John Rackhan Read online

  "Now you hear me, Hutten, about what Ipomoea does to people. One dose is enough—the addict loses all sense of responsibility—and then, after about a year, the addict switches off altogether-no reaction, no intellect. And here's the deadly part, Hutten, they don't die—they don't even show signs of getting old—we're stuck with them, thousands and thousands of immortal vegetables, brainless bodies swamping the world, spreading this Happy Sugar to others."

  Hutten shoved bac!< in his chair, broached deeply. "It sounds like somebody's trying to wipe out Earth."

  Turn this book over for second complete novel

  JOHN RACKHAM

  AN ACE BOOK

  Ace Publishing Corporation 1120 Avenue of the Americas New York, N.Y. 10036

  ipomoea

  Copyright ©, 1969, by John Rackham All Rights Reserved.

  Cover by Kelly Freos.

  the brass dragon

  Copyright ©, 1969, by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  Printed in U.S.A.

  I

  Drifting through the noisy mosaic of conversing groups, Sam Hutten came across a youthful and somewhat anxious face, all alone. He paused, put on a mild grin.

  "New here, aren't you?" he asked, pitching his voice expertly through the sea-roar of surrounding voices.

  "Throckmorton," the younger man said. "David Throckmorton. Yes, I've only been here a few weeks. Not had the chance to meet everyone on campus, not even all the faculty. But you're Dr. Hutten. I couldn't very well not recognize you, sir.

  Sam shrugged easily, casting aside whatever fame might accrue to his skill in holding a class, his knack for putting across thickly abstruse stuff in simple words that conveyed understanding. "Just a knack," he disclaimed, and, enlarging, "Comes from a determination not to be overawed by the topic. Trouble with teachers is that they begin to believe, very early on in professional life, that their subject is all-important. It is, to them. But to the pupil, the poor bedeviled scholar, it's just one more course he has to take for the credits. Sociology?"

  It wasn't much of a guess. The whole room was full of sociologists, gathered this afternoon for what could have been called a farewell party, end-of-term jollification, but which was, in fact, just a convenient excuse for airing all sorts of grievances to understanding ears. One didn't get much chance, these days, to talk to an audience of one's peers.

  "General, at the moment," Throckmorton confirmed. "My first year. But I intend to take your subject, sir, if I can, and specialize. Social history."

  "Not through a desire to imitate, I hope. It might be the sincerest form of flattery, but it's a very poor principle on which to base a career. Can't think why you young fellows want to get into sociology anyway. It's the world's worst subject right now, and getting worse all the time I"

  Throckmorton tried a grin, reassured by Sam's easygoing manner. He turned the question around. "Why did you take it up, sir?"

  "Only thing I was ever any good at. And don't try school-book methods on me, David. I meant what I said about the subject. It's rough!"

  "It doesn't seem to have affected you, sir."

  Sam widened his grin just a little, made a gesture, gently, with the hand that held the glass. "Let's make it look as if we're mingling, at least. No, I don't want a refill. I don't guzzle. I carry mine on the outside, for the look of the thing." He resumed his drift, the younger man falling in with him but finding it deceptively difficult to match. This large room, the faculty dining room, had been converted for this one afternoon by the simple process of stacking all the tables and chairs around the walls. On the open floor were gathered almost a hundred teachers, grouped and bunched like so many bacteria on a culture plate, knotted in hot conversations. Hutten managed to steer a course through without giving the impression of avoidance.

  "Chance to learn," he murmured, still with that trick of voice that came through clearly over the hubbub. "Sociology has to be the only thing for me because I am, by temperament, one of life's spectators. It's not a good thing, in itself. It means, on analysis, that I am largely indifferent to my fellow man and his problems. Plenty of curiosity, but no involvement. So ideally situated to observe, study and understand. Would you say the same is true of you?"

  "Hardly?^ Throckmorton sounded slightly shocked. "I see it as the only real hope for mankind. Something crucially worthwhile. I mean"—he dodged an arm-waving enthusiast from one group and made a quick double-shuffle to get Hutten's ear again—"the physical sciences, now, are acting as a brake, a barrier against ultimate disaster. It was being predicted half a century ago, in the nineteen sixties and seventies, that somehow human understanding had to catch up with technology, or we'd all be blown to blazes in a planet-wide holocaust."

  "But it didn't," Sam pointed out. "The understanding, I mean."

  "No, it hasn't. Not yet. But it will. It must, because science is holding the fort from the wrong approach, by clamping down on everything and anything, crying 'Danger' all the time. Waiting for the breakthrough. And the pressure is building up."

  "And you think sociology has the key?"

  "If it hasn't, nothing has. You see"—Throckmorton became intense—"I'm not against the experimental side, or the taxonomical approach. We have to have both. Field trials of theories, collection of data; that's necessary. But what we lack is someone with the vision, or the good fortune, to spot the underlying pattern. An Einstein-type. I'm not claiming that I'm it," he disclaimed pinkly. "But if it is coming, it will come through a grasp of the history, the broad pattern."

  "Extrapolation," Hutten murmured, and nodded. "It's a belief that dies hard, that you can see where we've been, where we are now, and predict where we're going. Hold it just a moment; let's listen to Cleeman. He is about to deliver his regular complaint. Does it every term."

  "Twenty years!" Cleeman declared bitterly. "Twenty blistering geometrically explosive years since Mankind took off for the stars, and what are we celebrating? What are we celebrating? For all the rest of the machine-minders, the so-called teachers, it's a glorious anniversary of a great day. Science triumphant. But for us?" The speaker paused to let his audience grunt and shuffle in sympathy. Similar farewell parties were in progress all over the widespread campus of what had once been M.I.T., but was now just one specialized cell in the Pan-American Televisual Educational Network. The others may have been jolly, but in this particular room the atmosphere was abrasive, the by-product of a killing pace.

  "From the beginning of time it has been the business of the teacher to try to instruct the young as to the shape and form of social patterns, to help them to fit into that vast world out there. No matter what the ostensible subject matter, that has been the underlying theme: to provide data and guidance about the world of people so that the network of man-in-society shall continue to hang together somehow. And look at it! In this year of grace, twenty-nineteen, we have gotten far enough to realize that social science, instead of being an incidental, has to be counted as a subject in itself. But our subject matter, the stuff we are supposed to teach, has run wild into so many different disciplines and directions that we can't keep track of it all, much less teach it to anyone else. There is no underlying pattern!"

  "How's that for an answer?" Hutten murmured to his young companion.

  "But there must be some common ground to being human, otherwise the word doesn't mean anything."

  "You have a point. Try thinking along that line some time. Meanwhile, there's Gosforth. He has a different bee in his bonnet. Listen."

  "We should have seen it twenty years ago, it was so obvious but the vast mass of people can't even see it now! Quite simply, the Japanese are the chosen race. No, it's not funny. I dare say they don't like it any more than we do, but you can't dodge the visible facts!"

  "They aren't planning a
ny world conquest, Gossy!" The comment came from one of his audience, a specialist in family dynamics.

  "They don't have to. I said they probably don't like it. But some have greatness thrust upon them. Look at the record." The speaker splayed a handful of fingers and proceeded to enumerate on them. "Who invented the inertia-null drive that made the whole hegira possible? It's called the Yashi-Matsu Drive, isn't it? You need more? You know, and I know, everybody knows, that the drive would be nothing more than a laboratory curiosity without some way of storing up electrical power in gross lots. And that can't be done. As of twenty years ago, you and me and everybody else knew that, and we were wrong. They went right ahead and invented a way of doing it, by stripping plasma and bottling it under pressure just like any other gas. And it comes out like Jovian thunderbolts. And they call it the Mishi-Moto power-store!"

  "So they had a couple of breakthroughs!" Conyers of socio-politics threw in the disclaimer and Gosforth sneered at him.

  "A couple? They have had hundreds. Do I have to draw you a diagram? All right, I will."

  Hutten nudged his young companion. "Listen closely, and try to find the hole in the reasoning. I warn you, it's not easy."

  "Generalizations, of course," Gosforth started. "But all the same . . . Now, science had its first flicker in Ancient Greece, right? The intrigue of ideas, of finding rational causes for things. But in a slave-state, so no pressure to try the ideas in practice. Then came the Romans, who were red-hot on practice but lousy on theory. So, after a while, stagnation. There came a small flicker in Florence, with Leonardo, but he needed technology to make the ideas work, and technology needs a lot of people, not just one lone pioneer. The delicate flame shifted to Arabia. They revived the Greek idea, they milked it, they came up with some new tools for thought, like mathematical notation. But practical they were not. So we pass, fast, to the European continent, to Germany and France, and then Britain and the Industrial Revolution. And then to the United Americas."

  "So what went wrong?" Conyers demanded, making it clear by his tone that he thought nothing had gone wrong. Gos-forth beamed.

  "Let me tell you. Here you have the flowering of a notion, that there are rational effects, reasons, methods, better ways of doing things—and that the rules, laws, methods and tricks can be found out. Good? It certainly was. We had a technological culture in short order. And we rode it at full gallop, right up to the cliff-edge of disaster. It's a matter of opinion, right now, whether we have actually stopped in time. And why? Why the disaster? I will tell you that also. Because we included a couple of notions that have nothing whatever to do with science. One is the use of scientific-technological know-how in order to achieve domination over others. The Soviets latched on to that one fast. So, too, did Red China. The other is the use of know-how to make a profit, to make money-symbols, to become a boss. We swallowed that one right down to the gut. Science to be used, to the greater glory of Leninism, or the almighty dollar. That's where we went all wrong. That's why I tell you the Japanese are the first truly scientific nation, the chosen race."

  "I don't see your point." Throckmorton spoke up, nervously but driven. "What's wrong with using science? Isn't that what it's for?"

  "Exactly. That's the way we still think. Old thought-patterns die very hard. The Greeks investigated ideas for the sheer thrill of it, but the Romans took over and used what the Greeks left to implement the Roman way of life. The Industrial Age used science to create social values, to prop up their way of life. The Soviets used it to prove their way is better, we use it to promote our values, and so on. We do not enthusiastically welcome that part of science which runs counter to the things we believe in. Ask the eugenicists some time. The Soviets ignore those aspects of science which cut across Marx-Lenin dogma. And so on. Now, please, observe Nippon."

  Gosforth had his audience now, Hutten noticed. Even young Throckmorton, still in pososition, was listening intently. The speaker took a breath. "You will remember," he said, "the cheap transistor radio. Then the portable T.V., and in color yet. Cheap. The cheap but good optical systems, like telescopes, cameras, projectors? Grab at that word 'cheap' and hold it. They made their stuff cheap not in competition, not to undercut anyone else, but simply because it could be made cheap. Industrial theory says Trice your output as high as the market will bear/ The Japanese work quite differently: Trice is just a little more than it is actually worth, to show a return.' Everyone else uses science and technology to prove something, to prop up some existing value. The Japanese do things the rational, scientific, better way, just for the sake of it. Anything. Everything. Efficiency for its own sake!"

  "I can't agree with that." Throckmorton tried again. "They are promoting their own national interest, if nothing else!"

  Gosforth took time now to look closely at his interrogator. "New man aren't you? All right, don't take my word for it. Check with the experts; ask them if Japan is bent on any kind of world domination you can define. They will tell you no. I can tell you why. They tried it once, by force of arms. And it didn't work. They studied the history books, and they saw that it never has worked, not for any nation. World domination will not work, not by force or persuasion. Machiavelli knew it. No government can long persist against the will of the governed. And there is no technique, nor yet any prospect of any, that will bring all Mankind into one frame of mind, to agree. If and when such a miracle does come, it will be worldwide anarchy, not any government. So, I repeat, world domination by any one faction or nation is a non-workable proposition. That has been obvious for a long time. The Japanese tried it, learned the hard way, took a strong look at the historical evidence—and abandoned the idea. Because it won't work. They learned. That's more than any other people before them ever managed to do, to learn from history and decide rationally. You ask Sam."

  Hutten made a gesture and grin, took Throckmorton gently by the arm and led him away. "Learn when you're licked," he advised. "You're too young and green to launch into battle with Gossy."

  "You agree with him, then?"

  "I am indifferent, David. No theories, no campaigns, no ardent causes. I told you, I am by nature an observer. As I warned you, social science in general is a very rough subject right now. I doubt if it is ever going to get any better, either. With any other science you care to name, it is possible to be unbiased, scientific, to accept the evidence as it comes. In social science you yourself are part of the experiment, part of the evidence, and with a built-in bias. Think it over. That's why I am in, and intend to stay firmly in, social history. At least I have my subject matter pinned down—until some clown invents a time-machine so that he can go back and alter the past. Excuse me." He broke off as the pager in his vest pocket "tarted to beep. "Who the blazes wants me at this time of day, this day?"

  He made his way to the dining room visor-phone, shut the sound proof door after him, and dialed central. Automatic mechanisms switched him to his caller, and he frowned won-deringly to see President White's lean old face appear on the screen.

  "Ah, Dr. Hutten. Sorry to drag you from the revelry, but I have just received in your name a high-priority sub-ether-gram." White enunciated the syllables carefully. A sub-ether-gram was a rarity, even for an institutional president. "It's extremely brief and eniematic. Shall I read it to you, or would you rather I held it up?"

  "Go ahead and read it, sir."

  "It is from your father, is registered as p'oint-of-origin Verdan, system Tau-Ceti; sender Rex Hutten. It just says, T need you.' Does that mean anvthing to you, Hutten?"

  "It does, yes. Quite a lot. May I call on you, sir? This needs a little explaining."

  "I shall be interested to hear it. Five minutes?"

  Hutten made it with a few seconds to spare. President White could have lived in a reasonably luxurious apartment off-campus, but, being by nature and inclination an austere man, he chose to inhabit a small suite placed handily central to the close-packed sprawl of educational buildings, and the transport system between them all was hig
hly efficient. It had to be. Only a comparative few privileged students actually attended lectures in person, playing a kind of guinea pig role for the millions who attended by means of television-link, and when they had to move from one studio-classroom to another in the breaks, it had to be fast or they'd risk losing the distant audience to outside distractions. White was still holding the space-gram photostat as he rose from his desk to greet Hutten.

  "I trust this is not bad news?" he said immediately.

  "Depends on your point of view," Hutten replied. "I'll be flattered if you're suggesting that losing me will be bad news for you."

  "It will, and no flattery, Dr. Hutten. You will be very difficult to replace. It is rare to find anyone who can preserve the proper amount of impartial judgment in our most explosive subject. But I am being selfish. Is this bad news for you?"

  "That's difficult to say, sir. You see, my father is a highly opinionated man. Some might say he has eamed^the right. He has certainly earned a lot of money and power."

  "An empire, so I have heard it described." White nodded gravely in agreement. "The sort of person about whom one has to be tactful. After all, this institution is in debt to him many times over for generous financial assistance. Very generous."

  "And tax deductible." Sam grinned. "I don't have to be tactful. He's my father, and ever since I was old enough to have an opinion of my own we have never agreed on anything. With respect, of course, but utterly opposed. He's a born conquistador, always was. The world as an oyster-bed. Some of those oysters have pearls. The pearls go to whoever is fastest on the grab and has the strongest clutch. That about sums it."

  "Inelegant, but substantially true of many people. He made it work."

  "He certainly did. I don't know how much he is worth. I doubt if he knows himself, or cares much, so long as he is in charge of what happens. This planet Verdan is extremely rich in natural resources such as fertile soil and clement climate, plus oil and fuel stocks enough to provide energy. My father never was a farmer. Not the type at all. But he can organize. He now owns just about everything on Verdan, the entire planet, which supplies bulk protein and carbohydrate food basics to the other two planets of that system, and quite a big spillover back here to Earth of valuable byproducts."