Brink of Madness

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  BRINK OF MADNESS

  By Walt Sheldon

  Illustrated by KELLY FREAS

  [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from If Worlds of ScienceFiction July 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence thatthe U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

  [Sidenote: _C.I.B. Agent Pell used his head, even if he did rely onhunches more than on the computer. In fact, when the game got rough, hefound that to use his head, he first had to keep it...._]

  Chapter I

  The night the visitors came Richard Pell worked late among the greatbanks of criminological computers. He whistled to himself, knowing thathe was way off key but not caring. Ciel, his wife, was still in hismind's eye; he'd seen her on the viewer and talked with her not tenminutes ago.

  "Be home shortly, baby," he'd said, "soon as I fill in a form or two."

  "All right, dear. I'll wait," she'd answered, with just the slightesttone of doubt.

  It was an important night. It was at once their second anniversary andthe beginning of their second honeymoon. Just how Pell--knobby, more orless homely, and easygoing--had won himself a lovely, long-limbed blondelike Ciel was something of a mystery to many of their friends. She couldhardly have married him for his money. Central Investigation Bureauagents were lucky if all their extras and bonuses brought them up to athousand credits a year.

  Pell had unquestionably caught her in a romantic moment. Maybe that waspart of the trouble--part of the reason they needed this secondhoneymoon, this period of re-acquaintance so badly. Being the wife of aC.I.B. agent meant sitting at home nine-tenths of the time while he wasworking on a case, and then not hearing about the case for securityreasons during the one-tenth of the time he was with her.

  Four times now Pell had been ready to take his vacation; four times lastminute business had come up. No more, though, by golly. Tonight he'd getout of here just as quickly as....

  The Identifier, beyond the door, began to hum. That meant somebody wasputting his hand to the opaque screen, and if the scanner recognized thefingerprints the door would open. Pell scowled at the bulky shadowsoutside.

  "Go away, whoever you are," he muttered to himself.

  Some of the other agents were out there, no doubt; they were alwaysgetting sudden inspirations late at night and returning to use thecomputers again. In fact, it had been tactfully suggested to AgentRichard Pell that he might use the computers a little more himselfinstead of relying on hunches as he so often did. "Investigation's acold science, not a fancy art," Chief Larkin was fond of saying to thegroup--with his eyes on Pell.

  Well, whoever it was, Pell was definitely through. No time-wastingconversation for him! He was ready for six glorious weeks of saved-upvacation time. He and Ciel, early tomorrow, would grab a rocket for oneof the Moon resorts, and there they'd just loaf and relax and payattention to each other. Try to regain whatever it was they'd had....

  * * * * *

  The door opened and Chief Larkin walked in.

  Chief Eustace J. Larkin was tall, in his forties, but still boyishlyhandsome. He dressed expensively and well. He was dynamic and confidentand he always had about him just the faintest aroma of very expensiveshaving cologne. He had a Master's degree in criminology and his rise tothe post of Director, C.I.B., had been sudden, dramatic and impressive.Not the least of his talents was a keen sense of public relations.

  "I--uh--was on my way out," said Pell. He reached for his hat. Funnyabout hats: few people traveled topside anymore, and in theclimate-conditioned tunnels you didn't need a hat. But C.I.B. agents hadto be neat and dignified; regulations required hats and ties and cuffsand lapels. Thus, you could always spot a C.I.B. agent a mile away.

  Larkin had a dimple when he smiled and Pell would bet he knew it. "We'dhave called your home if we hadn't found you here. Sit down, Dick."

  Pell sat glumly. For the first time, he noticed the men who had come inwith the Chief. He recognized both. One was fiftyish, tall,solidly-built and well-dressed on the conservative side. His face wasstrong, square and oddly pale, as if someone had taken finest whitemarble and roughly hacked a face into it. Pell had seen that face infaxpapers often. The man was Theodor Rysland, once a wealthy corporationlawyer, now a World Government adviser in an unofficial way. Someadmired him as a selfless public servant; others swore he was apower-mad tyrant. Few were indifferent.

  "I'm sure you recognize Mr. Rysland," said Chief Larkin, smiling. "Andthis is Dr. Walter Nebel, of the World Department of Education."

  Dr. Walter Nebel was slight and had a head remarkably tiny in proportionto the rest of him. He wore cropped hair. His eyes were turtle-liddedand at first impression sleepy, and then, with a second look--wary. Pellremembered that he had won fame some time ago by discovering theelectrolytic enzyme in the thought process. Pell wasn't sure exactlywhat this was, but the faxpapers had certainly made a fuss about it atthe time.

  He shook hands with the two men and then said to Larkin, "What's up?"

  "Patience," said Larkin and shuffled chairs into place.

  Rysland sat down solidly and gravely; Nebel perched. Rysland looked atPell with a strong, level stare and said, "It's my sincere hope thatthis meeting tonight will prevent resumption of the war with Venus."

  Larkin said, "Amen."

  Pell stared back in some surprise. High-level stuff!

  Rysland saw his stare and chuckled. "Chief Larkin tells me yoursympathies are more or less Universalist. Not that it would benecessary, but it helps."

  "Oh," said Pell, with mild bewilderment. The difference between theUniversal and Defense parties was pretty clear-cut. The Universalistshoped to resume full relations with Venus and bring about a reallysecure peace through friendship and trade. It would admittedly be atough struggle, and the Defenders didn't think it was possible. ForgetVenus, said they; fortify Earth, keep the line of demarcation on Mars,and sit tight.

  "But there is, as you may know," said Rysland, "a third course in ourrelations with Venus."

  "There is?" asked Pell. From the corner of his eye he saw Chief Larkinlooking at him with an expression of--what, amusement? Yes, amusement,largely, but with a touch of contempt, too, perhaps. Hard to say.

  "The third course," said Rysland, not smiling, "would be to attack Venusagain, resume the war, and hope to win quickly. We know Venus isexhausted from the recent struggle. A sudden, forceful attack mightpossibly subjugate her. At least, that is the argument of a certaingroup called the Supremists."

  Dr. Nebel spoke for the first time. Pell realized that the man had beenwatching him closely. His voice was sibilant; it seemed to drag itselfthrough wet grass. "Also Venus is psychologically unprepared for war;the Supremists believe that, too."

  Pell reached back into his memory. The Supremists. They were a minorpolitical party--sort of a cult, too. The outfit had sprung up in thelast year or so. Supremists believed that Earthmen, above all othercreatures, had a destiny--were chosen--were supreme. They had severalfollowers as delegates in World Congress. General impression: slightlycrackpot.

  "The Supremists," said Theodor Rysland, tapping his hard, white palm,and leaning forward, "have been calling for attack. Aggression. Startingthe war with Venus all over again. And they're not only a vociferousnuisance. They have an appeal in this business of Earthman's supremacy.They're gaining converts every day. In short, _they've now becomedangerous_."

  * * * * *

  Pell thought it over as Rysland talked. Certainly the idea of renewedwar was nightmarish. He'd been in the last one: who hadn't? It hadsta
rted in 2117, the year he was born, and it had dragged on fortwenty-five years until T-day and the truce. The causes? Well, bothEarth and Venus worked the mineral deposits on Mars unimpeded by thenon-intelligent insectile life on that planet, and the originalarguments had been about those mineral deposits, though there wereenough for a dozen planets there. The causes were more complicated andobscure than that. Semantics, partly. There was freedom as Earthmen sawit and freedom as the Venusians saw it. Same with honor and good andevil. They were always two different things. And then Venusians had agreenish tinge to their skins and called the Earthmen, in their clickinglanguage, "Pink-faces." And both Earthmen and Venusians hated like thedevil to see the other get away with anything.

  Anyway, there had been war, terrible war. Space battle, air battle,landing, repulse. Stalemate. Finally, through utter weariness perhaps,truce. Now, a taut, uneasy, suspicious peace. Communications opened, afew art objects mutually exchanged. Immigration for a few Venusiandancers or students or diplomats. It wasn't much, but it was all in theright direction. At least Pell felt so.

  Rysland was saying: "We're not sure, of course, but we suspect--we_feel_--that more than mere accident may be behind these Supremists."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "Someone seeking power, perhaps. As I said, we don't know. We want tofind out. Dr. Nebel has been interested for some time in the curiouspsychology of these Supremists--their blind, unthinking loyalty to theircause, for instance. He is, as you know, a special assistant in theDepartment of Education. He asked my help in arranging for aninvestigation, and I agreed with him wholeheartedly that one should bemade."

  "And I told these gentlemen," said Chief Larkin, "that I'd put a detailon it right away."

  Now Pell believed he saw through it. Larkin didn't believe it wasimportant at all; he was just obliging these Vips. A man couldn't havetoo many friends in World Government circles, after all. But of courseLarkin couldn't afford to put one of his bright, machine-minded boys onit, and so Pell was the patsy.

  "Could I remind you," said Pell, "that my vacation is supposed to starttomorrow?"

  "Now, now, Dick," said Larkin, turning on the personality, "this won'ttake you long. Just a routine report. The computers ought to give youall the information you need in less than a day."

  "That's what you always say, every time I'm ready to take a vacation.I've been saving up for two years now...."

  "Dick, that's hardly the right attitude for an agent who is so close tomaking second grade."

  Larkin had him over a barrel, there. Pell desperately wanted to make hispromotion. Second-graders didn't spend their time at the control banksgathering data; they did mostly desk work and evaluation. They had alittle more time to spend with their wives. He said, "Okay, okay," andgot up.

  "Where are you going?"

  "To get my wife on the viewer and tell her I won't be home for a whileafter all."

  He left the three of them chuckling and thought: _He jests at scars whonever felt a wound._ He didn't say it aloud. You could quote formulae orscientific precepts in front of Larkin, but not Shakespeare.

  * * * * *

  He punched out his home number and waited until Ciel's image swirledinto the viewplate. His heart went boppety-bop as it always did. Hair ofpolished gold. Dark eyes, ripe olives, a little large for her face andsometimes deep and fathomless. She wore a loose, filmy nightgown and thesuggestion of her body under it was enough to bring on a touch ofmadness in him.

  "Let me say it," Ciel said. She wasn't smiling. "You won't be home for awhile. You've got another case."

  "Well--yes. That's it, more or less." Pell swallowed.

  "Oh, Dick."

  "I'm sorry, honey. It's just that something important came up. I've gota conference on my hands. It shouldn't take more than an hour."

  "And we were supposed to leave for the moon in the morning."

  "Listen, baby, this is absolutely the last time. I mean it. As soon asthis thing is washed up we'll _really_ take that vacation. Look, I'lltell you what, I'll meet you somewhere in an hour. We'll have somefun--take in a floor show--drink a little meth. We haven't done that ina long time. How about the Stardust Cafe? I hear they've got a terrificnew mentalist there."

  Ciel said, "No."

  "Don't be like that. We need an evening out. It'll hold us until I getthis new case washed up. That won't be long, but at least we'll have alittle relaxation."

  Ciel said, "Well...."

  "Attababy. One hour. Absolutely. You just go to Station B-90, take thelift to topside and it's right on Shapley Boulevard there. You can'tmiss it."

  "I know where it is," said Ciel. She shook her finger. "Richard Pell, sohelp me, if you stand me up this time...."

  "Baby!" he said in a tone of deep injury.

  "Goodbye, Dick." She clicked off.

  Pell had the feeling that even the free-flowing meth and the gaiety ofthe Stardust Cafe wouldn't really help matters much. He sighed deeply ashe turned and went back into the other room.