflation!" H.D. exploded.

"No, sir, none to speak of. You can still get a loaf of bread for a
quarter. It's just that the growth curve is pretty steep, and it gets
steeper all the time. Atomic energy, you know, and no wars for a long
time, and now no natural death.

"You can get twelve percent on your money in a savings bank. It's
really an expanding economy. Why, Chicago alone is worth more in
dollars and cents than all the nations of earth in our time."

H.D. reflected this. "Well, how much is the Trust worth?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Garry exchanged a few words with Junior. "About thirty million, he
says."

"_What!_"

"Well," Garry hastened, "I know it isn't much for twenty million to
grow to after all this time, but there have been expenses! What we
had to spend for protection in the old days, when the mobs wanted to
dynamite the vault!

"The sums that were spent on research to revive you! And then the
Administrator, Junior here, has to live up to the Haworth name and
that's expensive. He draws over a million a year."

"Why, that thieving, white-whiskered pip-squeak, I'll sue him within an
inch of his life! I'll--"

"Now, now, Mr. Haworth, you're still a wealthy man."

H.D. glared. "Wealthy. Yes. And famous. The oldest Sleeper. Can't
understand why the newsmen haven't been after me. In my time--"

"You're not news, sir. Look, Mr. Haworth, I have some rather unpleasant
things to tell you. I've been shirking it but I might as well tell you
now."

H.D. shrugged off a faint twinge of apprehension and leaned back in his
seat. He looked out. The flyer was rocketing through clear air, high
above a sea of crimson cotton, no longer accelerating.

He relaxed and permitted himself a smile. He had life, health, and
millions. The billions would come easily enough. Pah, what "unpleasant
things" could mar this paradise?

"You did have some news value as the oldest and one of the deadest
Sleepers--but you've been thoroughly Probed out this last year."

H.D. frowned impatiently. "What's this 'Probe' business? That woman
mentioned it, and some 'Code'."

"The Farbenstein Probe," Garry said, looking thoughtfully out at the
darkling horizon, "is, in simple terms, a hypno-bio-physical technique
for reaching and interpreting buried memories. Your thoughts and
experiences are on file and the newsworthy ones have been published."

H.D.'s mind refused to accept this horrible thought. He stared stupidly.

"_No!_ It can't be!" he gasped. "It's--it isn't possible! It isn't
_decent_!"

"Oh, not _all_ your thoughts," he explained quickly. "Just--well, I'd
better just tell you as well as I can about the Code." A very uneasy
feeling mounted in H.D.'s breast as Garry continued.

"The Ascension Code made some basic changes in the conditions of
life. What it really did was take most of the irresponsibility out of
people's behavior. Because the freezatoria gave people hope that had no
faith in Heaven--so the Code gave them fear, that didn't fear God. The
Code put justice on a remorseless eye-for-an-eye basis."

H.D.'s blood ran slowly cold. He repressed the thought, denied it,
rejected it, but in his heart he knew. His intuition had made the
connection. Garry noted his heavy breathing, and felt a stir of pity.
He continued, gazing out.

"It's simple enough, in practise. Every fifty years each person
must submit to a Survey--and all Sleepers when they're revived.
By association techniques they're made, under the Probe, to admit
everything they've done that was wrong, either by their own conscience
or by the written law.

"Then--well, you see--one outgrowth of the Probe is that _suffering_
has been classified, qualitatively and quantitatively. Oh, it's
arbitrary on the edges, but not very, and where there's doubt there's
charity, of course.

"After the Survey, if he's passed a certain allowable maximum in
wrongdoing, a person must go to--the penal colony and experience
himself all the suffering he has caused, qualitatively and
quantitatively as closely as possible."

The question was only a whisper. "How long will I have to spend at
this--this place--where did you say?"

"The penal colony? It's on the fourth planet. I guess we used to call
it Mars." He hesitated. "In your case, I'm afraid--well, they say you
hurt a lot of people."

"It's ridiculous!" H.D. cried desperately. "It's barbaric! My word,
even in our time reasonable people knew that _revenge_ isn't
civilized, even against _criminals_. Can't they _rehabilitate_ people?"

Garry grimaced, and spoke flatly, slowly.

"'There is no known deterrent from harmfully selfish action except fear
of punishment. Nor can there be a healthy mind as long as there exists
a debt to conscience.' That's a translation from a schoolbook."

H.D. sprawled in his chair like a poled ox. He recognized that he was
beaten. His eyes stared vacantly, he mumbled over and over, "They
can't, they can't." He did not notice the flyer's swooping deceleration.

       *       *       *       *       *

Something was shining with a white light. They were hovering. H.D.
looked up absently, little interest in his eyes. A great long
cave-mouth yawned in the mountain that was Washington, bright in the
gathering dusk.

"There's our signal." A green eye was blinking rapidly. Junior settled
the flyer in a curbed rectangle and H.D. had a moment to note the rows
of craft, the conveyors, the rows of brightly lettered doors in the
background. Then the door of the flyer opened and a gray-uniformed man
almost as big as Junior clambered in, carrying a little leather bag.

H.D. watched in silence as the Administrator and the stranger exchanged
a few words and some sheaves of paper, to which each affixed a
signature. Then the man in gray opened his bag and, with the tools he
took out, began to do something to the flyer's instrument panel. He
whistled as he worked, a jazzy dance tune, and the sound grotesquely
accentuated the silence of the watching three.

Jones stirred. "Well, here's where we get off, I guess." He stepped
down out of the flyer, Junior after him, but when H.D. mechanically
followed, the Administrator's bulk blocked the door. He was smiling
with polite embarrassment.

"Move, you oaf!" H.D. snapped.

"Sorry, Mr. Haworth," Garry said. "You're going on to ... the penal
colony."

Red rage gripped H.D.; they were treating him like an animal, sending
him off like a bull to the packing house. He gripped the door-frame
with his hands, and in a quick motion set his foot against Junior's
chest. The giant sprawled backwards, and there was a satisfying thump
as his head struck the pavement.

An iron hand gripped H.D.'s shoulder. The uniformed man's face was
completely indifferent, almost bored. He merely held H.D. until he
relaxed and sank shaking into a seat. Junior was on his feet, rubbing
his head, the oafish smile a little rueful now.

The man in gray resumed his work and his whistling. It was intolerable.
Those two with their sympathetic silence, and this fellow with his
cheerful, loathsome whistling. He had to say something.

"How's a little can like this able to get to another planet?"

"Oh, we're pretty good engineers these days," Garry said eagerly. "Tell
you about it sometime. Well, the J-man's fixing your pilot signal now.
It'll fly on automatic. It ought to be pretty interesting, really, your
first space trip and all."

H.D. scarcely heard him. The "J-man" had put his tools back in their
bag and was descending to the pavement. The door closed with a ringing
sound and the J-man was doing something to it from the outside.
Despairing, frustrated tears welled in H.D.'s eyes. His knuckles
whitened.

A faint vibration stirred in the flyer and H.D. looked around in panic.
Going already? He felt horribly afraid. He had an impulse to claw the
walls. Garry caught his wild look and returned a glance of sympathy.
His lips moved, but no sound came. H.D. stared. Garry's lips moved
again, and he gestured. H.D. remembered then and hit the toggle.

"... easy, Mr. Haworth." Garry's voice was as clear now as though he
spoke beside him.

The flyer lifted gently and eased around in a 180-degree turn. The
last tints of evening glowed in the western sky, the earth was lost in
darkness and the first insolent stars were mocking him.

Garry, on the other side now, called again.

"Take it as it comes, Mr. Haworth. It won't last forever, even if it
seems like it. Son of a gun--said the wrong thing again, didn't I!"

H.D. screamed, "Appeal! Appeal the case!"

Garry sadly shook his head. "'There is no known deterrent from
harmfully selfish action except fear of punishment. Nor can there be a
healthy mind as long as there exists a debt to conscience.'"

The flyer was easing out into the night, toward that red star of evil.

"You say Mars isn't called Mars any more?" he called hoarsely, pressing
desperately against the hard crystal.

"No," Garry called softly and the quiet words were still very clear.
"Now they call it Hell."



*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The penultimate trump" ***

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